The Bible Among Scriptures and Other Essays (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testament) 9783161534904, 3161534905

Citation preview

Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Herausgeber / Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber / Associate Editors Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) · James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Hans-Josef Klauck (Chicago, IL) · Tobias Nicklas (Regensburg) J. Ross Wagner (Durham, NC)

392

Heikki Räisänen

The Bible among Scriptures and Other Essays

Mohr Siebeck

Heikki Räisänen (1941–2015), 1969 Dr. Theol., University of Helsinki; 1975–2006 Professor of New Testament Studies at the Faculty of Theology, University of Helsinki; 1984–94 and 2001–06 Academy Professor of the Academy of Finland; honorary doctorates from the University of Edinburgh and the University of Uppsala.

ISBN 978-3-16-153490-4 ISSN 0512-1604 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2017  by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic ­systems. The book was typeset and printed on non-aging paper by Gulde Druck in Tübingen and bound by Buch­binderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany.

Preface In the articles published herein, the late Professor Heikki Räisänen (1941–2015) addresses a number of issues that were close to his heart throughout his long academic career. He speaks in favor of an inclusive and fair study of Christian origins wherein the views expounded in non-canonical texts and by teachers later condemned as heretics might be regarded as equally important as those surviving in the canonical texts and the writings of church authorities. Heikki was known for his non-apologetic stance towards New Testament studies, both in the study of individual authors like Paul and texts like the synoptic gospels, and worked to expand his own scholarly boundaries from New Testament studies to the study of other sacred scriptures, most prominently the Qur’an. These key points are developed in the studies that were, with two exceptions, published between 2002 and 2012, those exceptions being the previously unpublished studies included herein as chapters 1 and 10. The book is divided into three parts. The studies in part 1 deal with crucial theological issues in New Testament texts, those in part 2 offer a sample of case studies of various non-scholarly ways of interpreting the scriptures, and those in part 3 provide comparative perspectives to Christian interpretations of the Bible. In this final part, the insights Heikki developed in his early studies on the Qur’an come to fruition. These studies help us better understand what brings together and what divides Christian and Muslim interpretations of sacred texts. It certainly would have been Heikki’s wish that these kinds of studies make us more critical about our own traditions and more willing to appreciate and learn from those of others. After retiring from his office as professor of New Testament studies at the University of Helsinki in 2006, Heikki devoted himself to academic writing and continued to be a highly prolific writer. On July 2015, Heikki was diagnosed with a serious malady, to which he succumbed at the end of that year. Heikki’s untimely passing left his colleagues and close ones with a sense of immense loss. I myself have found solace in re-reading the studies included herein, in the words and thoughts of which Heikki’s voice can still be heard so clearly. I am therefore especially grateful to the editors of the renowned WUNT series for accepting this book for publication. Heikki was able to finish the manuscript of this book, including the introduction, before his death. My doctoral student, Mr. Kenneth Liljeström, undertook

VI

Preface

the technical editing and preparation of the indices, and Heikki’s son-in-law, Dr. Stefan Schröder, performed the final editing of the essays written in German. The skillful Mohr Siebeck team, led by Dr. Henning Ziebritzki, has taken great care in producing this volume at a level that matches that of Heikki’s erudite scholarship. Ismo Dunderberg

Table of Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Part One

Exegesis and Interpretation Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology: Reflections on a Controversial Enterprise . . . 15 Chapter 2: Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos? Ein Gespräch mit Gerd Theißen über Einheit und Vielfalt der urchristlichen Religion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Chapter 3: Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom? . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11 and Paul’s Conflicting Convictions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Chapter 5: Begotten by the Holy Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Chapter 6: The Prodigal Son in a Far Country: Finnish Scholars Read Luke’s Parable . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 Part Two

Reception History Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Chapter 9: Matthew in Bibliodrama . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 Chapter 10: Are Christians Better People? On the Contrast between ‘Us’ and ‘Them’ in Early Christian Rhetoric . . . . . . . . 179 Chapter 11: Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side . . 193 Chapter 12: Marcion as a Reader of Paul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207 Chapter 13: Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible . . . . . 223 Part Three

Interreligious Issues Chapter 14: A Plea for Pluralism: A Biblical Scholar’s Reflections on Mission Studies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243

VIII

Table of Contents

Chapter 15: Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261 Chapter 16: Das lukanische Jesusbild und der Dialog mit dem Islam . . 279 Chapter 17: How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other: An Exegetical Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289 Chapter 18: The Bible among Scriptures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319 Index of Ancient Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343 Index of Modern Authors and Persons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 359

Acknowledgements Chapter 1: ‘A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology: Reflections on a Controversial Enterprise.’ An introductory lecture prepared for a conference ‘Facing Early Christianity: Theology and Religious Studies a Century after Georg Heinrici’, held in Leipzig in September 2015. Chapter 2: ‘Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos? Ein Gespräch mit Gerd Theißen über Einheit und Vielfalt der urchristlichen Religion’, in P. Lampe & H. Schwier (Hrsg.), Neutestamentliche Grenzgänge: Symposium zur kritischen Rezeption der Arbeiten Gerd Theißens. NTOA 75; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010, 51–64. Chapter 3: ‘Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?’, in A. Christophersen et al. (eds.), Paul, Luke and the Graeco-Roman World. Essays in Honour of A. J. M. Wedderburn. JSNTS 217; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002, 2–20. Chapter 4: ‘Torn between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11 and Paul’s Conflicting Convictions’, in L. Aejmelaeus & A. Mustakallio (eds.), The Nordic Paul: Finnish Approaches to Pauline Theology, Library of New Testament Studies 374; London: T&T Clark, 2008, 19–39. Chapter 5: ‘Begotten by the Holy Spirit’, in M. Nissinen & R. Uro (eds.), Sacred Marriages: The Divine-Human Sexual Metaphor from Sumer to Early Christianity. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2008, 321–41. Chapter 6: ‘The Prodigal Son in a Far Country: Finnish Scholars Read Luke’s Parable’, in S.-O. Back & M. Kankaanniemi (eds.), Voces Clamantium in Deserto. FS K. Syreeni. Åbo 2012, 267–80. Chapter 7: ‘Jesus and Hell’, in T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus in Continuum. WUNT 289; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012, 355–83. Chapter 8: ‘Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik’, in M. Mayordomo (Hrsg.), Die prägende Kraft der Texte: Hermeneutik und Wirkungsgeschichte des Neuen Testaments: Ein Symposium zu Ehren von Ulrich Luz. SBS 199; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2005, 103–24. Chapter 9: ‘Matthew in Bibliodrama’, in P. Lampe, M. Mayordomo & M. Sato (Hrsg.), Neutestamentliche Exegese im Dialog: Hermeneutik – Wirkungsgeschichte – Matthäus­ evangelium. FS U. Luz. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2008, 183–95. Chapter 10: ‘Are Christians Better People? On the Contrast between “Us” and “Them” in Early Christian Rhetoric.’ A paper read in the symposium ‘Christianity and the Roots of Morality’ in Helsinki 2011.

X

Acknowledgements

Chapter 11: ‘Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side’, in W. J. Lyons & J. Okland (eds.), The Way the World Ends? The Apocalypse of John in Culture and ­Ideology. The Bible in the Modern World 19; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2009, 151–65. Chapter 12: ‘Marcion as a Reader of Paul’, in S. Westerholm (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to Paul. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011, 301–15. (Original title: Marcion). Chapter 13: ‘Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible’, Dialogue 43:2 (2010): 64–85. Chapter 14: ‘A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies by a Biblical Scholar’, Swedish Missiological Themes 99 (2011): 395–417. Chapter 15: ‘Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?’, in H. Schmid et al. (Hrsg.), Heil in Christentum und Islam. Erlösung oder Rechtleitung? Hohenheimer Protokolle 61; Stuttgart: Akademie der Diözese Rottenburg-Stuttgart, 2004, 139–59. Chapter 16: ‘Das lukanische Jesusbild und der Dialog mit dem Islam. Eine christologi­ sche Skizze zur Theozentrik des Gebets’, in H. Schmid et al. (Hrsg.), “Im Namen Gottes…” Theologie und Praxis des Gebets in Christentum und Islam. Regensburg: F. Pustet, 2006, 227–37. Chapter 17: ‘How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other’, A paper based on H. Räisänen, ‘Critical Exegesis and the Christian-Muslim Encounter’, in H. Juusola et al. (eds.), Verbum et Calamus. FS Professor Tapani Harviainen. Studia Orientalia 99; Helsinki: The Finnish Oriental Society, 2004, 253–67. Chapter 18: ‘The Bible among Scriptures’, in A. Voitila & J. Jokiranta (eds.), Scripture in Transition: Essays on Septuagint, Hebrew Bible, and Dead Sea Scrolls in Honour of R ­ aija Sollamo. JSJSup126; Leiden: Brill, 2008, 687–702.

Introduction On Part One This volume brings together my articles from the twenty-first century. A few summarize and develop ideas I have presented earlier elsewhere; others explore areas I have not visited before. Increasing attention is given to the reception and effective-history of the Bible and to the encounter of religious traditions. The actual and potential role of the Bible in that encounter is considered from the vantage point of an exegete who comes from a historical-critical background – and is proud of it. Today, the historical critic must be open to other approaches as well – as long as they, too, remain critical in the strict academic sense. I hope that this book, in particular in its Parts Two and Three, may be seen to reflect that widening of horizon that characterizes the recent history of our discipline. Chapter 1 was written as an introductory lecture for a conference ‘Facing Early Christianity: Theology and Religious Studies a Century after Georg Heinrici’, held in Leipzig in September 2015. Acute health problems prevented me from participating, but the organizer, Professor Marco Frenschkowski, generously decided to read my paper at the opening session. It had been suggested that I might summarize my approach to the ‘often quite difficult dialogue between religious studies and theology’ and discuss relevant issues connected with my recent book, The Rise of Christian Beliefs (2010). Thus, the lecture summarizes the research program I first set out in Beyond New Testament Theology (1990) and discusses some main features of Rise, as well as some responses to and criticisms of that book. In the wake of William Wrede, I suggest that ‘New Testament theologies’ would, in the name of consistency, in secular academic contexts best be replaced with ‘Religious Studies’ (religionswissenschaftlich) accounts of early Christian thought; the production of canon-bound (Old and) New Testament theologies logically belongs to religious communities (churches and church-run institutions). It should be noted that I am not advertising any specific religio-historical method but a particular ethos. A Religious Studies account should not be prescriptive; it should aim at ‘objectivity’ within the limits of our unavoidable subjectivity, even-handedness (fair play), and frankness with regard to

2

Introduction

possible problems and weaknesses in the texts.1 Examples of characteristic differences between a Religious Studies and a theological approach to these matters are given. In the footnotes to this chapter I have included a few comments on a curious work by my fellow Finn, Timo Eskola, who wrote a 500-page book on my hermeneutics. In a lengthy chapter on Rise he asserts that my text ‘lacks academic argumentation and presents eccentric views’.2 The book amounts to a savage assault both on my work 3 and on historical-critical research in general. Readers do well in not trusting any statement in it without checking with Eskola’s sources.4 My vision of an alternative to ‘New Testament theology’, put to practice in Rise, largely converges with Gerd Theissen’s (far more theory-oriented) program that he presented in A Theory of Primitive Christian Religion (1999). In a contribution to a symposium honouring Theissen’s work, held in Heidelberg in the summer of 2008, I discussed our slightly different views of unity and diversity in early Christian religion. This lecture, called ‘Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos?’, is reprinted here as chapter 2. Theissen puts great emphasis on the metaphor of a ‘semiotic cathedral’ which – he maintains – the early Christians were building, in my view in contradiction to his own characterization of their thought world also as a ‘seething chaos’. In his response, Theissen accepted my critical questions, pointing out that his attempt to establish ‘order’ in a more or less chaotic reality had a didactic purpose: only something with a simple structure can sink into our mind and memory.5 In conclusion, he found my Rise a step forward precisely with regard to diversity and plurality – ‘but also in the reduction of this diversity to a few themes’. Rise contains more ‘order’, Theissen 1  Cf. already H. Räisänen, ‘What I Meant and What it Might Mean: An Attempt at Responding’, in T. Penner & C. Vander Stichele (eds.), Moving Beyond New Testament Theology? Essays in Conversation with Heikki Räisänen (PFES 88; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005), 420–25. 2  T. Eskola, Beyond Biblical Theology: Sacralized Culturalism in Heikki Räisänen’s Hermeneutics (BINS 123; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2013), 369. 3  In this respect it is very different from the assessment of my work by such authors as P. Balla, Challenges to New Testament Theology: An Attempt to Justify the Enterprise (WUNT 2:95; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), and T. Van Spanje, Inconsistency in Paul: A Critique of the Work of Heikki Räisänen (WUNT 2:110; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999). While often critical of my views, these scholars describe fairly correctly what I have written, without distorting my ideas and intentions at the outset. For Van Spanje, see below, ch. 4 n.  16. 4  Unfortunately, this is often impossible for readers who do not understand Finnish. 5  ‘Es ist besser, dass in unseren Köpfen deutlich mehr Ordnung herrscht als in der chaotischen Wirklichkeit, als umgekehrt, dass das Chaos in unseren Köpfen größer ist als das Chaos der Wirklichkeit. Es prägt sich nur das ein, was eine einfache Struktur hat. Es wirkt nur das in uns als lebendiges Wissen, was wir intellektuell fassen können. Wenn wir nicht vereinfachen, bleiben uns viele Gebiete unzugänglich und werden nicht existentiell wirksam.’ G. Theissen, Von Jesus zur urchristlichen Zeichenwelt: “Neutestamentliche Grenzgänge” im Dialog (NTOA 78; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 84.

Introduction

3

says, than my previous programmatic statements make one expect – just as his own sketch ‘contains more chaos than its clear structure makes one expect’. 6 The two crucial pillars of Rise are ‘eschatology’ (better: the hope for a Great Turn) and identity.7 These overarching themes are touched in chapters 3 and 4 in the present collection. Although I have put great effort into painting an overall picture of the ‘last things’, I have seldom discussed eschatological texts and topics in detail. The exception is the present chapter 3, ‘Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?’, previously published in the Festschrift for Sandy Wedderburn. I answer the question asked in the title with a qualified ‘not really’. Paul’s letters display what may be seen as vestiges of traditional ‘earthly’ expectation but, despite Romans 8, he no longer seems to fully share this hope. Paul’s eschatological ideas cannot be neatly combined into a single picture, not even on the assumption that his thought developed over time. Mutually incompatible elements are a permanent feature, and it depends on the (exhortatory) situation, which of them are utilized by the apostle at which point. 8 The chapter in question documents the fact that my tack on ‘eschatology’ differs from that of most colleagues. For me, the key question is not ‘When?’ but ‘Where?’ Where was the kingdom of God preached by Jesus and expected by his followers to be located? I think that much of the early Christian thought world can be analysed in terms of a transformation of an earth-bound expectation of the Great Turn into something more spiritual in the beyond. Chapter 3 is an attempt to define Paul’s place in this development. In contrast to chapter 3, chapter 4 deals with a topic that I have discussed many times over, when Paul’s attitude to the Torah and Israel used to be in the focus of my research. I analysed the crucial section Romans 9–11 in detail in several articles from 1980’s and 1990’s.9 Since then I have moved to other issues, but have had to return to the subject every now and then. Chapter 4 is based on a paper given at a Finnish symposium on Paul. It summarizes and slightly updates my arguments for seeing Paul struggling with a problem that is too difficult to be solved: the wish to harmonize his old Israel-centred conviction with his new experience ‘in Christ’. 6 

Ibid., 90. The Rise of Christian Beliefs: The Thought World of Early Christians (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010), chapters 4–5 and 10–11; cf. ibid., pp.  7–8. 8  Cf. for a summary Rise, 120–21, 127–28. 9  ‘Römer 9–11: Analyse eines geistigen Ringens’ (ANRW II.25.4; 1987), 2891–939; ‘Paul, God, and Israel: Romans 9–11 in recent research’, in J. Neusner et al. (eds.), The Social World of Formative Christianity and Judaism (FS H.C. Kee; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 178–206; ‘Romans 9–11 and the “History of Early Christian Religion”’, in T. Fornberg & D. Hellholm (eds.), Texts and Contexts (FS L. Hartman; Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1995), 743– 65; cf. also ‘What’s Happening in New Testament Theology?’, in A. Mustakallio (ed.), Lux Humana, Lux Aeterna (FS L. Aejmelaeus; PFES 89; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005), 439–58, esp. p.  450–56. 7 

4

Introduction

The question of Paul’s (in)consistency – touched in the previous chapter from another angle – has proved a permanent storm-centre in Pauline studies and continues to divide opinions. I had presented the case for inconsistency in Paul and the Law;10 in the present chapter I gather some more recent responses and reactions to that book and briefly comment on them, mostly in the footnotes.11 Chapter 5 goes back to the beginning of my academic career. I wrote my dissertation on the figure of the mother of Jesus in the New Testament, a redaction-critical exercise focused on how the various authors viewed her.12 The notion of virginal conception was only discussed in relation to the particular theology of each author. The present article that summarizes and updates those sections was written in response to an invitation from Martti Nissinen and Risto Uro who edited a volume on Sacred Marriages and wished to include a contribution on the Virgin Birth. This time I also deal – briefly to be sure – with the tradition history of the notion, emphasizing that its mythological roots should not be explained away. But I have come to appreciate this attempt to interpret Jesus’ significance, especially when compared to the alternative (far more mythological) notion of his pre-existence. The notion of Jesus’ virginal conception serves, for its part, to unite the thought world of early Christians with age-old, wide-spread traditions of humanity. Generally speaking, I have not been an active participant in the ‘quest for the historical Jesus’ – but the few exercises I have made have not been without surprises. A case in point is my conclusion that the parable of the Prodigal Son, generally included in the ‘bedrock’ tradition, is unlikely to go back to the teaching of Jesus, being instead largely created by the Evangelist, Luke. In chapter 6, I briefly return to the matter, commenting on what seems to be a developing ‘Helsinki tradition’ in the interpretation of the Prodigal. I take issue with the insinuation, presented in a recent Abo dissertation, that my article would have caused other Finns to abandon overnight the authenticity of the parable.13 I demonstrate that this was not the case; ‘follow the leader’ has never been a 10 

WUNT 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1983, 21987. few additional points can be found in H. Räisänen, ‘A Controversial Jew and His Conflicting Convictions: Paul, the Law and the Jewish People Twenty Years After’, in F. E. Udoh (ed.), Redefining First-Century Jewish and Christian Identities (FS E. P. Sanders; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008), 319–35. 12  Die Mutter Jesu im Neuen Testament (AASF B 158; Helsinki 1969; AASF B 247; 21989). Eskola, Beyond Biblical Theology, 235, tries to make his readers believe that my dissertation ‘startled Finnish scholarship, which had not yet agreed on how to use the new (!) historical-critical methods in Gospel studies’. Nothing could be further from the truth. Critical methods had long been in use even in Finland; the dissertation brought no startling novelties, neither home nor abroad. Even the dean of conservative biblical scholars of the time, F. F. Bruce, called the book ‘a sober exegetical study that makes a valuable contribution to its subject’ (Erasmus 23 [1969]: 672–73). 13  V. Ollilainen, Jesus and the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Åbo: Åbo Akademi, 2008), 23 n.  91. 11  A

Introduction

5

methodological principle in Helsinki. Both Kari Syreeni and Jarmo Kiilunen had reached ‘radical’ conclusions before seeing my article; independently of each other, the three of us felt in the early 1990s that the established conviction of the authenticity of the parable was beset with serious difficulties.14 Younger scholars later followed suit and developed the view of Luke’s authorship of the story into interesting directions. At the end of the chapter, I had to refute a sinister distortion of my interpretation of the Prodigal Son: I have been absurdly blamed for ‘subtle anti-Semitism’ by Richard Rohrbaugh. I should add that a recent trend that considers the possibility that Luke is the latest of the canonical gospels (see below in connection with chapter 16) obviously favours the idea that the exclusively Lukan parables, including the Prodigal Son, are indeed Luke’s work. As stated above, I have not done much independent research on the historical Jesus, and even less on Jewish texts from the Second Temple period. An opportunity to close that gap a little turned up when Tom Holmén asked me to join his large ‘Jesus in Continuum’ project at the SBL meeting in Vienna, 2007. I chose to study the topic ‘Jesus and Hell’ in some depth, trying to locate the hell sayings attributed to Jesus in the terrain between early Jewish and early Christian views of post-mortem destinies. The result is chapter 7 in the present collection. Fear of hell was an intrinsic part of the pietistic preaching of sin and grace that cast its shadow on my childhood and youth in the Finnish Lutheran church. The issue has intrigued me ever since. Once more, my attempt to penetrate into the thought-world of the historical Jesus led to a slightly surprising result. But whereas I had earlier come to doubt the authenticity of some items that were generally included in the ‘bedrock’ tradition, I was now led to suggest, conversely, that the embarrassing notion of hell-fire, widely regarded as unsuitable to Jesus’ message, was probably part of it after all. A few years earlier I had discussed the prominence of hell in the gospel of Matthew and in its reception history (see below, chapter 8), and noticed how the topic tended to make theologians uncomfortable. My treatment of this issue elucidates the difference between a theological and a ‘Religious Studies’ approach: theological interpreters try to avoid attributing ethically ambiguous ideas to Jesus; a scholar with a Religious Studies approach need not have such inhibitions. The ‘Jesus in Continuum’ approach as developed by Tom Holmén implies that one should no longer study Jesus simply ‘within Judaism’ but ‘in continuum’ from early Judaism to early Christianity. Yet the book that includes my contribution demonstrates that very different reconstructions of Jesus’ message can be placed under the ‘continuum’ umbrella, so that the usefulness of the lat14 

I also take issue with Ollilainen for not giving an adequate account of my reasons.

6

Introduction

ter should not be exaggerated. Tobias Hägerland points out that most of the contributors have written elsewhere on the same topics, coming to similar results as here; adopting ‘the continuum approach’, then, does not seem to change much. So it can be asked: have we really to do with a new theoretical model that has implications for method and results? Or is it simply a question of a pedagogic model that helps scholars present their analyses with greater clarity?15

On Part Two With chapter 8 we move to Part Two of the present collection, entitled Reception History, though there are, of course, no clear boundaries between exegesis, interpretation and reception. As already mentioned, chapter 8 discusses the issue of hell from a history-of-influence and an ethical-critical perspective. This happens in dialogue with Ulrich Luz’s ground-breaking work on the gospel of Matthew and its reception history. The impact of Matthew’s threats of hell on ordinary recipients of the gospel message has been disastrous. This is conceded by Luz who, however, wants to defend Matthew by introducing various qualifications. I engage in a critical discussion with Luz, questioning his principle that interpreters should defend ‘their’ texts as long as possible.16 Chapter 9, another article that celebrates Luz’s work, is likely to come as a surprise to my colleagues. I hope that the surprise is a positive one; it certainly was so to Ulrich Luz who, in an e-mail, expressed enthusiasm. For a couple of decades I was once a year involved in ‘Bibliodrama’ workshops, first as an exegetical consultant, then also as a co-director with my colleague Aino-Kaarina Mäkisalo, an expert in this new approach to the Bible. In the eyes of many, bibliodrama and critical exegesis may seem strange bedfellows, as the former originally arose in Germany partly out of frustration with the latter. In Finland, however, the pioneers cleverly turned to biblical scholars at the very beginning, and this has resulted in what seems a fruitful way to bring the two perspectives together. Our most notable innovation has been the introduction of the Gospel writers as characters into the drama. Chapter 9 reports on two cases in which episodes from the Gospel of Matthew were dramatized by creating scenes in the ‘congregation of Matthew’. The evangelist himself appears as a central player, surrounded by different groups of members (the conservatives, the Paulines, etc.) whose existence is implied in the Gospel. The confrontation with the issue of hell, familiar from the previous chapters also continues here in a new key. 15 

T. Hägerland, ‘Review of T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus in Continuum’, SEÅ 79 (2014): 174–76. An English article combines elements both of chapters 7 and 8: H. Räisänen, ‘Resurrection for Punishment? The Fate of the Unrighteous in Early Christianity and in “New Testament Theology”’, in G. Van Oyen & T. Shepherd (eds.), Resurrection of the Dead: Biblical Traditions in Dialogue (BETL 240; Leuven: Peeters, 2012), 361–81. 16 

Introduction

7

I very much hope that colleagues would be encouraged to experiment with this new method of creatively applying exegetical insights outside the classroom. Bibliodrama could be seen as a form of contextual theology that has similarities, say, with the grass-root discussions familiar from reports by theologians of liberation. The paper reprinted as chapter 10 was written for an interdisciplinary conference on ‘Christianity and the Roots of Morality’, held in Helsinki in 2011. Key questions in the conference were: ‘Does religion foster moral, pro-social, altruistic behaviour?’ and ‘Is there a necessary connection between morality and religion?’ My contribution brings together points made in various places in Rise, tentatively connecting them with modern discussions on empathy and altruism – hopefully making exegetical findings accessible to people in other fields. I highlight the ambiguity of early Christian discourse, which has wirkungsgeschichtlich implications, as a black-and-white confrontation between ‘us’ and ‘them’ seems to be inbuilt in the Christian tradition. An excursion that takes up insights of Runar Thorsteinsson17 aims at a fair comparison of Paul and his school with Stoic authors. Contrary to common opinion, it is the (Roman) Stoics that teach unqualified universal humanity, while such Christian texts as Romans and 1 Peter actually reserve love for fellow believers.18 Chapter 11 deals with violence, war and the stereotyping of the Other in the Book of Revelation. It continues my effort to lay bare troubling features in early Christian ideology and their effects, visible in the previous chapter. This paper was written for an interdisciplinary colloquium on Revelation and effective history at the University of Bristol in 2006, an event initiated by discussions around the then recently published ground-breaking commentary by Judith Kovacs and Christopher Rowland.19 As Kovacs and Rowland are usually very ‘positive’ in their presentation of the reception history of Revelation, I felt a need to reflect on the darker side. I elaborate on the work on American military history by Robert Jewett and John Shelton Lawrence, who in turn build on the classic work on the idea of ‘America’s millennial role’ by Ernest Lee Tuveson. The Book of Revelation is indeed a difficult heritage to pass on. Rowland’s response that the effects of the Apocalypse ‘have been no worse than say Paul’s doctrine of election or the anti-Judaism with which the New Testament is replete (and in which the Apocalypse is less complicit)’20 is worth pondering but 17  R. Thorsteinsson, Roman Christianity and Roman Stoicism: A Comparative Study of Ancient Morality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). 18 Thorsteinsson, ibid., 209. 19  J. Kovacs & C. Rowland, Revelation: The Apocalypse of Jesus Christ (Blackwell Bible Commentaries; Oxford: Blackwell, 2004). 20  C. Rowland, ‘The Interdisciplinary Colloquium on the Book of Revelation and Effective History’, in W. J. Lyons & J. Okland (eds.), The Way the World Ends? The Apocalypse of John in Culture and Ideology (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2009), 289–304, 300.

8

Introduction

hardly relieves the worries of an interpreter concerned with the Wirkungsgechichte of the biblical tradition. The topic of chapter 12 is ‘Marcion as a Reader of Paul’. I have dealt with Marcion in different connections during the last twenty years, especially highlighting his engagement with Paul as well as his role as a pioneer of ethical criticism of the Bible.21 All along it has been important to try to apply the ideal of ‘fair play’ – using similar standards both in assessing the classical heroes of Christian tradition and those who have come to be seen as heretics. In this article, written for The Blackwell Companion to Paul, the focus is on Marcion’s reception of Paul’s writings. Marcion develops Pauline ideas in a radical direction, but he does find support for this in several of Paul’s own statements, as the apostle had left an ambiguous legacy that could be, and was, selectively interpreted in very different ways. Not only is Marcion’s doctrine of law and grace, which led to his rejection of the Hebrew Bible, rooted in Paul’s statements (especially in Galatians); even Marcion’s docetic Christology may be seen as elaborating Pauline hints that Christ came (only) in ‘likeness’ of human flesh. The boundary between orthodoxy and heresy seems porous indeed. Marcion is often portrayed as an arch-enemy of the Jews, but he does not seem to have blamed the Jewish people for killing Jesus. In fact, his ‘orthodox’ critics seem more anti-Jewish: Marcion criticized the God and scriptures of Judaism; the orthodox (like Tertullian) attacked the Jews themselves. Chapter 13 continues the attempt to play fair by turning to an area seldom visited by biblical scholars (with the remarkable exception of Krister Stendahl whose article once kindled my interest in the issue): ‘Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible’. The Mormon prophet, a country lad who grew in a Bible-saturated environment, proves to be a fascinating figure in grassroots reception history – or in the age-old enterprise, well-known from antiquity, of ‘rewriting the Bible’. Struggling with the notorious problem of inerrancy, Joseph Smith asks good questions and suggests clever (if idiosyncratic) answers. While Protestant theology on the whole may still regard Mormonism as a marginal phenomenon, there are signs of a serious dialogue, too, especially in America. I have been struck by the overwhelmingly positive Mormon response to the paper at hand. First delivered at a symposium in Turku, Finland, it was published in the Mormon journal Dialogue. Subsequently, this article that unabashedly applies critical methods to the work of the Mormon prophet, won the prize of the best article of the year in the said journal!

21  Marcion, Muhammad and the Mahatma (London: SCM, 1997), 64–80, 245–53; ‘Marcion and the Origins of Christian Anti-Judaism: A. Reappraisal’, in H. Räisänen, Challenges to Biblical Interpretation: Collected Essays, 1991–2001 (BibInt 59; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 191– 205; ‘Marcion’, in A. Marjanen & P. Luomanen (eds.), A Companion to Second-Century Christian ‘Heretics’ (VCSup 76; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2005), 100–124.

Introduction

9

In mainstream thought Mormons are often brought together with the (sociologically quite different) Jehovah’s Witnesses, as both are regarded as sects outside the pale of Christianity (a demarcation that could be challenged). I wish that someone did to Jehova’s Witnesses what Stendahl and I have done to the Mormons: analyse their reception of the Bible in a non-polemical way, keeping one’s eyes open for potentially good questions behind answers that may well seem fanciful. Similarities to early millenarian eschatology as set forth by Irenaeus in the Witnesses’ doctrine might provide a starting-point, and some allegedly un-Christian features in their ideology – such as low Christology and the rejection of hell – have obvious points of contact with some strands within the New Testament itself. Rigorous application of the ideal of fair play might lead to unexpected ‘ecumenical’ moves, as will be seen in the articles in Part Three of the present volume.

On Part Three In Part Three of the collection, the focus moves to interreligious issues, discussed from the vantage-point of a biblical scholar. Chapter 14, a keynote paper given at a Nordic Institute for Mission Studies conference in Åkersberg, Sweden, in May 2011, reflects on the problem of conversion-oriented mission. Like chapter 10, this paper draws on my Rise of Christian Beliefs, exploring some of its theological implications. Christian mission, informed by classic Christian theology, has traditionally offered would-be converts a tight package, in which pessimistic anthropology, atonement soteriology and high Christology hang closely together. In light of present-day scholarship this combination cannot be regarded simply as a summary of New Testament teachings. The question is, should not the original diversity of Christian convictions have consequences for missions (and mission studies)? What is the point of trying to convert non-Christians to a Johannine, let alone to a Nicene or Chalcedonian Jesus, when even Luke-Acts points in a different direction? Why try to convert them to a Pauline conviction of Jesus’ death as atoning, when New Testament authors like Luke (he again!) fail to ascribe such significance to it? And what is the point of trying to convince others of the utter hopelessness of the human plight in the world outside Christ, when this is a minority view even in the New Testament, not shared, among others, by – Luke? Personally, I do not see the point, and I side (with modifications) with the pluralistic program of John Hick and Paul Knitter. And I point out that, ‘as long as Luke-Acts is not excised from the New Testament […] I feel that I have even some biblical backing for my heresies’.

10

Introduction

Chapters 15–17 turn to a comparison of the Bible with the Qur’an, drawing on my early work in the 1970s in that area.22 Chapter 15, on predestination, summarizes and partly updates the findings of my Idea of Divine Hardening (1972). While Christian interpreters have often constructed a sharp difference between the two scriptures, contrasting ‘arbitrary Allah’ with the biblical God who wants all people to be saved, a careful analysis in the spirit of fair play brings to light remarkable similarities. Both the New Testament and the Qur’an contain statements that look predestinarian at first glance. On both sides, however, such statements can be plausibly interpreted as reactions to painful social experiences, when the hearers have refused to accept the message. The chapter is based on a paper given at a meeting of the ‘Theologisches Forum Christentum – Islam’ in Stuttgart – Hohenheim 2004. Chapter 16, based on a paper at the same Forum in 2005, elaborates on the epilogue of my Das koranische Jesusbild (1971) in which I discussed Lukan parallels to the Qur’anic image of Jesus. While the Christologies of Paul and John, let alone of those of the Nicene and Chalcedonian creeds, are indeed very different from the ‘Christology’ of the Qur’an, the portrait of Jesus in Luke-Acts shows marked similarities with the latter. It might once have been an option for the churches to follow Luke – instead of John – and develop a Christology from below, in which the Son is clearly subordinated to the Father. On the whole, that road was not taken, but recently a growing number of theologians have chosen a theocentric approach to Christology, often in the context of interreligious dialogue.23 This recovery of a chance once lost is all the more intriguing in light of a recent trend that reckons with the possibility that Luke knew the gospel of John (rather than vice versa).24 From this perspective, Kari Syreeni notes that ‘although some of John’s emphases may have seemed quite attractive, already the high Christology in John was alien to Luke, who rather tried to show Jesus as a good Jew […] Luke, then, had ample reasons not to rely too much on John.’ Chapter 17 deals with the mutual intellectual challenge that Christianity and Islam may be taken to present to each other. This is a topic – a side product of my Qur’anic studies – that I have discussed many times over, starting from the

22 

But see also my Marcion, Muhammad and Mahatma, 81–136, 254–68. The account of Luke’s Christology in this chapter partly overlaps with sections in chapters 14 and 17. The reader may find this tedious, yet the account is a necessary part of each article so that some repetition was not be avoided. In any case, the secondary literature (mainly German) referred to in chapter 16 is different. 24  See, e.g., M. Müller, ‘Luke – the Fourth Gospel? The “Rewritten Bible” Concept as a Way to Understand the Nature of the Later Gospels’, in S.-O. Back & M. Kankaanniemi (eds.), Voces Clamantium in Deserto (FS K. Syreeni; Abo: Abo Akademi University, Faculty of Theology, 2012), 231–42. Müller takes his cue from a paper by K. Syreeni entitled ‘Luke – A Critical Reader of John’s Gospel?’ 23 

Introduction

11

obvious analogies and parallels in the intellectual history of each religion.25 Related problems have come up on both sides, though the solutions may have differed. Today, Christians may confront Muslims with the issue of the inerrancy of their Scripture, a question that gains in urgency, as violent passages in the Qur’an seem to incite militant Islamists to brutal deeds. Would it not be a service both to Islam and to the world, if Muslims could be persuaded to adopt a somewhat more historical attitude to their Book, in analogy to what has happened to the Bible in mainstream Christianity (in a slow process, to be sure)? I argue that seeds of such a change are there in the Islamic tradition. Jacques Berlinerblau highlights the significance of Christian ‘believing critics’ (such as Julius Wellhausen or William Robertson Smith whose contributions he compares those of a Darwin or a Marx) in bringing about a wide-ranging change in Christian attitudes to the Bible, a change that has had a profound impact on the development of Western societies at large. I share his contention that if a similar change is to take place in Muslim attitudes at large, it must come from within the rich Islamic tradition, brought about by believing Muslim critics.26 Christians may try to help Muslims in this process. Yet they can only do this if they are equally prepared to assess critically the main pillars of their own religion: the doctrines of Christ and of the Trinity. In chapter 18, The Bible among Scriptures, which has given the collection its name, I highlight some distinctive features of the Christian Bible as compared to the holy books of other present-day religions, in particular to the Qur’an. The enterprise is provisional and tentative, as comparative study of ‘scripture’ as a general phenomenon is still in its infancy.27 Perhaps surprisingly, the ‘scriptural’ character of the Bible seems today ‘lower’ than that of the Qur’an, the Vedas, and the Torah, to which the religious communities in question give ‘a higher [eternal] metaphysical status’ than mainstream Christians are prepared to give to the Bible.28 But a relatively low profile in view of the Bible corresponds to the view of the Christians in early times, before classical Christianity developed into a ‘book religion’. And the vision of the Bible or of the Torah in the more liberal branches of modern Christianity and Judaism contains a rare self-critical 25  ‘Vad kristendom och islam kunde lära sig av varandra: Ett exegetiskt perspektiv på en mödosam religionsdialog’, SvTK 78 (2002): 154–63; ‘Critical Exegesis and the Christian– Muslim Encounter’, in H. Juusola et al. (eds.), Verbum et Calamus (FS T. Harviainen; Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society, 2004), 253–67; ‘Kristendomen och islam: den ömsesidiga intellektuella utmaningen’, in Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitets Akademien Årsbok (Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhetsakademien, 2007), 105–17; ‘How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other’, Fourth R 23:6 (2010): 5–10. 26 J. Berlinerblau, The Secular Bible: Why Nonbelievers Must Take Religion Seriously (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 27  See now also M. Frenschkowski, Heilige Schriften der Weltreligionen und religiösen Bewegungen (Wiesbaden: Marix, 2007), esp. p.  13–35. 28  W. C. Smith, What is Scripture? A Comparative Approach (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 210.

12

Introduction

element that could be of help in a threatening global situation, when peaceful or violent applications of scriptures may very concretely bring about either life or death in our world.

Part One

Exegesis and Interpretation

Chapter 1

A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology: Reflections on a Controversial Enterprise 1. Introduction Ladies and gentlemen – Meine Damen und Herren! Thank you for the kind invitation. It is an honour to speak at this University, with its great tradition both in Theology and in Religious Studies. I take pride in the fact that Leipzig has played a role in the history of biblical studies in my country: several Finns studied here in the early twentieth century. Foremost among them was Antti Filemon Puukko who spent several years in Leipzig, studying mostly with Rudolf Kittel but attending Herman Guthe’s lectures as well. Puukko brought home the manuscript of his dissertation – and one of the daughters of his landlord as his wife. The dissertation, Das Deuteronomium (1910), was long regarded as a classic in its field, and Puukko himself ‘contributed decisively to the break-through of historical-critical studies in his homeland’.1 His successor as Professor of Old Testament Exegesis in Helsinki, Aarre Lauha, also spent a term in Leipzig with Albrecht Alt. Lauha was my first academic teacher who impressed on the students an unforgettable maxim: biblical studies cannot get a special dispensation from standard scientific methodology. Later on I had the privilege to acquaint myself with a branch of the Leipzig tradition, though not through personal contact. In the early seventies I was preparing a modest (unpublished) study on the relationship between theology and religious studies, and one of my most helpful guides was Kurt Rudolph’s treatise Die Religionsgeschichte in der Leipziger Universität und die Entwicklung der Religionswissenschaft: ‘a contribution to the history of science and to the problem of Religionswissenschaft’ (1962). Engagement with Rudolph’s work was an important stimulus that, for its part, incited me to explore the implications of a decidedly religionswissenschaftlich stance for biblical studies, and eventually to try and write an overall account along those lines. I gratefully take up the suggestion by the organizers of the conference that I might here summarize my approach and discuss some issues connected with my book The Rise of

1 

T. K. Veijola, ‘Puukko, Antti Filemon (1875–1954)’, DBI 2.

16

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

Christian Beliefs, 2 the end result of my prolonged journey of discovery into the frontier area between the two disciplines.

2. Religious Studies versus Theology? 2.1. Problematic dichotomies One reason for my embarking on this trip had been irritation about the rigid dichotomy between objective Religionswissenschaft and confessional theology that was suggested by many. Assertions were heard (mainly by laymen) that the results of theology had been abolished by the science of religion and that theologians were people who knew the answers before they had even begun to ask questions.3 As a newcomer who had studied in two faculties, ending up with a theological doctorate in New Testament exegesis, I was annoyed and felt a need to put things right. During my ‘study trip’ I learned about the internal conflicts within the new discipline of Religionswissenschaft, or comparative religion, or religious studies, or however you wish to call it (the name itself being a source of some controversy), a discipline which was hard put to mark itself off from theology. I learned that there had been analogous problems of principle and method on both sides, religious studies and theology – ultimately problems of identity – and analogous disputes between spokesmen for different approaches. In religious studies, there had been an ongoing battle between ‘transcendentalists’ (such as Rudolf Otto, Mircea Eliade or Wilfred Cantwell Smith), who held that the study of religion should itself have a religious dimension, on one side and ‘historical empiricists’ (such as Walter Baetke, R. J. Zwi Werblowsky or Kurt Rudolph) on the other.4 I found myself standing firmly on the side of the empiricists with their ‘methodological agnosticism’5 and stress on objectivity – to be sure, ‘within the limits of inescapable relativity’. 6 On the theological side there was above all the contrast between the heirs of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule and those indebted to the dialectical theology of Karl Barth. Today it is more problematic to maintain straightforward dichotomies. Both disciplines display a breath-taking amount of approaches;7 both also contain a 2  H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs: The Thought World of Early Christians (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010). 3  Cf. G. Szceszny, Zukunft des Unglaubens (München: List, 1958). 4  Cf. E. Sharpe, Comparative Religion: A History (London: Duckworth, 21986), 295; for the terminology, ibid., 313. 5  K. Rudolph, Geschichte und Probleme der Religionswissenschaft (SHR 53; Leiden: Brill, 1992), 90 n.  25a. 6  Ibid., 78. 7  On religious studies cf. G. Alles, ‘The Study of Religion: The Last Fifty Years’, in J. R. Hinnels (ed.), The Routledge Companion to the Study of Religion (London: Routledge, 22010),

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

17

bewildering variety of positions on questions of principle.8 Rather than setting up sharp contrasts, it might be fair to think of the study of religion (including both religious studies and theology) as a continuous scale where all shades of grey are present. Moreover, people switch roles and do different things in different contexts.

2.2. Beyond New Testament theology Anyway, in those early days it soon became clear to me that biblical scholarship at large need not be ashamed if gauged with Rudolph’s empiricist yardstick. I was proud to notice that such biblical scholars as William Wrede or Krister Stendahl did quite well when compared with historians of religion. I suppose it was then that there arose in my mind the wish to see a synthesis of early Christian thought that is compatible with historical-empirical Religionswissenschaft and meets the expectations of a non-confessional academic environment. Yet it was clear that even the adoption of a ‘transcendentalist’ religious studies approach would result in a shift in ‘New Testament theology’. For even the most ‘theological’ comparative religion scholars reject the claims to absoluteness of any one religion, due to the nature of the comparative material and the rivalling claims of different religions. In the 1970’s and 80’s I was not aware of any book in any language which I could have recommended without reservations as an introduction to the thought world of the New Testament. The current New Testament theologies were the show window of the discipline, but as a theologian in a secular university I would have wished to show something different to those who were interested in our work. So I tried to sketch a program for how the job should ideally be done, in my view – moving ‘beyond New Testament Theology’.9 While the phrase ‘New Testament theology’ can be used to embrace all theologically interested research on the New Testament, it can – more commonly –

39–55. Alles notes (p.  51) that ‘scholars of religions seem to be divided between two camps, one camp favouring critical cultural studies, the other favouring more scientific approaches’ (e.g., the cognitive-scientific approach). It should be clear that my sympathies are more on the cultural studies side. 8 See the collections of articles in Hinnels (ed.), Routledge Companion, especially D. Wiebe, ‘Religious studies’, ibid., 125–44; G. Löhr (Hrsg.), Die Identität der Religionswissenschaft (Frankfurt a. M.: Lang, 2000); C. Breytenbach (Hrsg.), Religionswissenschaft – Theologie: Erkundungen einer strittigen Zuordnung, BThZ 29 (2012). Cf. also S. Vollenweider, ‘Streit zwischen Schwestern? Zum Verhältnis von Exegese und Religionsgeschichte’, ZThK 106 (2009): 20–40; C. M. Tuckett, ‘What is “New Testament Study”? The New Testament and Early Christianity’, NTS (2014): 158–70. 9  H. Räisänen, Beyond New Testament Theology: A Story and a Programme (London: SCM, 1990, 22000).

18

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

refer to textbook summaries of its theological content.10 I am using the term in this narrower sense – books named ‘New Testament Theology’ or the like. There were, of course, great differences between New Testament theologies. What was common was that the historical analysis was combined with offering a religious message (in one way or another) to modern readers. As early as 1897, William Wrede had taken exception to this approach, proposing that the discipline of ‘New Testament theology’ be replaced with a non-confessional ‘History of early Christian religion and theology’. By and large, his advice had not been taken – New Testament theologies with a confessional flavour continued to be produced – though his approach had been largely followed in what might be called everyday exegesis. My problem was the gap between the two. So I suggested that Wrede’s proposal be taken up and New Testament theologies be, in academic contexts, replaced with somewhat different syntheses. In other words, I simply proposed that we follow the established critical method consistently, even when writing syntheses.

2.3. Much ado about nothing? My point is not that biblical studies should at last turn religionsgeschichtlich. That would be bringing owls to Athens, as such scholarship is being practiced all the time all over the place. My ‘program’ is concerned with a more limited topic: the ideational syntheses. Failing to observe this difference, some colleagues, notably Wolfgang Stegemann, have claimed that ‘this discussion about a “religious studies alternative” to theology is, in the end, “much ado about nothing!”’11 I insist that it is not. Stegemann states that ‘[s]cholarly theology, particularly in its historical disciplines (like church history, the Old and New Testaments), can also be viewed as a form of religious studies that focuses on the history of Christianity’. He notes, quite correctly, that the theological disciplines ‘avail themselves of the scholarly standards that are customary in the other historical disciplines. They do not proclaim the Christian kerygma, but rather describe it, or describe discourses about it.’ Stegemann therefore asks, ‘In what way do the historical-critical disciplines […] differ fundamentally from other forms of religious studies?’ Answer: ‘solely via the object that they study, not via their methods.’12

10 

Cf. R. Morgan, ‘Theology, New Testament’, ABD 6 (1992): 473–83, esp. p.  480. Stegemann, ‘Much Ado about Nothing? Sceptical Inquiries into the Alternatives “Theology” or “Religious Studies”’, in T. Penner & C. Vander Stichele (eds.), Moving Beyond New Testament Theology? Essays in Conversation with Heikki Räisänen (PFES 88; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005), 221–42, 242; cf. ibid., 236. 12  Ibid., 242. 11 W.

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

19

Stegemann can reckon with wide consent from both sides of the divide.13 One religious studies scholar (Peter Antes) can even propose that those disciplines in theological faculties that are not confession-bound would best be transferred to the field of Religionswissenschaft; their rightful place would be in humanistic faculties.14 So far, so good. But this is not the whole story. For the picture of biblical studies changes when we zoom on the genre of New Testament theology. Robert Morgan fittingly characterizes the works with this (or similar) title as historically informed attempts to present the ideational content of [the New Testament] writings in a coherent way. But the definition of that content as theological has usually led interpreters to relate the biblical witness to contemporary Christian belief and practice. This is because of the belief that the canonical writings communicate the revelation of God implies a self-involvement on the part of the interpreter. This puts an unusual kind of pressure upon the largely historical character of New Testament Theology, and has led to methodological problems.15

Indeed, this pressure has brought about the gap between everyday exegesis and the syntheses. I once stated that when one moves from the world of special studies to the world of New Testament theologies, the atmosphere changes abruptly. ‘We hear a good deal of God revealing himself definitively in Christ and speaking to us through the New Testament texts […] Divine revelation is spoken of as if its existence were self-evident. The recourse to theistic God-talk (not just on a descriptive level) is a matter of course.’16 This was written in 1990. A glance at more recent New Testament theologies confirms my point. Despite the different theological persuasions of their authors, they agree on the necessity of a faith perspective. An author no less critical than Ferdinand Hahn opens his work by saying that theology (including New Testament theology) is reflection on the truth claim of the Christian message, acknowledged as valid.17 In a perceptive review, Johan Vos praises Hahn’s work as a masterpiece in its genre, but notes that it is ‘a combination of secular historical-critical exposition and churchly interpretation’ and that ‘a purely sec13  Cf. from the side of religious studies K. Hock, ‘Zu diesem Heft’, BThZ 27 (2010): 3–13, esp. p.  13: ‘Weder in der Methode noch im Ergebnis ist der konfessionelle Bezug etwa für die Bibelwissenschaften von Bedeutung’; J. U. Schlieter, ‘Methodologie als Shibboleth? Methodische und theoretische Differenzen zwischen theologischer und religionswissenschaftlicher Religionsforschung’, BThZ 29 (2012): 73–96, esp. p.  78. 14 P. Antes, ‘Religionswissenschaft und Theologie: Abgrenzung – aber wie?’, BThZ 29 (2012): 20–31, esp. pp.  27, 31. Cf. also K. Rudolph, ‘Texte als religionswissenschaftliche “Quellen”’, in H. Zinser (ed.), Religionswissenschaft: Eine Einführung (Berlin: Reimer, 1988), 38–54, esp. p.  39. 15  Morgan, ‘Theology: New Testament’, 480. 16  Beyond New Testament Theology, 2. 17  F. Hahn, Theologie des Neuen Testaments. 2 vols. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 1:1, cf. 2:1.

20

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

ular or religio-historical interpretation would reach different results at many points’.18 Udo Schnelle does solid religio-historical work, but also states emphatically that a theological approach must not and need not be replaced through a religious studies approach, for Christian theology deals with the God who has revealed himself in the history of Israel and in Jesus Christ.19 Bishop Ulrich Wilckens states that a theological work (like his New Testament theology) is to aid the church to speak publicly and clearly about God; he also claims that the contents of the New Testament are just as accessible today as they once were, thus relativizing the gap of two millennia that separates us from the ancient authors.20 According to the Catholic scholar Frank J. Matera, a New Testament theology should integrate the diverse theologies found in the New Testament into a unified whole as ‘an expression of faith seeking to understand what it already believes about the God who is revealed in the story of Israel, Jesus, and the church’; the author of such a work should assume that the New Testament writings ‘possess an inner coherence that is ultimately rooted in God’s self-revelation’.21 None of these authors can be located anywhere near the conservative extreme of the scale; they are solid representatives of the mainstream, if not closer to the other end. Yet they prove that the slogan ‘a theologian speaks of God, a Religionswissenschaftler of people’s conceptions of their gods’22 is not a groundless cliché. It is not the whole truth – theologians can play different roles in different contexts – but it is not spun out of thin air either. Deep down, the respective ‘cognitive interests’ are different.23 Large parts of biblical scholarship can be located in religious studies, even large parts of many New Testament theologies, Bultmann’s classic work being a case in point. Large parts, yes, but not the ex-

18  J. S. Vos, ‘Review of Ferdinand Hahn, Theologie des Neuen Testament’, NovT 46 (2004): 198–203, 199. 19  U. Schnelle, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (UTB 2917; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 37. New Testament theology must broach the thought world of the New Testament writings in the context of present understanding of reality (ibid., 15). ‘Für eine ntl. Theologie ist der Sinnbegriff von großer Bedeutung, denn er vermag Göttliches und Menschliches miteinander zu verbinden, indem er die Sinnstiftung Gottes in Jesus Christus und ihre Bezeugung in den Schriften des Neuen Testaments gleichermaßen erfasst’ (16). 20 U. Wilckens, Theologie des Neuen Testaments, Bd.  1: Geschichte der urchristlichen Theo­logie, Teilband 1: Geschichte des Wirkens Jesu in Galiläa (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukir­ chener Verlag, 2002), vi. 21  F. J. Matera, New Testament Theology: Exploring Diversity and Unity (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2007), xxviii, xxvii. 22  H. Zinser, according to P. Schmidt-Leukel, ‘Der methodische Agnostizismus und das Verhältnis der Religionswissenschaft zur wissenschaftlicher Theologie’, BThZ 29 (2012): 48– 72, esp. p.  51. 23  Cf. Schlieter, ‘Methodologie’, 95–96.

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

21

tant New Testament theologies as a whole!24 Nor do the authors even wish that their works should be so classified. In 1990 I could regret that no one had realized Wrede’s century-old vision of replacing New Testament theology with a History of Early Christian religion. This complaint can now be laid to rest. Klaus Berger and Gerd Theissen have produced overall works that expressly aim at fulfilling Wrede’s program. Yet the work that, in my view, comes closest to realizing Wrede’s intentions is the late Dieter Zeller’s succinct account of the birth and consolidation of Christianity, published in a volume on Christianity in the religious studies series Die Religionen der Menschheit (2002). Zeller intends to describe ‘without truth claims and without evaluation’ the gradual development of the Jewish reform group of Jesus and his adherents to a ‘religion’ of its own.25 His work should be given serious consideration in discussions of our problem. But even after the publication of these works there seemed to be room left for further experiments, so I continued my own enterprise.

2.4. Focusing on religious thought My program is, then, not meant as an alternative to New Testament studies in general; on the contrary, I try to gather and make available the best fruits of these studies. My book is conceived specifically as an alternative to the genre of New Testament theology. It still bears a family resemblance to the latter, as I have focused on religious thought. I have not written a full history of early Christian religion. That would have required much more attention to other aspects, such as cultic life on one hand and social institutions and political processes on the other. This is especially clear with regard to the ‘parting of the ways’ question.26 I have concentrated on one dimension of early Christian religion – and the size and richness of that part alone makes me painfully aware of my limitations. Still, I do not regard the intellectual aspect as the most important one in religion.27 I think that Ninian Smart, a leading religious studies scholar, was right 24  Regrettably, Donald Wiebe turns my contention upside down in ascribing to me the claim (which he justifiably rejects) that ‘many New Testament theologies can be seen as studies in comparative religion because they are in full harmony with the “empiricist” approach to comparative religion’. D. A. Wiebe, ‘Response’, in R. Gothoni (ed.), How To Do Comparative Religion? Three Ways, Many Goals (RR 44; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005), 128. He refers, misleadingly, to my article ‘Comparative Religion, Theology, and New Testament Exegesis’, StudTheol 52 (1998): 116–29, esp. p.  124 (= Challenges to Biblical Interpretation [BibInt 59; Leiden: Brill, 2001], 220). 25  D. Zeller, ‘Einführung’, in id. (Hrsg.), Christentum I: Von den Anfängen bis zur Konstantinischen Wende (RM 28; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2002), 1. 26  Cf. A. Runesson, ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, SEÅ 77 (2012): 362–65, 364. 27  Contra T. Eskola, Beyond Biblical Theology: Sacralized Culturalism in Heikki Räisä-

22

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

both in claiming that ‘histories of religion have tended to exaggerate the importance of scriptures and doctrines’, and also in warning us not to go to the other extreme, neglecting ‘the essential intellectual component of religion’.28 It is noteworthy, too, how Hans Küng once justified his concentration on ideas in interreligious dialogue: In this process we must concentrate in the first instance on ideas, teachings, doctrines […] without mistaking the fact that religion is more than ideas. And yet, religious practices are often not the factor that divides religions […] but the ideas, teachings, dogmas, and everything that follows from them. 29

I think that ideas loom large enough among the Christian influences on culture to keep some interest in their early history alive. Yet I have not wanted to explore ideas as if they were floating in the air, but have tried to tie them to social and cultural realities. My concentration on ideas has been emphatically, if tantalizingly briefly, criticized by Cilliers Breytenbach. He bundles up the focus on ideas with three other points: he is critical of my claim to proceed descriptively and objectively, he asserts that I am projecting modern notions into the sources, and suggests that my account is orientated on traditional dogmatics.30 I think the allegations nen’s Hermeneutics (BibInt 123; Leiden: Brill, 2013) who claims (429) that Räisänen ‘has focused on early Christian thought because, for him, that is what religion is all about’. Eskola disbelieves my own statement to the contrary (430). 28  N. Smart, The World’s Religions: Old Traditions and Modern Transformations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 17. 29  H. Küng, Christianity and the World Religions: Paths of Dialogue with Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism (New York: Orbis Books, 1987), xix. To be sure, one might argue that in the process in which Christianity eventually separated from Judaism, precisely religious practices (circumcision, table-fellowship) were a decisive dividing factor. But the most important thing, after all, was not the practices as such, but the meanings accorded to them. 30  ‘Erwägungen zu einer Geschichte der Religion des Urchristentums’, in C. Breytenbach & J. Frey (eds.), Reflections on the Early Christian History of Religion (AGAJU 81; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2013), 1–25, 3–4; a similar claim is made by Eskola, Beyond Biblical Theology, 348, 351. This latter work amounts to a savage if confused, near-fundamentalist assault on my work (and on historical criticism in general), which constantly ascribes to me words I have not used and views I do not hold. Here are a few examples – out of hundreds. Encountering ‘descriptions of impossible events, myths and legends’ in the Bible ‘any scientific scholar should be annoyed just by virtue of being a reasonable human being’ (37; a footnote refers to a Finnish article of mine where nothing of the sort is said). ‘Räisänen is convinced that the traditional conception of sin was merely a tool for the clergy to hold sincere Christians in their power’ (204–5). ‘Should we find problems in our moral behaviour, the answer is proper education’ (205). The ‘school’ of Räisänen and Theissen ‘deliberately aims at destroying the possibility of biblical theology’ (297). ‘For Räisänen, Christian doctrine in general, and the doctrine of the Trinity in particular, are obstacles that prevent rational Christians from living a good Christian life’ (380). According to Eskola, I regard early Christianity as ‘an enthusiastic mystery religion’ (398) – ‘the original Christian mythic gnostic religion’ (399) –, believe ‘that religious thought gradually develops into mature rationalism’ (404) and cherish ‘the Enlightenment’s triumph over superstition’ (406). ‘Orthodoxy, for Räisänen, represents the most despicable attitude’ (453). Readers should not trust any single statement in Eskola’s book without check-

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

23

are best addressed separately and will take up ‘objectivity’ and ‘dogmatics’ shortly. As for the focus on ideas, Breytenbach asks skeptically whether anyone else who proceeds equally non-confessionally would find the same ‘ideas’ in the sources. I find this objection hard to understand. Surely no two scholars will write similar books, yet quite a few colleagues have discovered a fair amount of individual ideas similar to those found by me.31 Breytenbach also asserts that I actually project modern ideas about early Christian thought into the texts, but he cites no evidence for this. Others have received a rather different impression.32 Breytenbach ends up by doubting whether my approach is religionswissenschaftlich at all.33 I do not find his arguments cogent, but do not consider terminology to be that important in any case. Should one prefer to regard my book as an exercise in the history of ideas, rather than in Religionswissenschaft, well and good. Even so, it would still amount to an alternative, in this case a ‘humanistic’ alternative to confession-bound New Testament Theology. James Dunn also notes in passing, though in a different tone, that the focus on beliefs is ‘somewhat surprising for a disciple of Wrede’; more attention to worship in the style of Bousset would have been appropriate.34 Perhaps. Yet it should be noted that Wrede did elaborate a lot on the treatment of ideas and problems (and actually said very little about worship!) in his classic lecture.35 For him, ing with his sources. For a general assessment, see the review by V. K. Robbins, ‘Review of Timo Eskola, Beyond Biblical Theology’, RBL 10/2014. 31  See, e.g., the reviews, written from quite different perspectives, by L. Houlden, ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, Conversations in Religion and Theology 8 (2010): 103–4 and L. Wickham, ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, Church Times 30.4.2010. Houlden even states that he was ‘at no point … moved to react against [my] analyses or conclusions’. While this statement may contain some friendly exaggeration, it is noteworthy that Wickham, who dislikes much of the contents the book, concedes that it ‘basically recycles, deftly and adequately, the conventional opinions’. 32  By contrast, one reviewer explicitly notes (citing examples) that I try to keep philologically close to the sources ‘against actualizing tendencies’ in my analysis of New Testament and earlier texts: ‘Gegen aktualisierende Tendenzen […] wird […] die philologische Nähe zu den Quellen angestrebt’. R. Roux, ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, TRev 106 (2010): 387–89, 389. Houlden comments that I seek ‘to expound the theological mentalities to be found in the New Testament rather than to “sell” them’. 33  ‘Leider erschöpft sich sein “religionswissenschaftlicher” Ansatz weitgehend darin, “not prescriptive or normative” zu sein und die nicht kanonisch gewordenen Schriften einzubeziehen.’ Well, I would have thought even that to be a not insignificant step towards Religionswissenschaft … 34  ‘Review of H. Räisänen’, RBL 01 (2011). 35  Wrede speaks of ‘the decisive ideas, problems and spiritual and intellectual phenomena’ as the proper objective of New Testament Theology/Early Christian Religion (instead of a book-by-book analysis): W. Wrede, ‘The Tasks and Methods of “New Testament Theology”’, in R. Morgan (ed.), The Nature of New Testament Theology: The Contribution of William Wrede and Adolf Schlatter (London: SCM, 1973), 68–116, esp. p.  89–90, cf. also 83–85, 104, 107. See further W. Wrede, ‘Das theologische Studium und die Religionsgeschichte’, in id., Vorträge und Studien (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1907), 64–83, esp. p.  65–66: ‘Nicht was ein-

24

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

early Christian ideas were one self-evident topic, indeed a major topic, in a religious studies approach. I shall now comment on some characteristics of my approach. A few of them mark it off, more or less, from ‘New Testament theologies’; other points are – or should be – compatible with critical ‘New Testament Theology’ as well.

3. Main Characteristics of My Approach 3.1. Context and audience My account is not intended for church use in particular, but for any interested reader. I share Gerd Theissen’s aim to describe early Christian religion ‘in such a way that it is accessible to men and women whether or not they are religious’. It is a cultural task, the texts in question being ‘part of the basic cultural information of human history’.36 Christian faith must not be privileged a priori. This way of conceiving the task is the exact opposite to what Bishop Wilckens proposes: he writes for readers who want to be ‘strengthened in their faith in the triune God’.37 No Jewish, Muslim or agnostic readers seem envisaged. The natural context for Theissen’s and my approach is the secular academy rather than a church (or church-run seminaries). However, this dichotomy is too sharp (as most dichotomies are). In practice, even the churches display a wide spectrum of attitudes, and so does the academy. There are no watertight compartments. Quite a few active church people want to integrate critical thinking with their faith, and many are more open to critical insights than are some academic theologians. I am speaking as a representative of the Scandinavian tradition in which, as a Swedish colleague puts it, ‘departments of theology are essentially departments of religious studies, which are carried out without faith commitment or allegiance to any church’. She wisely hints, though, that this may not represent ‘the whole truth about faculties of theology in Sweden [and I would add: in Finland]. As always, reality is more complicated than the official viewpoints.’38 Like all people, scholars switch roles; what they write in their academic works may not zelne Schriften und Autoren sagen, soll ermittelt werden, sondern die religiösen Anschauungen, Stimmungen, Vorstellungen selbst sollen […] erklärt und in ihren Wandlungen verfolgt werden.’ Eskola, trying to drive a wedge between Wrede and me, grossly misinterprets Wrede, suggesting that in the latter’s view ‘the treatment of religious thought should be excluded from a true history of religion’ (Beyond Biblical Theology, 355) and that Wrede moved ‘to a completely other area’ than ‘thought world’ (ibid., 347). 36  G. Theissen, A Theory of Primitive Christian Religion (London: SCM, 1999), xiii. 37  Theologie 1, 65. 38  H. Stenström, ‘Fair Play? Some Questions Evoked by Heikki Räisänen’s Beyond New Testament Theology’, in Penner & Vander Stichele (eds.), Moving, 105–32, 110 with n.  18.

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

25

be fully identical with what they say in a classroom – faced with students, many of whom may serve a church in the future.39 There are specific local problems, notably in Germany. A concrete watershed between theology and religious studies is the so-called ‘confession clause’ of the theological faculties whose staff are required to submit to a religious confession. So behind our present problem loom issues of university politics that reach far beyond the future of New Testament theology. I do not try to deal with those issues here. Suffice it to say that I agree with those who think that theologians themselves should oppose the confession clause.40

3.2. A ‘descriptive-objective’ approach I have characterized my approach with conventional catchwords that are easily misunderstood: descriptive, objective, historical.41 Today such vocabulary meets with harsh criticism,42 more so than in the seventies-eighties, when my vision was formed – though the impression is hard to avoid that critics tend to create straw men that immediately collapse once the mighty magic word ‘positivistic!’ is uttered.43 I feel that I can simply rephrase the description of my approach, dispensing with the controversial words and their historical ballast.44 Perhaps I should have done that already in the introduction to my book. The contents of the book would not have been altered. I understand that the three adjectives once entered the hermeneutical debate as semantic opposites to ‘doctrinal’ or ‘confessional’.45 For me, this is still the 39  Cf. the reflections of I. Dunderberg on the connection of academic instruction to practice (drawing on Bourdieu): ‘New Testament Theology and the Challenge of Practice’, in id., Gnostic Morality Revisited (WUNT 347; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 169–89. 40  Cf. Schmidt-Leukel, ‘Agnostizismus’, 69. 41  Rise, 3; Beyond New Testament Theology (2nd ed.), 166–71. 42  For instance, Breytenbach contends, criticizing my focus on ideas, that the claim to ‘find’ early Christian ‘ideas’ in the sources and to ‘describe’ them ‘objectively’ is a positivistic step backwards in the scholarly discussion – all the way back to the ‘pre-Wrede phase’ (‘Erwägungen’ 3 n.  9). Eskola asserts that my text ‘lacks academic argumentation and presents eccentric views’ (Beyond Biblical Theology, 369) but everything he presents as evidence (363–69) amounts to a misrepresentation of my work. Eskola ascribes to me the view that Paul’s anthropology ‘has grown out of Paul’s personal psycho-pathology’ (366) and insinuates that I criticize Paul’s ‘dark view of sin’ because the apostle ‘opposes Enlightenment humanism’ (367). Eskola does not perceive – or admit – that I have arrived at critical conclusions because of inner-Pauline textual problems, such as the relation of Romans 2 to the rest of Paul’s thought, a problem he never mentions. For Eskola, ‘Wredean history-of-religion inevitably leads to a kind of psycho-pathology of religion’ (293, cf. 434). 43  Vollenweider, ‘Streit’, 30–31, with note 32, finds little sense in a dialogue with my ‘positivistic’ religious studies approach – as if I did not recognize that reconstruction includes interpretation and that many different interpretations are possible. 44  Cf. H. Räisänen, ‘What I Meant and What It Might Mean … An Attempt at Responding’, in Penner & Vander Stichele, Moving, 400–433, 420–25. 45  The term is used, e.g., by D. R. Burkett, An Introduction to the New Testament and the

26

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

point. No ‘metaempirical’ concepts are to be used in the interpretation. Whatever the scholars themselves think of ‘revelation’, an account of early Christian thought in an academic context cannot commit itself to revelational claims any more than can a scholarly account of Islam, or of Mormonism. It is clear that there can be no ‘pure’ description; imaginative (re)construction is naturally needed in assessing the data. A significant subjective factor is involved in the writing of an overall account of early Christian thought, starting with the question of how to organize the work. The data do not organize themselves, a fact which became painfully clear to me as I struggled with structuring my book ... I concede to Breytenbach that ‘finding’ something in the sources depends on acts of interpretation. I accept with Stegemann the insight that ‘every synthesis is an interpretation’ and that what we have to deal with in ‘historical’ work is a chaos of data and traces of memory.46 It is precisely in recognition of this fact that I do not actually try to (re)construct the history of early Christianity as a developing narrative, but opt for a thematic approach. I do not see how recent insights into the nature of historiography could undermine my concern that an interpretation in a religious studies framework is not to appeal to gods, revelation, or inspiration, nor to make prescriptive claims. ‘Descriptive’, then, should be taken to mean simply that the construction is not prescriptive and is not expected to conform to any aprioristic requirements, confessional or ideological. Nor does ‘objectively’ mean that one possesses the Truth.47 The word refers simply to fairness and open-mindedness over against special pleading.48 I think that it is widely realised (and was realised in the past) that there are obvious limits to our objectivity – and that this does not legitimate subjective license. The issue of objectivity versus subjectivity is hardly the place where the Origins of Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 10, who contrasts the historical-critical method with ‘the confessional approach’. 46  Cf. Stegemann, ‘Much Ado’, 226–30 (with special reference to H.-J. Görtz). 47  Contra Eskola, Beyond, 350, who asserts: ‘Räisänen […] is convinced that science has perfect objective knowledge about this world and even history.’ An example of this is (Eskola claims) my being able ‘to make a distinction between different redactional layers’. So redaction criticism as a method is intrinsically positivistic, based on the illusion of possessing the Truth! Eskola’s fundamentalist starting-point shines clearly through in passages like this. 48  Cf. Morgan, ‘Theology’, 478: ‘Historians have interests; what matters is that they do not pervert historical judgment.’ The sternly ‘empiricist’ religious studies scholar R. J. Zwi Werblowsky wrote: ‘There is no need here to enlarge on the trite commonplace that in social and cultural (including religious) studies the notion of “value-free” and presuppositionless science is extremely problematic […] The real question relates to the consequences that should be drawn from the obvious facts, i.e. whether our inevitable limitations should be responsibly and prudently treated as necessities, or whether they should first be transformed into, and then celebrated as, major virtues.’ ‘On Studying Comparative Religion: Some naïve reflections of a simple-minded non-philosopher’, RS 11 (1975): 145–56, esp. p.  154.

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

27

great divide lies.49 The crucial question is this: should we let, from the start, the canon and the concerns of Christian theology guide our accounts? And: what kind of arguments count? Can God, revelation or inspiration be appealed to? If this be positivism, I am happy to join Rudolph who noted that ‘sound, moderate positivism is the best legacy of any science, including Religionswissenschaft’.50 A central aspect of what ‘objectivity’ means to me is the ‘rule’ of fair play: one should use the same standards, whether one is studying one’s own tradition or that of others.51 In studying the Qur’an long ago, I could not help noting the imbalance which often resulted, when scholars compared their own scripture to that of others. The Qur’an and its study have always remained a kind of mirror for me: any principle or method used in biblical interpretation must be applicable in the study of the Qur’an (and vice versa).52 But playing fair became most important in the study of Paul: the Apostle was not to be given a special treatment; he was not to be allowed to dictate the rules of the game.

3.3. Moving beyond the canon Wrede noted that ‘no New Testament writing was born with the predicate “canonical” attached’;53 this observation remains valid despite the inclination of some recent scholars to detect a ‘canonical awareness’ in its authors.54 Nor was it inevitable that the twenty-seven writings that make up our present New Tes49  Breytenbach cites Weber to the effect that there is no purely objective analysis (‘Erwägungen’, 24 n.  65) – but cannot help ending his article on a quotation from Troeltsch: the only criterion a historian of religion has is ‘die bei jeder Vergleichung nötige, möglichst objektive (!) Versenkung in das Fremde und die damit eintretende Relativierung des eigenen Standpunktes’ (25). 50 Rudolph, Geschichte, 32. 51  Stegemann, ‘Much Ado’, 228, finds this ‘a successful formulation’. 52  This does not mean that my ‘basic hermeneutical theory is dependent on [my] studies on the Qur’an’, as Eskola misleadingly claims (Beyond, 82; even more emphatically ibid., 393, 396). Discussing the topic in pages 34–41, he presents a distorted reading of a Finnish article of mine; unfortunately, readers who do not know Finnish have no chance to check his interpretations here or elsewhere. Eskola reaches the very odd conclusion ‘that the entire genesis of the historical-critical approach to the Bible is the product of early Quran-criticism’ (397). Moreover, the section ‘Quran-Criticism, Sachkritik, and the Birth of Liberal Theology’ (29– 34) accuses biblical critics from Strauss to the present for having been convinced ‘that the malevolent motives of the [New Testament] writers have twisted truth’ (31) and for attempting ‘to expose an apostolic deception’ and ‘to remove religious lies from biblical theology’ (34). 53  Wrede, ‘Tasks and Methods’, 70. 54  Thus P. Balla, Challenges to New Testament Theology: An Attempt to Justify the Enterprise (WUNT 2:95; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 101, 253. On Balla’s book see T. K. Heckel, ‘Neuere Arbeiten zum Neutestamentlichen Kanon (I)’, TRu 68 (2003): 286–312, esp. p.  311–12 (for instance, Luke 1.1–4 shows no respect for the authority of its sources; no trace of ‘canonical awareness’ is visible here). On Theissen’s canonical emphasis see my ‘Eine Kathe­drale aus dem Chaos? Ein Gespräch mit Gerd Theißen über Einheit und Vielfalt der urchristlichen Religion’, in P. Lampe & H. Schwier, Neutestamentliche Grenzgänge: Sympo-

28

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

tament would receive a special status. As Zeller puts it, ‘the so-called “New Testament” is anything but a systematic foundational document of Christian faith. By the side of partly competing biographies of Jesus stand casual writings by Paul and forgeries attributed to the apostles. Christianity is not a book religion to the degree that Judaism or Islam is.’55 While New Testament theologies can by definition limit themselves to the canon, an alternative approach must consider all available evidence on equal terms. How far in time the phase of ‘early Christians’ extends is a matter of definition; I have tried to include materials down to the last decades of the second century, occasionally casting a glance even on later developments.56 No distinction is made between ‘orthodox’ and ‘heretical’ views. It is imperative to include the texts of Nag Hammadi as important witnesses in their own right. I have devoted to them some six per cent of the space.57 The Jewish Christians (‘Ebionites’) likewise deserve a place. How to deal with ‘gnostic’ Christians is a thorny problem. The Nag Hammadi library has put the issue into a new light. Today it is hard to define who should be called a Gnostic and why. Many who used to be so classified are now regarded simply as Platonist Christians, for example the people behind the Gospel of Thomas. I speak emphatically of gnostic Christians – or Christians with gnostic leanings – hoping that I have been able to do justice to them as Christians. In the emerging picture the difference between gnostically inclined and ‘proto-orthodox’ Christians narrows down in many places, for example regarding Christian hope or the issue of ‘Docetism’. Some other black sheep of Christian history from Marcion on also receive more sympathy than usual. Doing away with canonical boundaries is not just a question of sources. The canonical point of view should not guide the account either. Authors of New Testament theologies give very much space to Paul, as the canon of course does58 – Bultmann gives him 30 per cent, Marshall (who regards more letters as genuinely Pauline, to be sure) no less than 40 per cent.59 I may also be guilty of some extravagance, though to a lesser extent: the apostle gets some 15 per cent of the sium zur kritischen Rezeption der Arbeiten Gerd Theißens (NTOA 75; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010), 51–64. 55  D. Zeller, ‘Schlusswort’, 464, in id. (ed.), Christentum 1. 56  A very odd criticism of my abandonment of the canonical boundaries is presented by Eskola (Beyond, 291) who asks: ‘if the canon must be abandoned […], why should one focus on religious thought and “theology”, which are inevitably bound up with the very canon itself?’ He complains that I am actually using the very canon I do not want (!) to use (295) – as if disregarding canonical boundaries implied that one cannot at all use the texts that have become canonical! 57  I would not have been able to do this without the expert help of my friends Antti Marjanen, Risto Uro, and Ismo Dunderberg. 58  In the New Testament, Paul’s authentic letters cover some 16 per cent of the pages. 59  R. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament. 2 vols. (New York: Scribners, 1952–55); I. H. Marshall, New Testament Theology (Downer’s Grove, Ill.: InterVarsity, 2004).

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

29

space. Significant as his contribution was, this seems still too much. Authors of New Testament theologies also generally regard him – or at least the core content of his thought – as more or less normative (which I do not). In an account of early Christian thought, Paul is to be seen as one (prominent) person among many. The scholar should have empathy both for him and for those who disagreed with him. What we ultimately should try to understand is the process in which the persons were involved. The Christian opponents of Paul must be taken no less seriously as Christians as Paul himself (and his Jewish opponents as serious representatives of their tradition for that matter). Probably all sides in the conflicts had a point! No doubt the ‘false brethren’ of Galatians ‘were able to produce very good biblical arguments for the necessity of circumcision for “the children of Abraham” (who had, after all, himself been circumcised)’.60 This kind of even-handedness is hard to find in New Testament theologies. Johan Vos observes that even in Hahn’s first volume that offers a history of early Christian theology there is ‘no independent place for the positions of the opponents and rival groups with whom a confrontation takes place in the New Testament writings’. He comments that from a religio-historical perspective such an account, written entirely from the point of view of the winners, has only a limited value. 61 It has seemed to some readers that I have succeeded all too well in my attempt to do justice to those who lost: it is claimed that my sympathies are on the side of the heretics, while the orthodox tradition is treated in more negative terms. 62 If this is the case, it could perhaps be forgiven as an effort to bring in some balance, as the ‘heterodox’ have been treated without much sympathy through the ages.

60 Räisänen, Rise, 253. Paul invents an explanation: Abraham ‘received the sign of circumcision as a seal of the righteousness that he had by faith while he was still uncircumcised’ (Rom 4.11). ‘One would have thought this argument to be a first-class weapon in the hands of his pro-circumcision opponents!’ (Rise, 261). 61  Vos, ‘Review of Ferdinand Hahn’, 200. 62  Roux, ‘Review of H. Räisänen’, 389. I am not fully convinced by the examples he cites: I emphasize, over against Irenaeus’ allegations, the ethical seriousness of gnostic Christians – but this is today common knowledge in light of the Nag Hammadi library; I defend Marcion against the suspicion of anti-Semitism – but this is something I have argued at length many times over, showing from texts that it is his orthodox opponents, not Marcion, who use arguments directed at the Jewish people; I praise gnostic authors for using of Greek philosophy, yet criticize the Apologists, Justin and Origen for doing the same – but I wonder if this is the most plausible reading of Rise, 298–99. Nor can I agree that I always present the orthodox fathers in a negative light; see, e.g., my comprehensive presentation of Irenaeus’ eschatology (Rise, 96–97) that contains no criticisms at all.

30

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

3.4. Not doctrines but interpretations I have wanted to describe the formation of religious ideas as a process in which traditions, in this case mostly Jewish traditions, are reinterpreted in the light of new experiences. My thematic chapters generally start from the Jewish thought world. This context gets some 15 per cent of the whole (plus a twenty-page summary in the introductory section ‘Roots and starting points’). Such an enterprise may be taken as an etic ‘religious studies’ description of a process that might be set forth as a history of revelation from a Christian-theological ‘emic’ point of view. In working out my account I realized, though, that I was actually putting less emphasis on experiences (elusive as they are) than I had originally thought, and more emphasis on the use and reinterpretation of traditions. 63 Yet on a general level the impact of social experiences, often conflict experiences, is crucial. Such experiences include the failure of the mission among Jews, the Jewish war, and the persecutions by the state. Some Pauline ideas that have had great theological influence, such as justification by faith, or predestination, have their roots in practical conflicts.

3.5. Great lines, main problems The main part of the book is organized according to themes; it deals with ‘basic problems and solutions’. Here I differ from Wrede who proposed a tradition-historical organization. Yet our material is so fragmentary that historical and tradition-historical reconstructions remain very conjectural. Consideration of the history of influence also speaks, in my view, for a thematic structure. In view of subsequent developments it may be relevant to learn what options there were in the early times, and to what sort of contexts they belonged to. Thus, my first thematic chapter discusses different types of ‘eschatology’. The term is put in quotation marks, for originally it was not a question of last things, but of a new turn of history. The types include the idea of earthly fulfilment (from Jesus to Irenaeus), spiritualized fulfilment, and mixed forms of expectation. Again, my discussion of ‘the bringer of salvation’ is structured according to different perceptions of who Jesus was and what he accomplished rather than according to strictly tradition-historical considerations. A thematic organization facilitates the comparison between different conceptions. The price is that the reader is deprived of a total picture of the thought of individual authors, such as Paul. 64 Every structuring has its pluses and minuses. Author-by-author or book-by-book presentations abound in New Testament 63  This is one of the few points on which Eskola (Beyond, 349) is correct, though even here he immediately turns to confused polemics. I pointed out myself that a shift has taken place: Rise, 5. 64  Cf. Dunn, ‘Review of H. Räisänen’, RBL 01 (2011) (regarding both points).

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

31

theologies; I thought that a different perspective might be refreshing. But this decision is not connected with the religious studies versus theology issue as such. Some have interpreted the choice of a thematic structure as a lapse into dogmatics. As noted, Breytenbach doubts if a presentation that he thinks to be strongly oriented on traditional dogmatics has the right to call itself reli­gions­ wissenschaftlich at all. I think that the place and role of ‘eschatology’ in my account distinguishes it clearly enough from dogmatics (and from New Testament theologies, for that matter). In describing my table of contents, Breytenbach actually makes the work look much more like a text-book on dogmatics than it is. For instance, my two chapters on identity (‘True Israel: From Jewish to Christian identity’65 and ‘Strangers in a Transitory World: Christians and ­Pagans’) become in his report ‘Ecclesiology’ and ‘Ethics’. One careful reviewer, by contrast, feels that the chapters ‘are structured in a thought-provoking way’. 66 Ironically, when Breytenbach himself reflects on how a historical narrative of early Christian religion should be construed, he ends up with an outline not too different from mine, yet in fact closer to traditional dogmatics (as the Christian hope is placed at the end). 67

3.6. The case of ‘eschatology’ I cannot emphasize too strongly the place of ‘eschatology’ in the beginning, rather than at the end, of my account. The reason is that what became Christianity once started with the expectation of the great turn of history in some Jewish circles. This hope is ‘spiritualized’ in some sources: the kingdom moves from the earth to heaven. This development affects all chapters. Thus, the notion of salvation originally hangs together with earthly eschatology: the plight from which Israel is to be saved is attacks by enemy troops or occupation by a hostile power. The transformation of salvation into something more spiritual, whether in this life or in a transcendent reality, is connected with the transformation of eschatology. Instead of enemy armies, one comes to think of sin(s) or hostile cosmic powers as the main threats.

65  Note that I discuss in this chapter Paul’s relation to the Torah from the perspective of the question of identity. In a more traditional dogmatic or theological context the issue is generally dealt with in the framework of anthropology or soteriology. 66 Runesson, ‘Review of H. Räisänen’, 363. He thinks that ‘this thematized structure, which grew from the research undertaken, is well chosen and opens up for insights even before the chapters are read’. 67  Breytenbach, ‘Erwägungen’, 21–22, lists as basic presuppositions (Grundbedingungen) the notion of the one and only God who is worshipped as creator and judge, the need of humans for salvation, the faith in Jesus’ resurrection and his saving function, the recognition of God’s Torah, the trust in God’s mercy and the hope of salvation in the judgment.

32

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

Only after dealing with salvation do I turn to the person of its bringer. This order hangs together with my conclusion that Jesus’ role in the scheme of salvation, as presented for instance by Luke, is ambiguous, subordinated to the vision of salvation as it were. In any case, even ‘Christology’ has its origins in ‘eschatology’: the expectation of the turn of history often included an expectation of a redeemer figure, and the understanding of Jesus as Messiah or Christ has to do with this. But even on this score, a process of ‘de-eschatogization’ is at work, and the title Christ changes its meaning. While my placing ‘last things first’ is in itself hardly a token of a specifically religious studies approach, the emphasis on ‘eschatology’ does have something to do with the ‘theology versus religious studies’ issue. For in New Testament theologies the concrete expectation tends to be played down. One speaks eloquently of ‘eschatological existence’ which, however, is wholly focused on the present (Bultmann), or one indulges in the symbolic and metaphoric nature of eschatological language, which frees one from taking the expectation at face value (Hahn). 68 Dunn spells it out: ‘Eschatology remains the most challenging and troublesome subject in NT theology…’69 For a religious studies approach eschatology is a challenging subject, too, but only because the issue is so many-faceted, not because it causes embarrassment. A specific challenge is the case of hell. New Testament theologies are strikingly silent of this idea,70 offensive to modern sensitivities, though it is conspicuously present in the sources. A religious studies account has no such inhibitions.71 Another all-important issue is the forging of Christian identity. The development that starts with the formation of an end-time Jewish sub-group (‘true Israel’) eventually leads, for better or for worse, to a separation from the mother religion. This ‘parting of the ways’ cannot be fully treated without delving into social history and ritual practice, and I agree with some critics that an account like mine that focuses on ideas cannot do full justice to the problem.72

68 

See Vos, ‘Review of Ferdinand Hahn’, 202. J. D. G. Dunn, New Testament Theology: An Introduction (LBT; Nashville: Abingdon, 2009), 95. 70  Cf. my article ‘Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zu ethischer Kritik’, in M. Mayordomo (ed.), Die prägende Kraft der Texte: Hermeneutik und Wirkungsgeschichte des Neuen Testaments (FS U. Luz; SBS 199, Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2005), 103–24. 71  Cf. my Rise, 121–24. Paradoxically, a religious studies approach seems, at this point, to be much more in harmony with the tradition of the church than New Testament Theology (which is not the case, say, in Christology). 72  Cf. Runesson, ‘Review of H. Räisänen’, 364: ‘[…] as questions about sociological and political processes (integral to the so-called partings question) are engaged, methodology needs to shift away from “theology” and thought patterns to sociological and other analyses of institutional and political aspects of society’. 69 

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

33

3.7. Justice to diversity The final chapter claims that whichever theme one explores, a great diversity prevails. A common ground can be found – if one moves to a sufficiently high level of abstraction: everybody held Jesus to be of supreme significance, but for different reasons. Early Christian thought appears as a dynamic process that produced more questions than definitive answers. I conclude: ‘Anyone who wrestles with Christian tradition, from whatever perspective, will do well to reflect on its original diversity. This may be ammunition for critics, but recognition of the early diversity can also prove a stimulus to creative new interpretations and constructive applications of the tradition.’73 In most – though not in all74 – New Testament theologies diversity is felt to be a problem and has been played down. One reviewer notes that ‘[t]he historiographical ethics of Räisänen’s approach allows him to give independent voices to the diverse textual sources, something that has often been lacking in the genre of New Testament theology’. And he continues: ‘It is liberating to read a book which does not mix Pauline theology with synoptic concerns, and which does not let reformation theologians define “righteousness” when the gospels are read.’75 Actually, when I made my results accessible to a wider Finnish audience, quite a few readers likewise spoke of a liberating experience. Awareness of the original diversity gave them, they felt, the licence to follow their own paths as Christians.

3.8. Acknowledging intellectual and moral problems in the sources I think it is fair to say that New Testament theologies tend to tidy up some problems, intellectual and moral, that crop up in the sources. There is some pressure towards interpretations that make early Christian views palatable. A religious studies approach is free to present interpretations that try to be true to the ancient conceptions even when they seem fanciful or violate our sense of justice.76 I already singled out eschatology in general and the notion of hell in particular as topics whose treatment indicates a difference in the approaches.77 73 

Rise, 318. Strecker and Schnelle are critical of harmonizing tendencies; cf. Schnelle’s (Theologie, 40 note 33) criticism of Hahn’s fluctuating between unity and diversity. Hahn does note divergences but in the end he plays them down, ending up with the claim – unthinkable in the framework of a religious studies approach – that tensions and contradictions hint at problems that were not yet definitively solved in early Christianity (Theologie 2, 805). Cf. Vos, ‘Review of Ferdinand Hahn’, 202: ‘Dem religionsgeschichtlich arbeitenden Ausleger ist eine solche als außergeschichtlich anzusehende Perspektive dagegen völlig fremd.’ 75  Runesson, ‘Review of H. Räisänen’, 362–63. 76  Eskola brands my pointing out problems as aggressive ‘fighting’ (Beyond, 389–91). 77  Relative value judgments that assess the human decisions and attitudes reflected in the texts do not contradict the ideal of objectivity as here understood, though it may be debated 74 

34

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

The issue of intellectually problematic arguments should also be mentioned. Paul’s fluctuating statements on the Torah and Israel are a case in point. The use of the Jewish scriptures is another striking case: authors of New Testament theologies tend to apologetically justify early Christian readings even when they are evidently arbitrary.78 An interpreter pursuing a religious studies approach can, instead, calmly note that, for example, Paul’s exegesis ‘produces truly astonishing results: he is capable of squeezing from a text a meaning that is just the opposite of the original meaning’.79 Yet another example of the tendency of recent New Testament theologies to avoid tackling obvious problems is the fact that the question, whether Jesus as depicted in the Gospel of John can really be deemed a true human, is hardly raised, though critical theologians have focused on it elsewhere. 80 I am following such theologians – John Knox, Maurice Wiles, Dennis Nineham and even James Dunn – when I write that ‘Jesus’ humanity is in the process of being thoroughly qualified’.81

3.9. Hinting at the reception and influence of early Christian ideas I could not resist the temptation to append to my chapters unsystematic, eclectic hints to the subsequent reception and influence of some early Christian ideas, thus trying to help build a bridge to the present. For instance, I point out some whether they should rather be presented at a second stage, where the historical findings are evaluated. 78  Cf. Vos, ‘Review of Ferdinand Hahn’, 200, on Hahn: the tension between a historical-critical and a churchly approach is clearly visible here. Hahn recognizes the profound discrepancy between the Old Testament texts in their original wording and their interpretation in the New Testament. He states that the originality (Eigenständigkeit) of the Old Testament is to be respected, but will also hold fast to the New Testament way of interpreting it, at least as regards its intentions. Hahn (Theologie 2, 140) hopes for a more consistent Interpretatio Christiana of the Old Testament in exegesis and theology; a religio-historical approach cannot follow him here. ‘Without specifically Christian spectacles one will not find in the Old Testament texts a bit of what the church has found there’ (Vos, ibid.). 79 Räisänen, Rise, 242, referring to Rom 10.8 as a case in point. 80  A most astonishing statement is presented by Bultmann, Theology 2, 50: in John, ‘God Himself encounters men in Jesus, a Jesus moreover who is a man in whom nothing unusual is perceptible except his bold assertion that in him God encounters men’. Nothing unusual! The explanation is that Bultmann robs John’s narrative wholly of its concrete traits: ‘Jesus is not presented in literal seriousness as a pre-existent divine being’. According to Bultmann, ‘the mythological terminology is intended to express the absolute and decisive significance of his word’ (ibid., 62). Contrast the frank statement by Paul Wernle in the wake of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule more than a century ago: in John, Jesus’ ‘humanity is thrust on one side and threatens to become a mere phantom’; ‘[t]he connection between Jesus and ourselves is severed if Jesus need not die but can take again the life which He lays down’. P. Wernle, The Beginnings of Christianity. Vol. 2 (London: Williams & Norgate; New York: Putnam, 1904), 256. 81 Räisänen, Rise, 218–19. Contrast the praise of John as a ‘master of interpretative integration’ in Schnelle, Theologie, 707–11 (esp. p.  710).

Chapter 1: A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology

35

historical consequences of millenarianism and wonder at the development of Christology in patristic times. While these comments, often critical of the mainstream, indicate my sympathies, they are definitely not meant to be prescriptive.82 Understandably, reviewers are divided in their evaluation of them. 83

3.10. What is missing? Given its intended limitations, what should have been included in the book but is not? I see one obvious gap: there was no good methodological reason to dispense with ethics. I had planned to include a chapter on ‘Life in the New Communities: Ethos and Morality’ that was to deal at least with ‘Solidarity, love, renunciation, non-retaliation’, ‘Sexual morality’, and ‘Attitudes to social issues’. I eventually left it out – simply due to fear that I would never finish the project. I fully agree that the inclusion of everyday ethics would be necessary for us to get really ‘beyond New Testament Theology’.84 Today gender issues are a sensitive point in any account. One critic observes an ‘oversight of women’s roles’, 85 and I wish I could have made them more visible. But at least there is more on women as leaders in my account than there is in most New Testament theologies. I do describe the prominent position of many women in the early period, and surely – in an attempt of fair play – the prominent anonymous prophetess in Thyatira comes out better than the author of Revelation who scornfully calls her ‘Jezebel’. But I admit that there is an important perspective missing in that I have not highlighted androcentric prejudice in our sources. Finally, while I give plenty of room to the Jewish matrix, I have a nagging feeling that the Greco-Roman context ought to have received more emphasis. In any case its impact is noted at important places: the idea of noble death is considered a crucial influence on the interpretation of Jesus’ death as vicarious, and I have followed Zeller in tracing the notion of incarnation to an adaptation both of Jewish wisdom traditions and of Greek notions of gods manifesting themselves on earth.86

82 

See further Räisänen, Rise, 323 note 51. ‘Review of H. Räisänen’, 389, criticizes these sections, especially the one on Christology, for following a one-sidedly chosen group of theologians; Dunn (RBL) is rather more positive about my illustrating ‘how confusing were early developments in Christology’. I still believe to be in a good company when citing such patristic authorities as Frances Young, Maurice Wiles and Hans Küng. Eskola, Beyond, 378, mistakenly ascribes a quotation from Young in my book to John Knox. 84  Thus Istvan Czachesz in an oral evaluation (SBL, Tartu 2010). 85  M. A. Getty, ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, CBQ 74 (2012): 395–397, 396. 86 Räisänen, Rise, 215; cf. also Schnelle, Theologie, 157–59. 83 Roux,

36

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

4. Conclusion Even if it is impossible to make a categorical distinction between a theological and a religious studies approach, the more so as neither theology nor religious studies appear as entities with distinct identities or clear boundaries, a rough differentiation seems plausible. A religious studies approach freely transcends the limits of the canon (materially and ideologically) and does not take Christian doctrine (however broadly understood) as its point of departure. It does not assume that the development from Jesus to the fourth-century church was inevitable or predetermined. It does not appeal to God, revelation or inspiration in interpreting the data, though it provides material for those who ponder theological questions. Despite significant overlaps in content and even in method, a New Testament theology and a non-theological account of early Christian thought are different enterprises and belong in principle (though not always in practice) to different contexts. Each task can be tackled in a number of different ways. I have described one attempt, anticipating that it will be accompanied in the future by many related but different endeavours.

Chapter 2

Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos? Ein Gespräch mit Gerd Theißen über Einheit und Vielfalt der urchristlichen Religion 1. Das Programm einer urchristlichen Religionsgeschichte Als meine Generation das exegetische Studium begann, konnte man die als nötig empfundenen Methoden noch mit den Fingern einer Hand abzählen. Heute befinden wir uns in einer völlig anderen Lage. Wer jetzt das Feld der Exegese beobachtet, wird bald einen großen Reichtum von Ansätzen feststellen müssen, eine bunte Palette von Archäologie und Textkritik bis hin zu feministischer und postkolonialer Kritik. Auf erstaunlich vielen dieser Gebieten hat sich Gerd Theißen an der Arbeit beteiligt; nicht selten hat er Pionierarbeit geleistet. Seine Beiträge zur soziologischen und psychologischen Exegese sind nur zwei bekannte Beispiele aus einer viel längeren Liste. Dabei hat sich Theißen als hervorragender Theoretiker erwiesen, der eine atemberaubende Anzahl von Theorien aus sehr verschiedenen wissenschaftlichen Bereichen zu bewerten und für die neutestamentliche Forschung fruchtbar zu machen weiß. Paradoxerweise befindet sich nun unter der großen Menge neuer Annäherungsweisen eine, die sowohl neu als auch ganz alt ist. Es handelt sich um ein Programm, das schon im Jahre 1897 von dem brillanten Breslauer Exegeten William Wrede skizziert wurde, aber nach dessen frühem Tod ein Jahrhundert lang unausgeführt blieb und erst jetzt in die Praxis umgesetzt wurde: das Programm einer „urchristlichen Religionsgeschichte“ oder einer „Geschichte der urchristlichen Religion und Theologie“.1 Mit einer solchen Geschichte wollte Wrede die herkömmliche Gattung „Theologie des Neuen Testaments“ ersetzen. In heutiger Terminologie kann man von einer religionswissenschaftlichen Alternative zur neutestamentlichen Theologie sprechen, wobei die Alternativen sich allerdings nicht ausschließen müssen; sie haben aber verschiedene Funktionen und vielleicht auch verschiedene „Sitze im Leben“.2 1  W. Wrede, Über Aufgabe und Methode der sogenannten Neutestamentlichen Theologie (1897), abgedruckt in G. Strecker (Hrsg.), Das Problem der Theologie des Neuen Testaments (WdF 367; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1975), 81–154. 2  Siehe H. Räisänen, Beyond New Testament Theology: A Story and a Programme (London: SCM, 22000); eine Kurzfassung mit einigen Ergänzungen bietet ders., Neutestamentliche Theologie? Eine religionswissenschaftliche Alternative (SBS 186; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bi-

38

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

Eine urchristliche Religionsgeschichte im Sinne Wredes sollte ein historisch plausibles Gesamtbild der frühchristlichen Gedankenwelt konstruieren, ohne dabei allzu enge Grenzen des neutestamentlichen Kanons sowie von jeglichen normativen Ansprüchen der Texte zu setzen. Nun haben die Exegeten und Exegetinnen der letzten hundert Jahre natürlich täglich nach diesen Richtlinien gearbeitet; eine religionswissenschaftliche Orientierung hat zum großen Teil die exegetische Arbeit bestimmt. Doch von dieser „Alltagsexegese“ haben sich die synthetischen Versuche einer Gesamtschau erheblich unterschieden, das heißt eben die „Theologien des Neuen Testaments“.3 Deshalb geht es bei der Diskussion über die Wredesche Alternative auch heute nicht um eine Binsenwahrheit, oder um viel Lärm aus Nichts.4 Das zeigt spätestens ein Blick auf neueste Entwürfe neutestamentlicher Theologie, etwa auf die von Bischof Wilckens, die der Kirche helfen soll, klar und öffentlich von Gott (nicht nur von Gottesvorstellungen) zu sprechen.5

2. Die Ausführung des Programms durch Theißen Man könnte darüber debattieren, wem die Ehre gebührt, Wredes Programm endlich als erster ausgeführt zu haben. Tatsache ist jedenfalls, dass vor kurzem belwerk, 2000). Zur Diskussion siehe vor allem die Beiträge in T. Penner & C. Vander Stichele (Hrsg.), Moving Beyond New Testament Theology? Essays in Conversation with Heikki Räisänen (PFES 88; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005). 3  Vgl. zu diesem Unterschied Räisänen, Beyond, 1–3. 4  So allerdings W. Stegemann, „Much Ado about Nothing? Sceptical Inquiries into the Alternatives ‚Theology‘ or ‚Religious Studies‘“, in Penner & Vander Stichele (Hrsg.), Moving, 221–42; dagegen H. Räisänen, „What I Meant and What It Might Mean: An Attempt at Responding“, ibid., 400–433, bes. 425–27. 5  U. Wilckens, Theologie des Neuen Testaments, Bd.  1: Geschichte der urchristlichen Theologie, Teilband 1: Geschichte des Wirkens Jesu in Galiläa (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2002), vi; vgl. ibid., 53–55, 63–66. F. Hahn, Theologie des Neuen Testaments 1 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 1, eröffnet sein Werk mit dem Satz, Theologie (einschließlich neutestamentlicher Theologie) sei „Nachdenken über den Glauben und damit Nachdenken über den als gültig anerkannten Wahrheitsanspruch der christlichen Botschaft“; die Frage nach der Verbindlichkeit der Texte könne in einer neutestamentlichen Theologie nicht ausgeklammert werden. Demnach trage auch Theißens hier zu besprechendes Buch „nur indirekt etwas zur Aufgabenbestimmung einer neutestamentlichen Theologie bei“ (ibid., 18). Vgl. ferner F. Thielman, Theology of the New Testament: A Canonic and Synthetic Approach (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), bes. 34; I. H. Marshall, New Testament Theology (Downers Grove: IVP, 2004), bes. 45–46; F. J. Matera, New Testament Theology: Exploring Diversity and Unity (Louisville & London: Westminster John Knox, 2007), bes. xxvii; U. Schnelle, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (UTB 2917; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), bes. 36–37. Die grundsätzliche Problematik wird umständlich diskutiert in zwei neuen Sammelwerken: C. Rowland & C. Tuckett (eds.), The Nature of New Testament Theology (FS R. Morgan; Oxford: Blackwell, 2006); C. Breytenbach & J. Frey (Hrsg.), Aufgabe und Durchführung ­einer Theologie des Neuen Testaments (WUNT 205; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007).

Chapter 2: Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos?

39

gerade in Heidelberg zwei synthetische Werke produziert wurden, die sich beide auf Wrede berufen: die Theologiegeschichte des Urchristentums von Klaus Berger und die Religion der ersten Christen von Gerd Theißen. 6 Bergers umfangreiches Werk, das manchen Leser überfordern wird, erschien zuerst;7 hier gilt unsere Aufmerksamkeit Theißens Buch, das eine lebhafte internationale (und auch interdisziplinäre) Diskussion ausgelöst hat.8 Außer der Religion der ersten Christen – die Seitenzahlen in Klammern verweisen auf dieses Werk – habe ich auch spätere Aufsätze und Bücher Theißens zu berücksichtigen versucht. Allerdings können die folgenden Bemerkungen nur ein unvollkommenes Bild der Fülle von Anregungen vermitteln, die ich – und andere – von dieser Lektüre empfangen haben. Theißen will also unter ausdrücklicher Berufung auf Wredes Programm (17– 19 Anm.  1) eine Analyse der urchristlichen Religion bieten, die sich nicht in einem kirchlichen Diskurs bewegt, sondern sich auf das allgemeine Gespräch einlässt und allgemeine religionswissenschaftliche Kategorien verwendet. Er möchte den Gehalt der urchristlichen Religion so darstellen, „dass es für Menschen unabhängig von ihrer religiösen oder nicht-religiösen Einstellung zugänglich wird“. Darin unterscheide sich sein Entwurf von „Theologien des Neuen Testaments“, die eine „christliche Binnenperspektive“ vertreten. Entgegen „postmoderner Mentalität“ ist Theißen überzeugt, dass „wissenschaftliche Kommunikation über die Grenzen der jeweiligen religiösen Position hinaus möglich und notwendig“ – und „auch für Kirche und Christentum selbst sehr wichtig ist“ (13–14). Nun gibt es sicher keinen schroffen, schwarz-weißen Unterschied zwischen Religionswissenschaft und Theologie; zu Recht konstatiert Theißen, dass sie sich „zu mehr als 80 %“ überschneiden.9 Theologie ist durchaus auf Einsichten der Religionswissenschaft angewiesen, geht aber in gewissen Hinsichten über sie hinaus. Theologie sei „die Selbstauslegung eines religiösen Zeichensystems zu dem Zweck, Menschen zum Handeln in ihm zu qualifizieren“. Sie sei „an ein Bekenntnis gebunden“ so dass von Theologen „eine bestimmte religiöse Identität erwartet“ werde. „Theologie fragt nach der Wahrheit der Religion in der 6 K. Berger, Theologiegeschichte des Urchristentums. Theologie des Neuen Testaments (UTB, Grosse Reihe; Tübingen & Basel: Francke, 21995). G. Theißen, Die Religion der ersten Christen. Eine Theorie des Urchristentums (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 22001). 7  Vgl. dazu Räisänen, Beyond, 134–36 (kürzer: Neutestamentliche Theologie?, 54–55). 8 Vgl. u.  a. A. Lindemann, „Zur ‚Religion‘ des Urchristentums“, ThR (2002): 246–61; U. Luz, „Der frühchristliche Christusmythos. Ein Gespräch mit Gerd Theißen zu seinem Verständnis der Religion des Urchristentums“, ThLZ 128 (2003): 1244–58; S. Byrskog, „En teori om urkristen religion. Reflektioner kring Gerd Theißens Bok A Theory of Primitive Christian Religion“, STK 79 (2003): 42–50; id., „Räisänen through Theissen: A Program and a Theory“, in Penner & Vander Stichele (eds.), Moving, 197–220. 9  G. Theißen, „Widersprüche in der urchristlichen Religion. Aporien als Leitfaden einer Theologie des Neuen Testaments“, EvTh 64 (2004): 187–200, bes. 187 Anm.  4.

40

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

Erwartung, sie in einer bestimmten Religion zu finden.“ Dagegen sei Religionswissenschaft Erforschung „aller religiöser Zeichensysteme zu dem Zweck, allen Menschen in der Gesellschaft Wissen für den Umgang mit Religionen zu verschaffen“. Sie ist „an kein Bekenntnis gebunden (auch nicht an ein antireligiöses Bekenntnis)“. Allerdings ist sie „so wenig wertfrei wie andere Geisteswissenschaften“, vielmehr offen für viele Wertorientierungen; sie setzt deshalb „nicht unbedingt religiöse Identität voraus“.10 Mit Die Religion der ersten Christen hat Theißen eine religionswissenschaftliche oder (wie er auch sagt) religionstheoretische11 Beschreibung des Urchristentums vorgelegt. Aber es wäre ganz folgerichtig, wenn er eines Tages darauf eine „Theologie des Neuen Testaments“ folgen ließe, die weitgehend dasselbe Material bearbeiten würde, in der aber ausdrücklich auch die Wahrheit der urchristlichen Religion erörtert und bejaht würde. Aufsätze, die in diese Richtung gehen, hat Theißen bereits geschrieben.12 Während das religionswissenschaftliche Programm an sich „großen Spielraum für verschiedene Konzepte“ lässt, zeichnet sich Theißens Versuch durch eine Verwendung theoretischer Modelle und Annäherung an Religion als „eine normative Lebensmacht“ aus (19 Anm.  1). Aus dem Letzteren folgt, dass Theißen der Entstehung des neutestamentlichen Kanons sowie der Frage nach der Einheit der urchristlichen Religion ein großes Gewicht beilegt. (An beiden Punkten entwickelt er das Programm in eine andere Richtung als der nicht gerade theoriefreundliche und der Autorität des Kanons ganz abholde Wrede es wohl getan hätte.) In meinen Augen sind diese Züge sowohl eine Stärke als auch ein Problem. Sie verleihen dem Werk Kohärenz und Attraktivität. Aber manchmal scheint die Befolgung einer Theorie Theißen zu etwas gekünstelten Interpretationen zu verlocken, z. B. wenn er beim Abendmahl von „symbolischem Kannibalismus“ oder bei der Taufe von „symbolischer Selbsttötung“ spricht (190). Und zweitens wird die Vorstellung der Einheit m. E. durch die Nivellierung von Differenzen erreicht, die Theißen vorher selbst scharf herausgestellt hat. Theißen wählt einen semiotischen Ansatz. Er betrachtet Religion als ein kulturelles Zeichensystem, das sich in Mythos, Ritus und Ethos ausdrückt. Durch Berücksichtigung aller drei Sphären deckt Theißen dankenswerterweise ein weiteres Feld ab als die neutestamentlichen Theologien. Nach diesen drei Kategorien gliedert er sein Buch. Doch auch die zeitliche Entwicklung im Urchris10  G. Theißen, „Theologie und Religionswissenschaft. Gegenseitige Inspiration und Irritation zweier komplementärer Wissenschaften“, NedThT 59 (2005): 124–41, bes. 130. 11  „Widersprüche“, 187 Anm.  4. 12  Vgl. etwa „Widersprüche; Exegese und Wahrheit. Überlegungen zu einer Interpreta­ tions­ethik für die Auslegung der Bibel“, in M. Welker & F. Schweitzer (Hrsg.), Zur Neubestimmung der Grenzen zwischen den theologischen Disziplinen (Münster: LIT, 2005), 81–96; „Theorie der urchristlichen Religion und Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Ein evolutionärer Versuch“, in A. Wagner (Hrsg.), Primäre und sekundäre Religion als Kategorie der Religionsgeschichte des Alten Testaments (BZAW 364; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), 227–48.

Chapter 2: Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos?

41

tentum wird berücksichtigt. Theißen beschreibt, wie aus ursprünglich jüdischen Elementen eine autonome „semiotische Kathedrale“ (wie er sie nennt) errichtet wurde (bes. 385–91). Dabei handelt es sich um farbenreiche, dynamische Prozesse: wie Jesus vergöttlicht wurde (71–98); wie es zum Ende des Opferkults kam (195–200), usw. Angesichts der Tatsache, dass der Prozesscharakter eine so große Rolle spielt, wundert man sich ein wenig, dass Theißen am Ende doch alles in ein System münden lässt, das er eine „Kathedrale“ nennt. In seinem Programm scheint sich in der Tat eine Spannung zwischen der Beschreibung eines dynamischen Prozesses und der eines „objektiven“ Systems zu verbergen. Doch Theißen würde wohl antworten, dass das System aus dem Prozess resultiert, und zwar etwa folgendermaßen: Die ersten Christen hätten für sich mit wachsendem Bewusstsein Autonomie beansprucht: Nach einigen Jahrzehnten waren sie keine bloßen Schismatiker mehr (die sie während der ersten Generation gewesen waren), keine Vertreter mehr eines gescheiterten Versuches, das Judentum zu universalisieren. Dieser Prozess der Bewusstwerdung erreichte seinen Höhepunkt mit dem Johannesevangelium, das nach Theißen als eine Synthese der Visionen des Paulus und der synoptischen Evangelien angesehen werden kann. Erst mit Johannes sei sich das urchristliche Zeichensystem seiner vollkommenen Autonomie bewusst geworden; der ganze Inhalt der neuen Religion wurde jetzt von ihrem Verhältnis zum Erlöser beherrscht, der sich selbst zum Inhalt der Botschaft machte. Er hatte die absolute Wahrheit gebracht. Auf diese Weise brachten die ersten Christen das Bewusstsein zum Ausdruck, dass sie die endgültige Wahrheit vertraten. Die Scheidung vom Judentum war endgültig, da die Christen jetzt eine zweite Gestalt neben dem einen Gott anbeteten (225–80). Bei dieser Gesamtschau fällt auf, eine wie große Rolle dem Johannesevangelium zugeschrieben wird. Ist das vierte Evangelium aber nicht vielmehr als eine gewaltige (oder gar gewaltsame) Neuinterpretation anzusehen, die außerhalb des eigenen „johanneischen Gemeindeverbandes“, das „ein distanziertes Eigenleben“ führte, für lange Zeit kaum zur Kenntnis genommen wurde?13 Sollte es nicht eher als ein kühner Einzelgänger denn als eine Synthese früherer Interpretationen eingestuft werden? Für spätere kirchliche Theologen sollte Johannes in der Tat ausschlaggebend werden, aber das ist m. E. schon eine andere Geschichte. Theißen betont selbst, dass das Urchristentum als „ein brodelndes Chaos“ vieler Gruppen erscheint. Es bestand aus einer „Pluralität von Strömungen“, von denen jede „in sehr eigenwilliger Weise“ an der gemeinsamen Kathedrale 13  J. Becker, „Das Verhältnis des johanneischen Kreises zum Paulinismus: Anregungen zur Belebung einer Diskussion“, in D. Sänger & U. Mell (Hrsg.), Paulus und Johannes. Exegetische Studien zur paulinischen und johanneischen Theologie und Literatur (WUNT 198; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 473–95, bes. 484–85.

42

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

weiterbaute (389; Hervorhebung von mir). Doch wie können viele Gruppen (gleichzeitig!) je eigenwillig eine Kathedrale bauen? Wäre das nicht der Alptraum jedes Bauherrn? Trotzdem meint Theißen zugleich, es handle sich, zumindest für die religionstheoretische Betrachtung, um ein „sich selbst organisierendes Zeichensystem“ (410; Hervorhebung von mir)! Hinter der Pluralität sei nämlich eine Einheit verborgen. Denn allen Gruppen seien zwei „Grundaxiome“ (Monotheismus und Glaube an Jesus als Erlöser) und eine Reihe von (elf) „Grundmotiven“ gemeinsam gewesen, die die „Grammatik“ des neuen Zeichensystems bildeten (368–81). Allein diese Einheit mache dann die Entstehung des Kanons verständlich. Theißen meint, dass „es eine bewusste Entscheidung war“, neben die Septuaginta noch weitere Schriften zu stellen. „In, mit und durch die Kanonbildung muss sich ein Konsens über das gefestigt haben, was im normativen Sinne ‚christlich‘ ist“ (341). Dabei sieht Theißen jedoch die Kanonbildung auch als ein bewusstes „Bekenntnis zur Pluralität“ an (356). Die Frage ist: Kann man beides zugleich haben? Kann man die Pluralität und die Normativität, das Chaos und die Kathedrale, zusammenhalten? Es scheint mir, als befänden sich der analytische Religionshistoriker Theißen und der systematisierende Theoretiker Theißen (dem mehr als ein Hauch von einem Theologen anhaftet) in einer Spannung zueinander.14 Die beiden sind denn auch unterschiedlich rezipiert worden: Einige Benutzer von Theißens oeuvre bevorzugen den Analytiker, der Chaos sieht; andere den Systematiker, der aus dem Chaos eine Kathedrale hervorzaubert und die Bedeutung des normativen Kanons betont. Mich selbst zieht der Analytiker an; andere mögen anders entscheiden. Ich werde auf die Rezeption noch zurückkommen.

3. Probleme Das von Theißen eruierte System wirft einige Probleme auf. Wieviel innere Einheit gab es wirklich? Schon das gegenseitige Verhältnis der beiden Grundaxiome, Monotheismus und Christusglaube, erwies sich den frühen Christen ja als ein dauerndes Problem. Wenn Theißen ferner die elf Grundmotive, den „inneren Kanon im Kanon“, herausarbeitet, geht er zu einer recht abstrakten Ebene über. Nur so kann er in das Chaos systemische Ordnung bringen. Die Grundmotive sind: Schöpfung, Weisheit, Wunder, Entfremdung, Erneuerung, Stellvertretung, Einwohnung, Glaube, Agape, Positionswechsel, Gericht (371–380). Bei deren Vorstellung operiert Theißen mit Assimilationen und Harmonisie14  Vgl. R. Uro, „Rezension von Theißen, Religion“, TAik 108 (2003): 83–85, 85: „Bei der Konstruktion der Grammatik des urchristlichen Glaubens rückt Theißen mehr in die Nähe von systematischer Theologie und Religionsphilosophie. Es entsteht ein fertiges Kirchengebäude, dessen verwickelte Entstehungsgeschichte am Ende in den Hintergrund verschoben wird“ (meine Übersetzung aus dem Finnischen).

Chapter 2: Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos?

43

rungen. Zum Beispiel heißt es beim „Erneuerungsmotiv“, dass sich das Bewusstsein eines eschatologischen Übergangs als Naherwartung und als präsentische Eschatologie äußern konnte. Die die konkreten „letzten Dinge“ aufzählende synoptische Apokalypse (Mk. 13) sowie die Apk. werden dabei im gleichen Atemzug mit solchen Äußerungen zitiert, nach denen Christen schon jetzt vom Tod ins Leben hinübergegangen sind (Joh. 5.24) oder in einen anderen Seinsbereich, in den Himmel, versetzt worden sind (Eph. 2.1ff; S.  375). Insgesamt gibt Theißen der Naherwartung praktisch wenig Gewicht, obwohl er selbst hervorhebt, dass Jesus im Endzeitmythus lebte, und Theißen sich der „eschatologischen Hochspannung“ in der Mission Jesu voll bewusst ist (181). Theißen beobachtet, dass Jesus den Armen irdische Macht verhieß und dass diese Verheißung lange nachwirkte (128–29), problematisiert aber nicht die bald einsetzende Spiritualisierung dieser Hoffnung. Was für einige Interpreten als Kampf zwischen einer irdischen Hoffnung und ihrer Spiritualisierung erscheint,15 wird von Theißen zu ein und demselben Motiv von „Erneuerung“ verschmolzen. Theißen findet im Urchristentum einen „erstaunlichen Konsens“. Die Theologien waren zwar inhaltlich sehr verschieden, wurden aber durch „formale Grundüberzeugungen verbunden“, so dass „ein Bewusstsein der Zusammengehörigkeit quer durch verschiedene Strömungen“ entstehen konnte (405) und etwa „ein durch die synoptische Theologie geprägter Christ sich auch in einer paulinischen Gemeinde zu Hause fühlen konnte“ (368). Aber ist es so sicher, dass er oder sie es wirklich konnte? Nach dem Zeugnis des Galaterbriefes fühlten sich die „Leute von Jakobus“ nicht allzu wohl in Antiochia, und auch Petrus hatte da seine Probleme (Gal. 2.11–14). Gerade nach Theißens eigener Auslegung (an einem anderen Ort) richtet das Matthäusevangelium „kräftige Hiebe“ gegen Paulus.16 Und der Seher Johannes von Patmos, ein Christ der wohl nicht weit von einer synoptischen Theologie (oder vom Ethos der Wandercharismatiker) entfernt war,17 war schlechthin erschrocken in einem Milieu, wo die sogenannten Nikolaiten in paulinischem Geist den Genuss des Opferfleisches für ein Adiaphoron hielten!18 Darüber hinaus kann man bezweifeln, ob die Kanonbildung wirklich als ein „Bekenntnis zur Pluralität“ intendiert war – etwa so, dass „die untergründige Aggressivität“ der Apk. gegen das Römische Reich „durch eine ebenso dezidier15  Siehe vor allem C. Rowland, Christian Origins: An Account of the Setting and Character of the Most Important Messianic Sect of Judaism (London: SPCK, 22002); vgl. dazu Räisänen, Beyond, 108–9 (Neutestamentliche Theologie?, 36–37). 16  G. Theißen, „Kirche oder Sekte?“, ThG 48 (2005): 126–75, 170–72. 17  Vgl. H.-J. Klauck, „Das Sendschreiben nach Pergamon und der Kaiserkult in der Johannesoffenbarung“, Bib 73 (1992): 153–82, bes. 179–80. 18  Siehe zu den Nikolaiten Klauck, „Sendschreiben“, 164–70; H. Räisänen, „The Nicolaitans: Apoc 2; Acta 6“, ANRW II.26.2 (1995), 1602–44; abgedruckt in id., Challenges to Biblical Interpretation (BINS 59; Leiden et al.: Brill, 2001), 141–89.

44

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

te Verpflichtung zur Staatsloyalität“ in Röm. 13 „in Schach gehalten werden“ sollte (131), oder dass die katholischen Briefe bewusst als ein Gegengewicht gegen Paulus dienen sollten (366). Es wird sinnvoll sein, den neutestamentlichen Kanon in den heutigen Kirchen auf diese Weise ökumenisch friedenstiftend wirken zu lassen – etwa den Jakobusbrief mit Theißen als „einen notwendigen Ausgleich“ zu „den polemisch verzerrten Aussagen des Paulus über seine judenchristlichen Gegner“19 zu verstehen – aber im Blick auf das zweite Jahrhundert wirkt eine solche Lektüre eher anachronistisch. Statt eines Bekenntnisses zur Pluralität würde ich im Gegenteil von einem Bekenntnis zur oder gar von einem Zwang nach Einmütigkeit sprechen: die katholischen Briefe (oder die Apg.) etwa sollen zeigen, dass Petrus und Paulus immer einer Meinung waren. Theißen notiert an anderem Ort selbst, dass die späteren Briefe „von vornherein Ergänzung, Kommentar und Leseanleitung“ etwa für die Paulusbriefe sind; „sie wollen, dass in ihrem Lichte die ältere Literatur gelesen wird“20 (wobei etwa der 2. Petr. die paulinische Naherwartung auf den Kopf stelle21). Ob ein solches Unternehmen der Anerkennung einer wirklichen Pluralität dient, kann bezweifelt werden. Nach A. J. M. Wedderburn hat die Kanonbildung eben dies zur Folge, dass die Einheit aller Strömungen behauptet wird (trotz der in den Schriften selbst dokumentierten bitteren Streitigkeiten); dieser hermeneutische Schritt soll uns davon abhalten, aus den verschiedenen Stimmen der kanonisierten Schriften irgendwelche Disharmonie herauszuhören.22 Die Apg. hat hier den Grund gelegt, auf dem die Kirchenväter mit ihren Harmonisierungsversuchen weiterbauen konnten, die etwa den verrufenen Konflikt zwischen Paulus und Petrus in Antiochia auf alle möglichen und unmöglichen Weisen weg zu erklären suchten.23 Auch die Widersprüche zwischen den Evangelien, auch in anscheinend unwichtigen Einzelheiten, haben den nächsten Generationen viel

19  G. Theißen, Die Entstehung des Neuen Testaments als literaturgeschichtliches Problem (SHAWPH 40; Heidelberg: Winter, 2007), 176–77. 20  Ibid., 174 Anm.  21; Hervorhebung von mir. 21  Ibid., 178. 22  A. J. M. Wedderburn, A History of the First Christians (London & New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 168. Vgl. F. Wisse, „The Use of Early Christian Literature as Evidence for Inner Diversity and Conflict“, in C.W. Hedrick & R. Hodgson (eds.), Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism, and Early Christianity: Fourteen Leading Scholars Discuss the Current Issues in Gnostic Studies (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1986), 177–90, 180: „It is very modern to look at diversity as something positive [...] In contrast, ancient Christian historians from the author of Acts to Eusebius tended to explain diversity in terms of truth and falsehood; change was seen as falsification and conflict as instigated by demonic forces. Insofar as they were aware of diversity in the primitive church they would try to ignore it, make it look innocuous, or exploit it for their own partisan purposes.“ 23  Siehe z. B. den Exkurs bei F. Mußner, Der Galaterbrief (HTKNT 9; Freiburg et al.: Herder, 41981), 146–67.

Chapter 2: Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos?

45

Kopfzerbrechen bereitet. Statt die Pluralität gelten zu lassen, haben die Kirchenväter sich energisch um Harmonisierung bemüht.24 Theißen legt sehr viel Gewicht auf den Kanon als einen konsens-stiftenden Faktor. Man könnte ihm aber erwidern, dass die Rolle des Kanons vielleicht gar nicht so ausschlaggebend war. Denn auf den Kanon beriefen sich schließlich alle, auch die gnostisch eingestellten Christen, die ja gerade das für Theißens Interpretation so zentrale Johannesevangelium besonders gern hatten; später haben z. B. die Arier vom Kanon der Bibel viel Gebrauch gemacht und sich auch besonders bibelkundig erwiesen.25 Es kam darauf an, was man aus dem Kanon herauslas. In viel höherem Maße hat wohl die regula fidei, die „Glaubensregel“, die Entwicklung bestimmt, 26 die kaum zum Pluralismus neigt (und von Theißen kaum notiert wird). Schließlich erscheint paradoxerweise die Nicht-Aufnahme der judenchristlichen Evangelien und des Thomasevangeliums in den Kanon im Lichte von Theißens Liste der Grundmotive willkürlich, worauf er selbst aufmerksam macht. Bei den judenchristlichen Evangelien können wir „ahnen“, dass uns hier „die Stimmen eines sehr beeindruckenden Christentums verloren gegangen sind, das nicht weniger wertvoll war als das dem Judentum nahestehende Christentum im Jakobusbrief oder im Matthäusevangelium“ (383). Aber das Christentum mancher dieser Judenchristen war adoptianistisch geprägt (Jesus war ihnen ein Mann, der bei seiner Taufe mit himmlischen Kräften ausgerüstet und in einem bildlichen Sinne zum „Sohn Gottes“ wurde), weshalb ihm von der „rechtgläubigen“ Kirche vom zweiten Jahrhundert an heftig widersprochen wurde. Offenbar empfanden die Rechtgläubigen nicht, dass die „Ebioniten“ mit ihnen die entscheidende Glaubensgrundlage teilten. Theißen bemerkt ferner, dass nach seiner Grammatik des urchristlichen Glaubens auch das Thomasevangelium gar nicht häretisch war. Mit seiner Nicht-Aufnahme in den Kanon „ging eine wertvolle Variante urchristlichen Glaubens verloren: eine individuelle urchristliche Mystik“, gekennzeichnet durch einen radikalen Individualismus, für den die Erkenntnis der Gottesherrschaft Erkenntnis des Selbst ist. Dabei hätte es nach Theißen durchaus „der in der Kanonbildung erkennbaren Tendenz zur Anerkennung einer inneren Pluralität“ entsprochen, auch eine solche Stimme aufzunehmen (383–84). Diese (mir sehr sympathische) Einschätzung entspricht der Grundanschauung Theißens, bedeutet aber, dass man etwa im Thomasevangelium und in der Apk. ein und 24  H. Merkel, Widersprüche zwischen den Evangelien. Ihre polemische und apologetische Behandlung in der Alten Kirche bis zu Augustin (WUNT 13; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1971). 25  Vgl. F. M. Young, From Nicaea to Chalcedon. A Guide to the Literature and Its Back­ ground (London: SCM, 1983), 58–64. 26  Vgl. dazu etwa J. Ulrich, „Selbstbehauptung und Inkulturation in feindlicher Umwelt. Von den Apologeten bis zur ‚Konstantinischen Wende‘ 1. Theologische Entwicklungen“, in D. Zeller (Hrsg.), Christentum I. Von den Anfängen bis zur Konstantinischen Wende (RM 28; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2002), 223–462, bes. 231–33.

46

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

dasselbe Grundmotiv (das Motiv der Erneuerung) erkennen müsste. Ein System, das diese beiden Schriften einbezieht (und dabei dem Anliegen beider gerecht wird), kann ich mir schlecht vorstellen. Theißen bemerkt anhand des Thomasevangeliums, dass die „individualistische und mystische Frömmigkeit nicht im Sinne des institutionell sich festigenden Frühkatholizismus war“, während seine Theorie der urchristlichen Religion hier „einen verloren gegangenen Reichtum rekonstruieren“ und legitimieren kann (384). Also weiß Theißen letztlich besser als sein normatives „kanonisches Urchristentum“ (367), wo die frühen Christen die Grenzlinie hätten ziehen müssen: Es hätte „der in der Kanonbildung erkennbaren Tendenz zur Anerkennung einer inneren Pluralität [...] durchaus entsprochen, auch eine Stimme individualistischer Mystik in das Konzert der kanonischen Schriften aufzunehmen“ (384). Vielleicht – wenn es wirklich die Absicht der frühen Christen war, die Pluralität anzuerkennen. Dass sie die mystische Stimme eben nicht aufnahmen, könnte in eine andere Richtung weisen.

4. Das Bild der „Kathedrale“ Kehren wir zum Bild der „Kathedrale“ zurück. Ulrich Luz bemerkte in einem früheren Festvortrag, dass in die Metapher eine Wertung mit eingeflossen zu sein scheint, „welche dem Standort der späteren Kirche entspricht“.27 Die Metapher sei „suggestiv und verführerisch“, denn „Kathedralen haben für den vordergründigen Betrachter einerseits etwas Schönes und Erhebendes, andererseits etwas merkwürdig Zeitloses an sich“.28 Ich nehme mir die Freiheit, mit Ihnen kleine Erfahrungen aus dem finnischen Milieu zu teilen, die mit dem Kathedralenbild und auch mit der Rezeption von Theißens Werk zu tun haben.29 Ich wurde nämlich schon früher einmal mit der Metapher „Kathedrale“ konfrontiert, und zwar in einer Debatte über die Autorität der Bibel in den 80er Jahren in Finnland. Ich hatte die Vielfalt der neutestamentlichen Glaubensauffassungen besprochen und den Wunsch geäußert, dass auch die Kirche daraus irgendwie pluralistische Folgerungen ziehen könnte. Darauf reagierte der Lutherforscher Tuomo Mannermaa, der die Gedankenwelt der (gesamten!) Bibel eben mit „einer aus Stein gebauten mittelalterlichen Kathedrale“ verglich. Ihre tragenden Strukturen bestünden aus heilsgeschichtlichen Ereignissen (wie die Durchquerung des Roten Meeres oder die Auferstehung Jesu). Werden diese Strukturen gebrochen, stürzt das Gebäude zusammen; die Kathedrale wird zu 27 

Luz, „Christusmythos“, 1245. Ibid., 1245 Anm.  8. 29  Dies auch als ein Gruß von der finnischen Forschungseinheit „Formation of Early Jewish and Christian Ideology“, als deren Berater Gerd Theißen in den Jahren 2000–2005 in sehr hilfreicher Weise tätig war. 28 

Chapter 2: Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos?

47

einer Ruine, zu einem bloßen Steinhaufen.30 Beispielsweise die Auffassung, dass verschiedene im Neuen Testament bezeugte Auslegungen des Gottessohntitels sich wirklich widersprechen,31 bedeute, dass die „Glaubenswelt der Bibel“ für gar nicht „strukturiert“ gehalten wird.32 Ich erwiderte mit einem anderen Bild: Das Neue Testament gleiche weder einer Kathedrale noch einem Steinhaufen; man könnte sich vorstellen, dass es aus einer Anzahl kleiner Kapellen besteht. Diese seien durchaus „strukturiert“, aber nicht nach einem und demselben Modell. Sie haben ein gemeinsames Grundelement, etwa einen Altar, aber sonst haben die Erbauer große Freiheit walten lassen. Die „Kathedrale“ entstand erst später, als die Kapellen – oder einige davon – als Nebenraum in einen neuen Tempel transportiert wurden, dessen Material zum großen Teil anderswoher stammt; offensichtlich dachte ich dabei, dass das Bild der Kathedrale erst für die kirchliche Lehre der konstantinischen Zeit wirklich passt. Das Hauptschiff dieser spät errichteten Kathedrale gleicht in vielem der Johannes-Kapelle, die ihr teilweise als Modell gedient hat. Die allerälteste (judenchristliche) Kapelle dagegen wurde für morsch befunden und gar nicht in die Kathedrale aufgenommen.33 Dieses Bild, die frühchristliche Gedankenwelt als eine Reihe von Kapellen mit je eigener Architektur, könnte ich auch heute der Metapher „Kathedrale“ bei Theißen entgegenstellen. Allerdings könnte der von Luz vorgeschlagene Vergleich noch geeigneter sein; er meint, dass das Urchristentum keine semiotische Kathedrale war, „sondern bildlich gesprochen eher eine Baustelle, ein in Ausführung begriffenes Umbau- und Neubauprojekt“, das nie abgeschlossen wurde.34 Meine Debatte mit Mannermaa wurde nun aber im Jahre 2002 von einem Mannermaa-Schüler, Dr Sammeli Juntunen, in einer Streitschrift über den Zustand der Kirche wieder aufgenommen – und hier kommt auch Gerd Theißen ins Bild. Unter Berufung auf Mannermaa wiederholt Juntunen die Kritik an solche theologische Konzepte, die aus der biblischen Kathedrale eine Steinruine machen sollen. Die Ruinentheorie, die auf dem Verständnis des Neuen Testaments als einer uneinheitlichen Sammlung basiert, übe einen großen Einfluss etwa auf die lutherische Kirche Finnlands aus.35 Dieser als „destruktiv“ emp30  T. Mannermaa, „Eksegetiikka ja raamattuteologia“ (Exegese und Bibeltheologie), TAik 90 (1985): 479–90, bes. 486. 31  Es handelt sich um den Gegensatz zwischen der besonders in Röm. 1.3–4 und in den Reden der Apg. (2.22–36; 3.13–15; 13.26–33) dokumentierten „adoptianistischen“ Christologie auf der einen und der vor allem im Johannesevangelium prominent vorkommenden Präexistenzchristologie auf der anderen Seite. 32  Mannermaa, „Eksegetiikka“, 489. 33 H. Räisänen, „Katedraali vai kiviraunio?“, (Kathedrale oder Steinruine?), TAik 91 (1986): 193–204, bes. 203. 34  Luz, „Christusmythos“, 1245. 35  S. Juntunen, Horjuuko kirkon kivijalka? (Wackelt der Sockel der Kirche?), (Helsinki: Kirjapaja, 2002), bes. 30–48.

48

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

fundenen Sicht will Juntunen „eine abweichende Auffassung“ entgegensetzen, und so verweist er auf Theißens Buch, wo die Gedankenwelt des Neuen Testaments als ein selbständiges, von innen her organisiertes Zeichensystem gelte; als zentrale Elemente des Systems werden das „Wirken Gottes in der Heilsgeschichte“36 und der Monotheismus genannt. Juntunen betont, dass Theißen dieses Zeichensystem mit einer semiotischen Kathedrale vergleicht und weist darauf hin, dass Mannermaa schon früher ein ähnliches Bild gebraucht hatte.37 Gegen meine Auffassung, der zufolge die Bibel menschliche Erfahrungen ihrer Verfasser zum Ausdruck bringe, beruft sich Juntunen auf das „eigene Selbstverständnis der Bibel“, nach dem die Texte von Gottes besonderen Heilstaten in der Geschichte zeugen; ihre Zuschreibung menschlicher Erfahrung zerbreche die wichtigste Stütze der „von Mannermaa und Theißen beabsichtigten Bibel-Kathedrale“.38 Die These von widersprüchlichen Christologien im Neuen Testament wird durch die Bemerkung verharmlost, dass Theißen „die während der Zeit des Neuen Testaments stattgefundene gesteigerte Betonung der Göttlichkeit Jesu für eine ungezwungene innere Entwicklung der urchristlichen Religion“ halte.39 Theißen wird so gelesen, als ob er nicht nur die Auferstehung Jesu, sondern etwa auch den alttestamentlichen Exodus aus Ägypten für unerschütterliche geschichtliche Tatsachen und als solche für Grundpfeiler der Kathedrale hielte.40 Theißens Zeichnung der Kathedrale wird aufgenommen und als Stütze für die Einheit nicht nur der neutestamentlichen sondern sogar der gesamtbiblischen Glaubenswelt zitiert, wobei das von Theißen vorerst entworfene Bild des Chaos unter der Hand vergessen wird. Das „suggestive und verführerische“ Bild der Kathedrale (Luz) feiert hier seinen Siegeszug, allerdings nicht unbedingt in Übereinstimmung mit den Intentionen seines Urhebers. In einem im Jahre 2004 erschienenen Aufsatz betont Theißen selbst eben die „Widersprüche in der urchristlichen Religion“. Man könne eine Religion, auch die urchristliche Religion, „auch durch ihre Widersprüche charakterisieren, so wie ein Mensch an seinen Widersprüchen erkennbar wird. Widersprüche sind etwas Menschliches. Suchen wir nach den Widersprüchen einer Religion, so betrachten wir sie als etwas, das menschlich und nicht perfekt ist. Damit wird sie nicht abgewertet.“41 Dann kommt eine Über36 Juntunen, ibid., 37. Hier wird auf die „heilsgeschichtliche Story“ hingewiesen, die Theißen, Religion, 22 nennt; vgl. aber die nähere Bestimmung bei Theißen, ibid., 39 Anm.  17: „Der Begriff der ‚Story‘ umfasst alles: Mythisches, Fiktives und Historisches im engeren Sinne.“ 37 Juntunen, Kivijalka, 36 versäumt es nicht zu nennen, dass Theißen Berater der oben in Anm.  29 erwähnten, von mir geleiteten Forschungseinheit war; offensichtlich möchte er Theißen gegen mich und andere als „liberal“ geltende Teilnehmer des Projektes ausspielen. 38 Juntunen, ibid., 38–39; Hervorhebung von mir. 39  Ibid., 42 unter Verweis auf Theißen, Religion, 71–98. 40  Vgl. dagegen Theißen, „Widersprüche“, 188: die biblische „Bindung an die Geschichte macht das Christentum in moderner Zeit verletztlich“. 41 Theißen, ibid., 187.

Chapter 2: Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos?

49

raschung: „Wir betrachten sie eher als eine Kathedrale, die nicht aus Steinen, sondern Zeichen erbaut wurde. Jeder, der die Baugeschichte unserer Kathedralen kennt, weiß, wie viele Widersprüche im Laufe der Jahrhunderte in sie hineingebaut wurden. Er weiß, dass sie durch und durch menschliche Produkte sind. Dennoch dienen sie der Verehrung Gottes.“42 Hier scheint Theißen denjenigen seiner Verehrer den Boden unter den Füßen zu entziehen, die von der menschlichen Widersprüchlichkeit des Neuen Testaments nicht viel wissen wollen. Aber zugleich scheint er in seiner eigenen Metaphorik Verwirrung zu schaffen. Bisher wurde das Bild der Kathedrale gebraucht, um die hinter der Vielfalt existierende Einheit der urchristlichen Glaubenswelt zu betonen; jetzt soll es die Aufmerksamkeit auf ihre Widersprüchlichkeit lenken. Ich werde den Eindruck nicht los, dass die Metapher „Kathedrale“ leicht irreführend wird. Das finnische Beispiel zeigt mir, dass Vertreter einer relativ konservativen kirchlichen Theologie auf Theißens Werk solche Hoffnungen setzen können, die bei näherem Hinsehen enttäuscht werden müssen. Ähnliches ließe sich für seine Betonung der Bedeutung des Kanons zeigen; doch darauf kann ich hier nicht mehr eingehen. Ich will nicht verschweigen, dass sich auf der Gegenseite in der Debatte über die Bibel ebenfalls auf Theißen berufen wird. In einem Artikel über „Das Neue Testament in der Theologie“ aus den 90er Jahren machte ich (wieder einmal) auf die kontradiktorische Vielfalt im Neuen Testament aufmerksam und zwar unter Hinweis auf Theißens früheres Buch Argumente für einen kritischen Glauben, wo er schreibt: „Historisch-kritische Wissenschaft [...] zeigt, dass die religiösen Traditionen von Menschen gemacht wurden, dass geschichtlich alles mit allem zusammenhängt, dass das Christentum eine etwas groß geratene Häresie des Judentums war und das Judentum eine herausragende Erscheinung der orientalischen Religionsgeschichte, m.a.W. dass es nichts völlig Isoliertes gibt.“ „Kurz, historisch-kritische Forschung zeigt [...] dass religiöse Überlieferungen sehr irdisch, sehr relativ, sehr fragwürdig sind. Hinter diese Erkenntnis führt kein Weg zurück.“43 Ich sehe nicht (lasse mich, wenn nötig, aber gern eines Besseren belehren), dass Theißen diese vor dreißig Jahren geschriebenen Sätze in seiner neueren Produktion, möglichen neuen Akzentsetzungen zum Trotz, zurückgenommen hätte; aber die Frage bleibt, wie sich jene Aussagen des Historikers Theißen zu denjenigen des Systematikers Theißen verhalten. Etwas zugespitzt könnte man sagen: Theißens Produktion genießt ein so großes (fast quasi-kanonisches) Ansehen, dass sowohl konservative als auch radikalere Theologen so42 

Ibid.; Hervorhebung von mir. G. Theißen, Argumente für einen kritischen Glauben oder: Was hält der Religionskritik stand? (Kaiser-Taschenbücher 36; München: Kaiser, 31988), 3–4. Zitiert von H. Räisänen, „The New Testament in Theology“, in P. Byrne & L. Houlden (eds.), Companion Encyclopedia of Theology (London & New York: Routledge, 1995), 121–41, esp. p.  125; abgedruckt in Räisänen, Challenges, 230. 43 

50

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

gar in der äußersten Peripherie des Nordens sich auf ihn berufen und darüber streiten, auf wessen Seite er wirklich steht.

5. Fazit Was ich hier versucht habe, lässt sich vielleicht mit einem Satz Theißens beschreiben – in leicht abgewandelter Form, wobei das von ihm gebrauchte Wort „Religion“ durch „Buch“ ersetzt wird: „Man kann ein [Buch] auch durch seine Widersprüche charakterisieren, so wie ein Mensch an seinen Widersprüchen erkennbar wird.“44 Es ist ein großes Verdienst, dass Theißen in seinem einschlägigen Buch die urchristliche Religion im Rahmen allgemeiner Theorien behandelt, die auch auf jede andere Religion angewendet werden können. Lobenswert ist auch, dass er sich auf den Entwurf großer Linien beschränkt, ohne dabei oberflächlich zu werden. Die Wahl eines semiotischen Deutungsmodells mag die Gefahr eines (milden) Systemzwangs mit sich bringen; die Spannung zwischen der Analyse, die Chaos entdeckt, und der Synthese, die eine Kathedrale errichtet, bleibt für einige Leser ein ungelöstes Problem. Aber auch der Zweifler wird bei dem Besuch eines solchen Bauwerkes – oder an der Baustelle – eine große Anzahl von faszinierenden Interpretationen und brillanten Einsichten entdecken. Dafür sei dem Architekten herzlich gedankt.

44 

Vgl. Theißen, „Widersprüche“, 187.

Chapter 3

Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom? 1. The Problem In his classic study of Paul’s mysticism, Albert Schweitzer claimed that Paul taught a doctrine of two successive resurrections; between them, a transitional messianic kingdom was to be established on the earth. Combining the scenarios in 1 Thessalonians 4 and 1 Corinthians 15, he produced the following overall picture.1 When Jesus returns, the deceased believers will be resurrected and those alive transformed. Together they will meet the Lord, bring him to the earth and remain with him. Christ (or God) will execute a provisional judgment. Nature will be transformed into an imperishable state (Rom. 8). Yet far from being a reign of peace, this messianic kingdom will be characterised by a battle against the inimical angelic powers, to be conquered, one by one, by Christ and his faithful. When (personified) Death has been overcome as the last of the enemies, a general resurrection becomes possible. The messianic kingdom now ends, and the final judgment takes place. It is not mentioned in 1 Corinthians 15, but Schweitzer thinks that it is self-evidently implied in the telos (1 Cor. 15.24). When Christ returns his power to God, world history comes to an end. Still, the ensuing eternal bliss is not of a purely spiritual nature; it will be enjoyed by the faithful in transformed bodies. Schweitzer does not specify where Paul, in his view, thought the eternal life to take place, whether still on the (transformed) earth, or in the beyond. Schweitzer was not alone in thinking that 1 Corinthians 15 presupposes a transitional millennium on earth.2 He shared this view, for instance, with Johannes Weiss, though Weiss’s nuanced discussion lacks Schweitzer’s confident dogmatism.3 Where Schweitzer posits a carefully thought-out doctrine, Weiss admits that there are great difficulties in finding out what Paul really thought

1 

A. Schweitzer, Die Mystik des Apostels Paulus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1954), 67–69. a list of early representatives of this view see C. E. Hill, ‘Paul’s Understanding of Christ’s Kingdom in 1 Corinthians 15:20–28’, NovT 30 (1988): 297–320, esp. p.  298 n.  2. 3 J. Weiss, Erster Korintherbrief (KEK 5; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910), 357–62; idem, Earliest Christianity. Vol. 2 (completed by R. Knopf; New York: Harper, 1959), 526–45. 2  For

52

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

and what really mattered to him.4 In his posthumous work on early Christianity, Weiss is content with stating that Paul ‘perhaps’ assumes a transitional kingdom,5 but he goes on to suggest that Paul came (in Philippians) close to developing a quite different theory, assuming that dead believers go straight to heaven. 6 The millenarian reading has met with criticism,7 and for a time it seemed largely abandoned. Recently, however, millenarian interpretations of Paul’s eschatology have been put forward by prominent Pauline scholars, notably by Peter Stuhlmacher and E. P. Sanders, despite their very different overall approaches to the theology of the apostle. For Stuhlmacher, the only way to harmonise Paul’s eschatological statements8 is to posit that he accepted the notion of a messianic time of salvation, distinct from the final state of bliss. Paul may have thought (like the seer of Revelation – and even Jesus!9) that the parousia will be followed by the resurrection of the believers and the beginning of their being ‘with Christ’, as well as the definitive formation of the messianic community from Gentiles and Jews (Rom. 11.25– 32). Only after this phase will the general resurrection and the final judgment take place.10 Stuhlmacher seems to connect the redemption of the creation (Rom. 8) with both phases,11 so that apparently eternal life would be lived in a transformed world, not in heaven. Sanders refers to Paul’s eschatology in his repeated discussions of Jesus’ proclamation of the (earthly) kingdom. In 1985 he still held that Paul, unlike Jesus, thought that the redemption would take place ‘in the air’ (1 Thess. 4); ‘the cos4  Thus, the talk of ruling and judging leaves ‘the impression that these representations are traditional material to some extent grown lifeless, with which Paul is with difficulty combining a conception that is clear and vital.’ Earliest Christianity II, 529. 5  Earliest Christianity II, 532. 6  Earliest Christianity II, 537. 7  In particular in a widely cited monograph by H.-A.Wilcke, Das Problem eines messianischen Zwischenreichs bei Paulus (AThANT 51; Zürich: Zwingli Verlag, 1967) (non vidi). 8  To be sure, Paul’s unsystematic terminology and way of setting forth his thoughts puts us, according to Stuhlmacher, before an almost insoluble problem of interpretation. Nevertheless he claims that, as Paul can write to the Thessalonians that they ‘know exactly’ what to expect (1 Thess. 5.2), he must have given them (and others) thorough oral instruction. P. Stuhl­ macher, Biblische Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Vol. 1: Grundlegung: Von Jesus zu Paulus, (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992), 308. By contrast, L. J. Kreitzer, Jesus and God in Paul’s Eschatology (JSNTSup, 19; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1987), 147 emphasises that Paul’s eschatological thought fluctuates; precisely because Paul is not consistent, a millenarian exposition of 1 Cor. 15.20–28 is justified (cf. 239–40 n.  58), though this one section is thereby ‘rendered inconsistent with virtually all other major eschatological sections of Paul’s epistles.’ Cf. below, 55 n.  29. 9 Cf. P. Stuhlmacher, Biblische Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Vol. 2: Von der Paulusschule bis zur Johannesoffenbarung, der Kanon und seine Auslegung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), 219. 10 Stuhlmacher, Theologie I, 308–9. 11  See Stuhlmacher, Theologie I, 271–73, and idem, Der Brief an die Römer (NTD 6; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 122.

Chapter 3: Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?

53

mic and spiritual nature’ of his expectation likewise seemed clear in 1 Cor. 15.20–28.12 But a few years later Sanders, writing with Margaret Davies, had revised his view: Paul too ‘expected a kingdom to be created on a renewed and transformed earth.’13 ‘Those in Christ’ would meet the returning Lord in the air (1 Thess. 4), ‘but probably only to accompany him down to the earth.’14 Romans 8 shows that ‘Paul expected the entire physical universe to be transformed.’15 Nevertheless, ‘1 Corinthians 15.24 f. points towards a final dissolution of the world: after Christ has reigned for a while, and destroyed all enemies, he will hand the kingdom over to God.’ Sanders thus accepts the classic millenarian view: there will (according to Paul and many others16) be a temporary messianic reign on the earth, followed by the final consummation in another sphere. Ben Witherington shares the view that Paul expects a bodily eternal life in a kingdom on the earth, but contends that this kingdom is not transitional (nor is it imminent, for that matter).17 Paul, like Jesus, envisages the ultimate future βασιλεία as a realm upon the earth, though it has certain heavenly qualities too (e.g. resurrection bodies are required).18 Romans 8.19–25 posits the renewal of the whole material creation.19 Witherington believes that it is crucial for Christian faith even today to maintain this eschatological framework; otherwise the problem of theodicy cannot be solved.20 N. T. Wright likewise claims that 1 Cor. 15.20–28 and Rom. 8.18–27 speak of ‘a renewed world order.’ ‘New, bodily human beings will require a new world in which to live.’21 We thus have three versions of the earthly kingdom to be established in the parousia: (1) a temporary kingdom on the earth, to be followed by the dissolution of the earth and final bliss in the beyond (Sanders); (2) a temporary kingdom on a transformed earth, followed by final bliss on this very earth (Stuhlmacher, implicitly at least); (3) no temporary kingdom, but the final reign of God on a transformed earth (Witherington). In a vaguer fashion this last alternative seems to be implied by James Dunn 22 and indeed by all those interpreters 12 

E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (London: SCM, 1985), 228. E. P. Sanders & M. Davies, Studying the Synoptic Gospels (London: SCM, 1992), 337. 14  2 Cor. 5.1–5 is accommodated to this view (Sanders & Davies, Studying, 338). 15  E. P. Sanders, Paul (Past Masters; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 31. 16  Cf. the references to Justin and Irenaeus in Sanders & Davies, Studying, 338. 17  B. Witherington, Jesus, Paul and the End of the World. A Comparative Study in New Testament Eschatology (Exeter: Paternoster, 1992), 23–25, makes a tortured attempt to deny the imminence of Paul’s expectation. He also believes that Jesus, too, expected a kingdom which was to be located on the earth, but was not imminent (44). 18 Witherington, Jesus, 67, 73, 202. 19 Witherington, Jesus, 202. 20  Witherington, Jesus, 238–39. 21  N. T. Wright, The New Testament and the People of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 461. Cf. A. Lincoln, Paradise Now and Not Yet (SNTSMS 43; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 195: ‘the completion of salvation will involve heaven being brought to earth at Christ’s return’ (likewise ibid., 188–89, 193). 22  J. D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 101 (on 13 

54

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

who take Rom. 8.19–25 to refer to a transformation of the world in the ἔσχατον (without spelling out in so many words what this actually means).23 The notion that Paul is an ‘apocalyptic realist’24 is alive and well in the scholarly world. However, other interpreters deny categorically that the notion of an earthly fulfilment is an integral part of Paul’s thought.25 Some think that Paul went through a development from concrete collective expectation towards dualism and individualism so that he at the end of his career envisaged salvation taking place in the beyond.26 In what follows an attempt is made to weigh the merits of the ‘earthly fulfilment’ interpretations. How do Paul’s main eschatological sections fit with the notion that the believers will reign (or fight) with Christ on a (transformed?) earth, either temporarily or even eternally? A survey of the key passages is followed by observations on Paul’s general attitude to the world.

2. First Thessalonians In his earliest letter Paul wants to console the recipients who have experienced cases of death among them. These have come as a surprise; perhaps one had believed the great turn to be so close that everybody would participate in the decisive events.27 Ulrich Luz argues that the Thessalonians must have been informed about the hoped-for resurrection, but they may not have really internalized what they had been taught (as apocalyptic notions were originally unfamiliar to them).28 In fact their lack of hope may have been a consequence of Paul’s Rom. 8.19–22): ‘At first the thought here seems to go beyond that of 1 Cor. 15.42,50, which speaks only of humans sharing the transformation of resurrection. But here we need to recall again the significance of soma, as the embodiment appropriate to the environment. The recognition of the nature of humankind as a corporeal species leads directly to the confident hope that God will provide also an appropriate environent for embodiment in the age to come.’ 23  Cf. below, 63 n.  83. 24  Cf. A. M. Schwemer, ‘Himmlische Stadt und himmlisches Bürgerrecht bei Paulus (Gal 4,26 und Phil 3,20)’, in M. Hengel, S. Mittmann & A. M. Schwemer (eds.), La cité de Dieu (WUNT 129; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 195–243, esp. p.  227. 25 N. Walter, ‘“Hellenistische Eschatologie” im Neuen Testament’, in E. Grässer & O. Merk (Hrsg.), Glaube und Eschatologie (FS W. G. Kümmel; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1985), 335–56, esp. p.  344: ‘Konkrete Bezüge auf eine irdisch “erfüllte” Welt- und Mensch­ heitsgeschichte sind für die paulinische Eschatologie nicht konstitutiv.’ 26  U. Schnelle, Wandlungen im paulinischen Denken (SBS 137; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1989), 42–48. 27  Since Paul had been engaged in mission for almost two decades, he must have come across with cases of Christian deaths (say, in Antioch) at some point. But he too seems to have believed the parousia to occur so soon after his visit to Thessalonica that possible deaths before it had been of no concern in his missionary preaching. 28  U. Luz, Das Geschichtsverständnis des Paulus (BEvT 49; München: Kaiser, 1968), 321– 22; cf. E. v. Dobschütz, Die Thessalonicher-Briefe (KEK 10; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1974), 189.

Chapter 3: Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?

55

own somewhat vague way of speaking of the future (if his letters are any guide!).29 Making use of a piece of tradition, Paul affirms that the deceased are at no disadvantage in comparison to the living. The two groups will join to meet the Lord: the dead will be raised, whereas ‘we’ who are still alive will be caught up in the air. What exactly will happen to those taken up? Paul shows no interest in the question where they will go next.30 This leaves free rein to the imagination of the expositors. Many think that they will accompany Jesus back to the earth.31 This would be in accordance with the earlier conception of the kingdom, and it is not unlikely that the oracle cited by Paul did envisage a return to the earth.32 The word ἀπάντησις is commonly used of people going to meet important visitors in order to escort them to their goal, and many interpreters are of the opinion that the use of this word alone settles the matter.33 On this reading, the believers are only raptured a short distance away from the earth to the lowest layer below the firmament; had Paul thought that they would be taken all the way to heaven, he should have changed the subject of the sentence, stating that Christ would come to meet the believers.34 If this is the case, what would happen when those raptured return to the earth? One may think of the last judgment, but no mention is made of it in the text. Paul’s wording would be a very vague way of referring to a reign of Christ on the earth,35 and the phrase ‘we will be with the Lord forever’ would be a 29 Luz, Geschichtsverständnis, 322. In his letters, Paul is content with using ‘ciphers’ such as ‘live’ or ‘rise’; things were probably not much different in his missionary preaching (Luz, ibid., 321). Contrast M. Hengel, ‘“Setze dich zu meiner Rechten!” Die Inthronisation Christi zur Rechten Gottes und Psalm 110,1’, in M. Philonenko (ed.), Le Trône de Dieu (WUNT 69; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993), 108–94, esp. p.  143, on 1 Cor. 15: one may well imagine that Paul set forth ‘the eschatological drama’ orally in much more detail. 30 Luz, Geschichtsverständnis, 329–30. 31  J. Becker, Paulus. Der Apostel der Völker (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1989), 153; P. Hoffmann, Die Toten in Christus. Eine religionsgeschichtliche und exegetische Untersuchung zur paulinischen Eschatologie (NTAbh NS 2; Münster: Aschendorff, 1969), 226; Lincoln, Paradise, 188; Dunn, Theology, 300 (‘presumably’). But according to Becker the situation is different already in 1 Cor. 15. 32  Cf. T. Holtz, Der erste Brief an die Thessalonicher (EKKNT 13; Zürich: Benziger, 1986), 203–4. 33  Recently, e.g., Dunn, Theology, 300; Schwemer, ‘Stadt’, 227 n.  155. More carefully E. Best, The First and Second Epistles to the Thessalonians (BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1977), 200 (who remains undecided): ‘If the Hellenistic associations of meeting are pushed [my italics] then the saints will escort the Lord back to the earth…’ On the alternative interpretation Best comments: ‘It could be that they all go up to heaven, but then why should the Lord come down half-way from heaven? The saints might as well have been snatched up the full way.’ Certainly; and yet this type of argument cuts both ways: why should the dead believers, now raised, travel half-way to heaven rather than meet their Lord on the earth? 34  Schwemer, ‘Stadt’, 227 n.  155. She even thinks that Paul has the descent of the heavenly Jerusalem in mind (a notion she infers from Gal. 4.26). 35  Contra W. Foerster ‘ἀήρ’, TWNT 1 (1933), 165 n.  4, who thinks that the context supports

56

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

strangely passive expression for the believers sharing rulership with Jesus (not to mention their fighting against the inimical powers with the Lord36). If a stay of Christ on the earth were envisaged, it would be more natural to say that ‘the Lord will be with us’ (cf. Rev. 21.3). A particularly odd combination of ideas emerges if one assumes that Paul (tacitly) refers to a messianic kingdom in which people will still die,37 since the problem of the Thessalonians was precisely the deaths that had occurred in the congregation. The word ‘always’ (πάντοτε) in v.  17, too, causes difficulties for a millenarian reading: Why should Paul state that the believers will be with Christ forever, if he actually has in mind a period of time which will still be followed by new cataclysmic events? If Paul has a kingdom on the earth in mind, he has expressed himself in a very reserved way. The only thing that really counts is to be in the presence of Christ; everything else fades.38 The point of the parousia, according to this account, is that Christ will catch up to himself those who belong to him. The parousia means victory over death and – possibly – the translation of the faithful to heaven.39 The text does not say anything about the believers returning to the earth.40 The claim that this notion is implied in ἀπάντησις, understood as a technical term, can be countered by referring to the word ἁρπάζειν which is, for its part, used as a kind of technical term concerning raptures to heaven (cf. Rev. 12.5 and especially 2 Cor. 12.2). What would be the point of emphasising (rather dramatically) the taking up at all, if it is only a passing episode, while failing to mention the supposedly crucial event – the return – altogether? The expression καὶ οὕτως (‘and thus’) points to a firm connection between what precedes (the translation to the air) and what follows (being with the Lord): it is the taking up that introduces the believers’ being with the Lord. In Ernest Best’s apt words, ‘Paul, as we might say, leaves the saints and the answer “hanging in the air”’.41 But while one cannot be certain one way or the other, it seems quite plausible to find in 1 Thess. 4 the idea that the eternal (πάντοτε) being in the presence of the Lord will begin, as a consequence of the rapture, in a sphere other than the earth. If this is correct, Paul’s notion is similar to that found later in Mk. 13.26–27 par, where the elect are gathered from the the idea that the believers will escort Jesus to the millennium. Lincoln, Paradise, 188, finds here the idea that ‘Christ will bring the glory of heaven to earth.’ 36 Schweitzer, Mystik, 67, thought this to be characteristic of the messianic kingdom. 37  E. P. Sanders, The Historical Figure of Jesus (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1993), 181 (on 1 Cor. 15.25–26): ‘humans would still die when the Lord reigned.’ 38  Cf. v. Dobschütz, Thessalonicher, 199; Hoffmann, Toten, 227 (no joys of the messianic kingdom are in view!); Holtz, Thessalonicher, 204. 39  Von Dobschütz (Thessalonicher, 199), is inclined to think that those caught up would follow the Lord to heaven. Sanders, Paul, 30, admits that it is possible to construe 1 Thess. 4.13–18 in that way (though he regards a millenarian interpretation as more plausible). 40  This is emphasized by Walter, ‘Hellenistische Eschatologie’, 343. 41 Best, Thessalonians, 200.

Chapter 3: Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?

57

earth by angels at the moment of the parousia. This is how the pseudonymous author of 2 Thess. seems to understand the rapture anyway, as he speaks of ‘our gathering (ἐπισυναγωγή42) to him’ (2 Thess. 2.1).43 In the sequel (1 Thess. 5.1–11) the day of the Lord (the moment of the parousia) is the day of judgment which no one escapes, unless Lord Jesus aids them (cf. 1 Thess. 1.9–10). 1 Thess. 5.10 emphasises that whether we are ‘awake’ or ‘sleep’ (in death), the important thing is ‘to live with him’ (and this has been made possible through the death of Christ). Nothing else matters.

3. First Corinthians The key passage for those who think that Paul does expect an earthly kingdom is 1 Cor. 15.20–28. Weiss rested his case on Hans Lietzmann’s interpretation of τέλος in 1 Cor. 15.24 as ‘the rest’;44 there will be three successive45 groups (τάγματα) of those resurrected: first Christ, secondly those who belong to him (in his parousia), and thirdly the rest (τέλος).46 In this way the two πάντες in v.  22 gain a similar universal meaning: in Adam ‘all’ die, and in Christ ‘all’ will be made alive, i.e. all humans will be resurrected.47 Weiss added that it would be odd, if Paul knew nothing of a general resurrection which would include unbelievers. Subsequent millenarian interpreters have built on these premises; yet none of them is fully convincing.48 No text has been found where τέλος unequivocally means ‘the rest’.49 The two ‘alls’ in v.  22 can hardly refer to the same collective. 42 Cf. ἐπισυνάγειν in Mark. 13.27. J. Plevnik persuasively argues (‘The Taking Up of the Faithful and the Resurrection of the Dead in 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18’, CBQ 46 [1984]: 274– 83, esp. p.  283 n.  29) that 1 Thess. 4 stands in the tradition of texts which speak of assumptions to heaven of such figures as Moses, Enoch, or Elijah, which meant a definitive termination of their earthly existence; consequently, it is doubtful that the model of a ‘Hellenistic parousia’ had any influence on this passage at all. 43  Cf. further Mart. Pol. 22.3: the author hopes that the Lord Jesus may gather (συνάγειν) him ‘with his elect into his heavenly kingdom.’ 44  H. Lietzmann, An die Korinther I-II (HNT 9; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1949), 81. 45  Note the temporal succession ἔπειτα–εἶτα in vv.  23–24. 46  This explanation was not, however, shared by Schweitzer, Mystik, 69, who took τέλος to mean ‘end’ but assumed that the end would involve, among other things, the general resurrection. 47  Unlike Weiss, Lietzmann (rather logically!) concluded that Paul here teaches the restitution of all (apokatastasis); only so can the two halves of v.  22 be brought into a symmetrical relationship (Korinther, 80). 48  See J. Holleman, Resurrection and Parousia. A Traditio-Historical Study of Paul’s Eschatology in 1 Corinthians 15 (NovTSup 84; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 52–55. 49 Cf. J. Héring, The First Epistle of Saint Paul to the Corinthians (London: Epworth, 1969), 166, with reference to a foundational article of his; H. Conzelmann, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (KEK 5; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969), 321. Isa 19.15, to which

58

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

‘All humanity’ die in Adam. But does Paul really mean that all humanity (rather than just the believers) will be raised ‘in Christ’? Definitely not.50 The passage is based on the idea of the solidarity between Christ and his people. Verse 22 refers not to a mere resuscitation but to ‘that “life” which the pneumatic, risen Christ imparts to those who have the Spirit.’51 1 Cor. 15.51–55 ‘exclude radically any resurrection other than a resurrection in glory.’52 Nor does Jewish (or early Christian) tradition always presuppose a resurrection (also) of the wicked; therefore it is by no means odd if Paul ignores it. Moreover, ‘[a] triumphal statement of the ultimate vanquishing of death (v. 26) would seem a very odd place in which to find the only allusion in this passage to a resurrection of the unrighteous for judgement.’53 It is plausible to read the passage as referring to two events only: first the resurrection of Christ (which lies in the past); second, the resurrection of all Christ-believers in connection with the parousia, which introduces the ‘end’ (τὸ τέλος), culminating in Christ’s handing over of the kingdom to the Father after he has destroyed ‘every ruler and every authority and power’ (v. 24). This last clause is explained in vv.  25–26 where Paul indeed mentions that Christ ‘must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death.’ Should v.  25 refer to an earthly reign after the parousia, as millenarian interpreters claim, death would only be destroyed after this reign. Thus even those resurrected in the parousia could, and probably would, still die (Sanders). It is much more plausible to equate the destruction of death with the resurrection of the Christ-believers at the parousia (v. 23), and this is indeed confirmed by v.  54: ‘death has been swallowed up in victory’ precisely ‘when this perishable body puts on perishability’, that is, in the resurrection (of the believers).54 Thus the mention of Christ’s reign must refer to his heavenly rule in the present.55 The putting of his enemies under his feet is in the process of being realised during the time of Paul’s mission, and will be completed in the parousia. It is the parousia that entails victory over all hostile powers, including death. The sentence ‘he must reign’ (v. 25, an inference from the Psalm text cited) is far too appeal has been made, actually speaks against this meaning (Conzelmann, Korinther, 321 n.  74). 50 Holleman, Resurrection, 53; Hill, ‘Paul’s Understanding’, 306–7. 51  Hill, ‘Paul’s Understanding’, 309. 52 Héring, Corinthians, 166. 53  Hill, ‘Paul’s Understanding’, 310 n.  33, 319 n.  59. 54  E.g. Hill, ‘Paul’s Understanding’, 319. Witherington, Jesus, 53–54 also correctly connects the defeat of death with resurrection. 55  E.g. Conzelmann, Korinther, 321–22. Hill, ‘Paul’s Understanding’, 313, points out that Pss. 110 and 8 are combined elsewhere in early Christianity, and all cases have ‘the present status or lordly function of the ascended and glorified Christ’ in view. Paul is thus making use of a well-known textual association. This was already seen by Luz, Geschichtsverständnis, 343–44.

Chapter 3: Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?

59

abstract and bloodless to be conceived as a reference to an actual kingdom on the earth.56 In fact, during the next centuries after Paul few if any Christians seem to have used this text as proof for the millennium (popular as the topic was for many Christian authors to come).57 It should be noted that Paul nowhere refers to any actual events expected to occur on the earth after the parousia.58 In the same letter, in 1 Cor. 7.31, he founds his exhortation to the unmarried on the conviction that ‘the form of this world is passing away,’ without giving the slightest hint that, say, a new form of life were to be lived on a transformed earth.59 Still, 1 Corinthians 15 could well contain a vestige of a concrete expectation, inherited by Paul but grown pale in his own mind. At the end of 1 Corinthians 15 Paul inserts a snapshot of the parousia rather similar to the scenario given in 1 Thessalonians 4. He adds the nuance that even the bodies of those alive will be decisively changed into an imperishable ‘spiritual’ form. The ‘kingdom of God’ is equated with ‘imperishability.’ All Paul is really interested in the drama of the parousia60 is the ‘putting on’ of imperishability or ‘bear(ing) the image of the man of heaven’ (v. 49). What counts is the momentous victory over death which will take place ‘in the twinkling of an eye’ (v. 52). Surely no transitional ‘reign’ on the earth is possible during this twinkling. No interest in any events on the earth is detectable. 61 If readers had only this letter of Paul at their disposal, they would be rather surprised to hear that the eternal kingdom of the Father might be located on the earth, even if it were a transformed earth. In none of these three scenes does Paul mention in so many words the judgment executed by Christ (or by God). Yet it is the judgment that is the crucial point, when he elsewhere – not infrequently – makes concise parenetic mentions of the parousia (see e.g. 1 Thess. 5.1–11).62 The day of the Lord is the moment of the great test, and Paul passionately hopes that his congregations will be found blameless. The absence of this central feature in the graphic parousia scenes 56  Cf. Rom. 5.17; 1 Cor. 4.8. Unlike Jesus, Paul never states that the kingdom ‘comes’. C. K. Barrett rightly points out (A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians [BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black], 1971, 356) that ‘it seems unthinkable that Paul, if he believed in such a [millenarian] kingdom, should pass it over without a word.’ 57  Cf. Hill, ‘Paul’s Understanding’, 297 n.  1. 58  The only statement by Paul that could be conceived as an allusion to an actual event on the earth after the parousia is the claim (made without explanation, as if it were self-evident) that the saints will participate in the judgment, pronouncing a verdict even on (fallen) angels (1 Cor. 6.2–3). But even in this case there is no hint at life (much less at a reign) on the earth after the judgment. 59  Cf. W. Pöhlmann, ‘σχῆμα’, EWNT 3 (1983), 760–61: the world’s total destruction; τὸ σχῆμα τοῦ κόσμου τούτου means the present and visible world as a whole. 60  G. Haufe, ‘Individuelle Eschatologie des Neuen Testaments’, ZTK 83 (1986): 436–63, esp. p.  4 49, even denies that the parousia is in view here. 61  No catching up in the air is mentioned either. 62  Cf. Luz, Geschichtsverständnis, 311–17: the setting of the parousia in Paul’s theology is parenesis (in accordance with earlier tradition).

60

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

suggests that the latter are not the ‘real thing’ for him, but rather traditions used to make a practical point.

4. Second Corinthians It is a further argument against the millenarian view that eventually a totally different road to salvation is juxtaposed by Paul to the participation in the parousia. In the admittedly difficult passage 2 Cor. 5.1–10 63 Paul surely sounds as if one could reach the state of being ‘with the Lord’ immediately at death, when the ‘earthly tent we live in is destroyed’ and we may ‘put on our heavenly dwelling’ (vv. 1–2); ‘we’ look forward to this clothing ‘so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life’ (v. 4, note the parallel to the language used of the resurrection in 1 Cor. 15.53–54). An early generation of scholars found a ‘Hellenistic’ view of post-mortal life in 2 Corinthians 5: a believer is transferred immediately at death into heavenly existence. 64 Scholars such as Günter Haufe and Nikolaus Walter have renewed the case for this interpretation, 65 but the majority of expositors find references to the parousia throughout the passage. True, the parousia is mentioned in the immediate context (2 Cor. 4.14; cf. later on in 13.4), but it is only vv.  1–5 that seem to refer to it, whereas vv.  6 –10 apparently have death in view, in parallel to Phil. 1.23. 66 And even vv.  1–5 reveal no interest whatsoever in any events (apart from the clothing with the new body67) expected to take place on the earth during or after the parousia.68 Paul’s gaze is fixed on the invisible heavenly world (2 Cor. 4.18). Should he also have the parousia in 63  It can be argued that the passage should be delineated differently, 4.16–5.10 forming a single unit; thus F. G. Lang, 2. Korinther 5,1–10 in der neueren Forschung (BGBE 16; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1973), 193–94. It is undoubtedly true that Paul’s aim in the passage is not to divulge eschatological teaching, but rather to defend his apostolic ministry which was losing credibility in the eyes of the Corinthians, due to his wretched hardships; but then it is all the more interesting to see what kind of personal hopes he may reveal almost in passing. 64  See on the history of interpretation Hoffmann, Toten, 253–67 (esp. p.   254); Lang, 2. Korinther 5,1–10. 65  Haufe, ‘Individuelle Eschatologie’, 436–63, esp. p.   450–53; N. Walter, ‘Hellenistische Eschatologie bei Paulus?’, TQ 176 (1996): 53–64. 66 Hoffmann, Toten, 253. However, Hoffmann finally takes sides for a unified parousia interpretation (284–85). (Phil. 1.23 he interprets differently.) Even Sanders, Paul, p.  32 (who connects vv.  1–5 with the collective transformation and resurrection in the parousia, 30–31) notes that the ‘“Greek” idea of the immortality of individual souls’, an idea ‘conceptually different’ from the former one, comes to the fore in vv.  6 –8. Stuhlmacher virtually ignores 2 Cor. 5 (apart from v.  10) and Phil. 1 in his Theologie. 67  Even if (with Sanders & Davies, Studying, 338) one presses the expression τὸ οἰκητήριον … τὸ ἐξ οὐρανοῦ to mean ‘the heavenly building will come down and encompass the mortal body’, the destiny of the body is still the only earthly ‘event’ hinted at. 68  The main argument of Luz (Geschichtsverständnis, 360) against the ‘Hellenistic’ interpretation – it is contradicted by Romans 8.22–30 – is circular.

Chapter 3: Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?

61

mind, he may be thinking even more intensely of invisible things to be gained after it. While Paul, in his clothing metaphor, uses language that is familiar from 1 Corinthians 15, there is a difference: his wording in 2 Corinthians 5 does not suggest ‘transformation’. While the image of ‘putting on’ a new garment is common to both passages, Paul here speaks of dismantling as its prerequisite (v. 4), thus indicating discontinuity between the earthly and heavenly forms of existence. Paul has the desire to leave his earthly body, to change it for a heavenly ‘dwelling’ or ‘garment.’69 The image of dismantling ill fits the parousia. Indeed in the following vv.  6 –10 there are no more ‘clothing’ metaphors and thus no obvious allusions to the parousia.70 The contrast is now between ‘being away’ (from the Lord) and ‘being at home’ (with him), whereby (earthly) bodily existence belongs to the phase of being away. Very properly Paul abstains here from using the ‘somatic’ language of 1 Corinthians 15. One could attempt to maintain the view that Paul has the parousia in mind even in vv.  6 –10 by inserting the notion of an intermediate state for souls. This is the view of Witherington who thinks that Paul envisaged a disembodied (‘nak­ed’, v.  3) state which he, however, found a ‘mixed blessing’, as he was hoping for the future resurrection body.71 It seems forced, however, to interpret v.  8 in so negative a sense, as it refers to the (hoped-for) being with the Lord. Actually the drama of the parousia now seems to have lost much of its interest. Not only is death before the parousia conceived of as a possibility; it is even desirable. The hoped-for being with Christ is directly connected with the notion of judgment.72 The individual Christian may appear before the judgment seat of Christ (v. 10); a private judgment seems envisaged. Having stood the test, he or she may then be ‘away from the body and at home with the Lord’ (v. 8). The generalising 73 parenetic considerations in vv.  6 –10 show that Paul is speaking of all Christians, not just of himself.74 He seems to be on his way toward a more or less individualised transcendent hope.75 It would take an immense effort of imagination to locate the ‘home-coming’ of v.  8 on the earth, nor does one get the impression that this being-with-the-Lord is just a temporary phase, to be followed by new events on the earth to which the blessed Christian would still have to return from heaven. After all, he or she has now reached the state of 69  A. J. M. Wedderburn, Beyond Resurrection (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1999), 146, points out that now there is no continuity between the old and the new corporeality. 70  Contra C. Wolff, Der zweite Brief des Paulus an die Korinther (THKNT 8; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1989), 113, who thinks that the getting away from the body refers to the parousia. 71 Witherington, Jesus, 207–8; cf. Dunn, Theology, 489–90. 72 Schnelle, Wandlungen, 43. 73  Paul uses plural verb forms and, in v.  10, the words pantas and hekastos. 74  Walter, ‘Hellenistische Eschatologie bei Paulus?’, 57. 75  Cf. Schnelle, Wandlungen, 43–44.

62

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

‘sight’ (as distinct from ‘faith’, v.  7)! What remains constant in Paul’s hopes is the expectation of a final judgment which for the believers opens the door to being with the Lord for ever.

5. Philippians This reading of 2 Corinthians 5 is corroborated by Phil. In Phil. 1.20–26 Paul ponders whether he would like to die rather than continue his hard labour in the world. ‘My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better; but to remain in the flesh is more necessary for you’ (vv. 23–24). ‘Dying is gain’ (v. 21), because it is a direct route to the goal, to being ‘with the Lord’, gaining ‘an immediate union with the Exalted One at the moment of death.’76 Paul Hoffmann finds here (and only here) a direct transfer to an intermediate state.77 Yet one wonders, how such a state could be ‘far better’ than remaining in the flesh, and whether Paul would describe it as ‘being with the Lord’, which is his most exalted expression for the final salvation. Witherington thinks that, for Paul, ‘going to heaven, while it is a great gain in one’s closeness to Christ, is still decidedly a second best to life in a resurrection body’;78 but it is very difficult to find any of this in Philippians 1. Indeed Sanders, who explains all other eschatological statements of Paul (including 2 Cor. 5) in terms of an earthly reign of Christ, admits that Phil. 1 cannot be adjusted to this expectation; here ‘the Greek idea of the immortality of the soul, which is individualistic rather than communal’ is at work, and ‘conceptually, this is different from the expectation of the transformation or resurrection of all believers at the coming of the Lord.’79 In Phil. 1.23 the parousia fades from sight, though it reappears in 3.20–21, which echoes 1 Corinthians 15: the ‘commonwealth’80 (or citizenship) of the Christians is ‘in heaven’ from where Christ will come ‘to transform the body of our humiliation that it may be conformed to the body of his glory.’ But if the city of the Christians is in heaven, then it is at least easy to think that that is where the gloriously transformed believers will go after the parousia. Paul never ceased to wait for the parousia – its imminence did not recede (cf. still Rom. 13.11–14) – but its significance diminished. The parousia is important because it brings the believers to their goal, to ‘be with the Lord.’ However, this goal can 76 Weiss,

Earliest Christianity II, 538. Toten, 313. 78 Witherington, Jesus, 208. 79 Sanders, Paul, 31–32. 80  On the translation cf. H. Strathmann, ‘πόλις’ etc., TWNT 6 (1959): 516–35, esp. pp.  519, 535. Recent interpreters tend to favour the meaning ‘citizenship’ (see the summary of the discussion in Schwemer, ‘Stadt’, 229–30); yet the alternative ‘state’, ‘commonwealth’ is quite possible (cf. the occurrences in Philo cited by Schwemer, ibid., 229 n.  161) and makes eminent sense in the context. 77 Hoffmann,

Chapter 3: Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?

63

also be reached independently of the parousia, simply through death. The experience that the present time continues longer than originally expected, the awareness that many Christians had actually died, and Paul’s own situation (waiting in custody for the outcome of his trial which could be a sentence of death) surely contributed to this development. But Paul does not expect a special (martyr’s) treatment for himself,81 for in 2 Cor. 5.6–10 he is speaking of all Christians. Had Paul written to the Thessalonians a few years later than he did, his consolation might have taken a different shape: Don’t worry, the deceased saints are already waiting for us with the Lord!

6. Romans Romans 8.18–21 confuses the picture. Here the old expectation of a transformed earth makes itself felt: a cosmic change will lead to paradisal harmony within the creation so that, in the vein of Isaiah 65, the wolf and the sheep will share the pasture, and the lion will convert to a vegetarian. 82 At present the creation is ‘groaning’ in its ‘bondage to decay’, but it will ‘obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God’ (no doubt in connection with the parousia which, however, is not mentioned). The commentators on this passage tend to be remarkably vague. They hesitate to state in so many words that eternal life is, according to this text, to be lived on the earth, though this is what the expressions used by them must imply.83 On the other hand, some regard the passage as a mere homiletical device intended to console troubled believers.84 While this seems to go too far in a demythologising direction, Paul does use rather abstract language about the ‘transformation’;85 his point is indeed to encourage the ‘groaning’ be-

81  Schweitzer’s way of coping with Phil. 1 was to explain that Paul reserved a special treatment to himself as a (prospective) martyr (Mystik, 136–37); cf. also Becker, Paulus, 474–75. 82  Cf. A. Chester, ‘Jewish Messianic Expectations and Mediatorial Figures and Pauline Christology’, in M. Hengel & U. Heckel (Hrsg.), Paulus und das antike Judentum (WUNT 58; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 67–68. 83  Cf. D. Zeller, Der Brief an die Römer (RNT; Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1985), 169: Paul’s apocalyptic heritage protects the cosmic aspect of redemption, since bodily resurrection is only possible in a new creation. J. Ziesler, Paul’s Letter to the Romans (TPINTC; London: SCM, 1989), 222: the whole creation, including our embodiment, needs renewal and will receive it. J. D. G. Dunn, Romans 1–8 (WBC 38A; Dallas, TX: Word Books, 1988), 487: creation is involved in the eschatological glory; man liberated from sin and the flesh will require an incorruptible setting for his embodiment. 84 A.Vögtle, Das Neue Testament und die Zukunft des Kosmos (KBANT; Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1970), 207–8. 85  Cf. Chester, ‘Expectations’, 68.

64

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

lievers who will soon be ‘revealed’ in glory. 86 He seems to be using cosmological traditions to serve his own parenetic intentions.87

7. Where Does Paul’s Emphasis Lie? In view of Romans 8, it seems precarious to speak of a straightforward development (say, from collective-earthly to individual-transcendent expectation) in Paul’s eschatology.88 The intense expectation of the parousia and the emphasis on bodily existence (which might seem surprising after 2 Cor. 5 and Phil. 1) reappear in this letter (13.11–14; 8.11), which even enhances the impression of the earthliness of the consummation by hinting at a renewal of the creation (8.19– 23). Therefore it seems better to speak of fluctuation and changing shifts of emphasis, depending on the changing communicative situations. This fluctuation is possible, since Paul’s future hopes do not add up to a consistent total picture, pace the ‘millenarian’ interpreters from Schweitzer to Stuhlmacher. Its constant features – the certainty of judgment and the blissful hope of eternally being with the Lord - can be placed into rather different frameworks. But if there is a trend, it is toward heaven, away from the earth. Philippians 1 and Romans 8 cannot be harmonised. Philippians 1 (and, in its light, 2 Cor. 5.6–10) presupposes the ascent of the individual self, stripped of the mortal body, at death; Romans 8 by contrast assumes the transformation of this world. Sanders has seen the conceptual incompatibility of the two views very clearly. He finds Paul’s main conviction in the notion of the collective transformation/resurrection at the parousia (along with the transformation of the world); the idea of individual immortality is, for Sanders, something that Paul ‘also made use of.’89 It is indeed impossible to give equal weight to everything in interpreting Paul’s eschatology; one has to emphasise one side and de-emphasise the other. My choice of sides differs from that of Sanders (and agrees with Walter): Paul’s allusions to an earthly fulfilment are too colourless to make up a bearing construction in his thought. It is these ‘earthly’ traditions that Paul has ‘made used of’, while his own emphasis lies elsewhere. Paul may not have questioned the belief in an earthly consummation (which was part of the Christian tradition received by him), and yet it seems to have played no significant part in 86  The point ist ‘[der] Erweis der Zwangsläufigkeit des Eintreffens von Zukünftigem… So wie die Schöpfung bis jetzt noch stöhnt und in Wehen liegt… so gewiss bricht die eschatologische Verherrlichung herein.’ ‘Das Ziel der Interpretation der apokalyptischen Traditionen besteht in der Begründung des Heilsvertrauens angesichts der Welterfahrung der Gemeinde.’ (J. Baumgarten, Paulus und die Apokalyptik [WMANT 44; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1975), 176, 178. 87  Cf. Baumgarten, Paulus, 178. 88  Thus Schnelle, Wandlungen. 89 Sanders, Paul, 33.

Chapter 3: Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?

65

his active thought. While I can (just about, hesitantly) push myself to imagine that Paul may still have shared this belief, I find it very hard to assume that he would have preached about it, or expanded on it in his oral teaching. And what would be the point of an earthly reign, if the world will soon be dissolved anyway (as Sanders himself suggests)? Now from the beginning (Enoch, Daniel) resurrection faith in Israel had been tied to an earthly expectation. It was the ultimate solution to the problem of oppression and unjust suffering, to the problem of theodicy. For God’s righteousness to prevail, life on earth must get a quite new turn. For Paul, by contrast, the parousia really seems to be the end of history, rather than a decisive turn in it. His notion of a resurrection in connection with the parousia (1 Thess., 1 Cor.) does reflect (and logically presupposes) the traditional view that the new life will be lived on (a transformed) earth, but Paul does not emphasise this precondition any more. He does not deny it in so many words, but the fact that he turns vague in his statements on the eschatological life is telling. The contrast to subsequent millenarian interpreters from Papias to Justin and Irenaeus who revel in colourful depictions is sharp indeed. Consistent with his spiritualization of eschatology, Paul does not seem overly concerned with problems of oppression or unjust government in this world. Redemption does not consist in being rescued from earthly enemies, but rather in liberation from inimical spirit powers, sin, transitoriness and death. From another perspective, what one should be saved from is God’s wrath (1 Thess. 1.9–10; Rom. 5.9). This wrath will befall all and sundry (except the small flock of the believers); it is not focused, say, on those who oppress the peoples of the earth with their power. Unlike the seer of Patmos, Paul – a middle class cosmopolitan of sorts – apparently did not experience the Roman rule as something from which he specifically needed to be liberated. Like Philo, he may even have deliberately ‘defused’ or ‘neutralised’ Israel’s (earthly) messianic hope.90 No social unrest is desirable (Rom. 13!). No social or political alienation worth mentioning makes itself felt in his writings. Theodicy is not his problem91 (except on another level, in connection with the election of Israel). Mundane concerns are overwhelmed by a spiritual perspective. Unlike the Jesus tradition, even redemption from illness or poverty does not seem very central. Paul is still strongly orientated to the future, but he combines his imminent expectation with a tendency toward spiritualising.92 He still envisages an end drama, but a rivalling interpretation looms on the horizon. Actually his religion is centred on the union with Christ in the Spirit. He lives his life ‘in Christ’ in the firm hope that he will one day be ‘with Christ’ – for ever. Indeed, one may 90 

Cf. Chester, ‘Expectations’, 68. Cf. Becker, Paulus, 476: ‘der Apostel [stellt] die Frage nach einer ausgleichenden Gerechtigkeit als Abschluss der Weltgeschichte gerade nicht.’ 92  Cf. Schnelle, Wandlungen, 43–44, 48. 91 

66

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

wonder, whether someone, who had once been raptured (ἁρπάζειν!) to the third heaven and there heard divine secrets (2 Cor. 12.2–4), could have conceived of the final consummation as being located on a ‘lower’ plane.93 Can we, then, posit a transitional messianic kingdom in Paul’s thought? No. A final kingdom on the earth is better conceivable. It could be supported by Romans 8, but such a hypothesis is rendered difficult by 2 Corinthians 5 and Philippians 1 on one hand and by the general tenor of Paul’s letters on the other. Sanders’s earlier view (in contrast to his revised statement) still seems persuasive to me (only, his phrase ‘in the air’ should be changed to ‘in heaven’): Paul’s view, that the kingdom would be ‘in the air’, can readily be explained as resulting from the crucifixion and resurrection, which required it if hope in Jesus’ victory was to be maintained. It seems quite likely that the exclusive concentration on the redemption as taking place in another sphere, not on this world at all, may indeed be the result of the resurrection experiences.

In Jesus’ time, the disciples expected ‘his kingdom to be on a renewed earth, in a transformed situation’, ‘the hope was shifted from “renewed world situation” to “in the air” by the resurrection.’94

93 Cf. C. K. Barrett, The Second Epistle to the Corinthians (BNTC: London: Adam & Charles Black, 1973), 309: ‘The experience described in our passage [2 Cor. 12] may be thought of as anticipation of the final transference of believers to heaven, or Paradise.’ 94 Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, 230. Cf. v. Dobschütz, Thessalonicher, 199 (commenting on 1 Thess. 4.17): ‘Aber diese Analogie [= Jewish and early Christian millenarianism] ist noch nicht maßgebend für Paulus, dem mit der Anschauung des himmlischen Herrn in seiner Glorie (Apg 9.3f, 22.6, 26.13, 1 Kor 2.8), auch die Vorstellung von der künftigen Herrlichkeit sich ganz ins himmlische umgesetzt hat (1 Kor 15.48f).’ (My italics.)

Chapter 4

Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11 and Paul’s Conflicting Convictions 1. The Problem and the Task The question of Paul’s (in)consistency has been an exegetical storm centre for a quarter of century now. Although the problem is age-old, it seems to have gained new urgency in 1983, when E. P. Sanders pointed to a lack of ‘inner unity’ in Paul’s thought1 and I claimed that inconsistencies should be accepted as constant features of Paul’s treatment of the law.2 Sanders and I are time and again singled out as a pair of villains – some contending that I am the worse one, others simply lumping us together.3 James Dunn, for instance, labels us as interpreters ‘content to find and to leave Paul’s teaching inconsistent and irreconcilable in its contradictions’.4 It was not just a question of a ‘psychological explanation’ of Paul’s problems.5 Sanders did speak of Paul’s emotions, such as anguish, but he also made it clear that Paul was faced with a theological, or salvation-historical, dilemma: God

1 

E. P. Sanders, Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 147. Räisänen, Paul and the Law (WUNT 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 21987), 11 and passim. For a fair summary see S. Westerholm, Israel’s Law and Church’s Faith: Paul and His Recent Interpreters (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 93–101, repeated and provided with a couple of helpful additional notes in his Perspectives Old and New on Paul: The ‘Lutheran’ Paul and His Critics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 170–77. I do not suggest, however, that ‘Paul himself misunderstood Judaism’ (contra Westerholm, Perspectives, 178). My point is rather that in a polemical situation he gave a one-sided picture of it, which does not mean that his ‘twisted purpose is to give a distorted picture of Judaism’, a view falsely ascribed to me by T. Eskola, Theodicy and Predestination in Paul’s Soteriology (WUNT 2:100; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 281. As I wrote: ‘The question is not one of Paul’s knowledge. The question is whether Paul, writing in a conflict setting, does justice to the form of piety he has given up. He would probably be a unique reformer in religious history if he did full justice to the surrendered form of life’. H. Räisänen, Jesus, Paul and Torah (JSNTSup 43; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 33. 3  I think that Sanders correctly explained that we disagree(d) only about terminology: Sanders, Law, 148. 4  J. D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 131 with note 16. 5  Contra T. Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), 15; cf. ibid., 341, note 11. 2  H.

68

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

gave the law, and yet its role was largely negative.6 Paul wrestled with the resulting problem of discontinuity, trying to hold together ‘conflicting convictions’: salvation is only by faith (in Jesus); yet God’s promise to Israel is irrevocable.7 I emphasized psychological factors more, but later on I have underlined the theological dilemma as well,8 also pointing out that the problem is one which Paul shares with early Christianity at large, though it is he who brings it to a head. The inconsistency thesis does not enjoy vast popularity. It is said to attribute nonsense to Paul (Elisabeth Johnson) 9 and to be based on an ‘atomistic’ analysis (James Dunn).10 It is found to be ‘extreme’;11 claims of inconsistency, it is asserted, should be an interpreter’s ‘last resort’.12 The polemical tone in much of this criticism seems, however, disproportionate in view of the general agreement that Paul’s thoughts on the law are very difficult to grasp. Sven Hillert is justified in pointing out that the discussion on ‘the radical positions taken by Räisänen and Sanders’ (on contradictions) ‘may give the impression that scholars disagree more than they actually do. A closer look reveals that there is an almost general agreement that “Paul was not a systematic theologian”.’13 This is not just 6 Sanders,

Law, 68 etc. Ibid., 198. 8 Räisänen, Paul and the Law, xxv–xxvi; idem, ‘Paul, God, and Israel: Romans 9–11 in Recent Research’, in J. Neusner et al. (eds.), The Social World of Formative Christianity and Judaism (FS H.C. Kee; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 178–206, esp. p.  196. 9  E. E. Johnson, ‘Romans 9–11: The Faithfulness and Impartiality of God’, in D. M. Hay & E. E. Johnson (eds.), Pauline Theology. Vol. 3: Romans (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 211–239, 214. Cf. Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics, 347 n.  30: Sanders and I have created a wreck from which subsequent interpreters have tried to salvage what they could. 10  This is an allegation repeatedly put forward by Dunn, e.g., in Theology, 159 note 160 – and still in 2007: idem, ‘Not so much “New Testament Theology” as “New Testament Theologizing”’, in C. Breytenbach & J. Frey (Hrsg.), Aufgabe und Durchführung einer Theologie des Neuen Testaments (WUNT 205; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 225–46, esp. p.  236 note 27. Contrast, e.g., Westerholm, Israel’s Law, 219: ‘Räisänen’s case is serious …, his argumentation rigorous and sensitive to nuances.’ Whatever justification Dunn’s accusation may have had twenty-five years ago, repeating it after I have published several comprehensive and detailed contextual analyses of Romans 9–11 borders on the ridiculous. Dunn would do well to engage with the books of Kari Kuula, who after thorough (certainly not atomistic!) analyses reaches conclusions very close to mine: K. Kuula, The Law, the Covenant and God’s Plan. Vol. 1: Paul’s Polemical Treatment of the Law in Galatians (PFES 72; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen:Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999); idem, The Law, the Covenant and God’s Plan. Vol. 2: Paul’s Treatment of the Law in Romans (PFES 85; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen:Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003). Kuula’s work should not be set aside with the mere comment that it comes from Helsinki (thus Westerholm, Perspectives, 227: Kuula’s 1999 monograph ‘leaves no doubt about its academic paternity’). In fact, Kuula’s first ‘academic father’ was Lars Aejmelaeus; Kuula had already finished his master’s thesis on Paul and the law when I came to know him. For a perceptive review of Kuula’s 2003 book see M. Reasoner, CBQ 68 (2006): 151–52. 11  D. Boyarin, A Radical Jew: Paul and the Politics of Identity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 294 note 23. 12  J. D. G. Dunn, Jesus, Paul and the Law (London: SPCK, 1990), 215. 13  S. Hillert, Limited and Universal Salvation: A Text-Oriented and Hermeneutical Study 7 

Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11

69

a modern sentiment; the observation of inconsistency is an age-old insight14 which some recent interpreters yet once more have tried to suppress. Attempts to deny inconsistency largely boil down to giving it a different name.15 Alternatively, critics – notably many practitioners of rhetorical criticism – produce consistency by putting forward quite idiosyncratic readings of individual passages.16 Advocates of what is now sometimes called the ‘new Paul’ (Paul the loyal Jew)17 stand out by reinterpreting whole sections, passage after passage, in most peculiar ways.18 of Two Perspectives in Paul (ConBNT 31; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1999), 238–39 (quoting Jouette Bassler). Cf. D. Brown, Tradition and Imagination: Revelation and Change (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 307–8 with reference to Dunn: ‘[E]ven those most well disposed to Paul find themselves remarking on the oddity of his arguments.’ 14  Cf. my comments on Porphyry in Paul and the Law, 2–3 and Margaret Mitchell’s perceptive discussion of John Chrysostom’s view of Paul: ‘“A variable and many-sorted man”: John Chrysostom’s Treatment of Pauline Inconsistency’, JECS 6 (1998): 93–111. Malina and Neyrey agree with my ‘assessment of Paul from the viewpoint of a twentieth-century northern European’, but claim that I do not ‘offer any suggestion as to whether Paul is typical or atypical in this regard’: B. J. Malina & J. H. Neyrey, Portraits of Paul: An Archaeology of Ancient Personality (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 11. Strangely, they only refer to a short early article of mine (of 1980); had they looked at Paul and the Law, they would have found that I do compare Paul with a number of his contemporaries and also pay attention to criticisms raised against him by some ancient authors. 15  Such attempts include development theories which assume contradictions between different letters (e.g., H. Hübner, U. Schnelle); a distinction between the coherent theme of Paul’s gospel and its contingent application (J. C. Beker); a differentiation between a convictional and a theological level (D. Patte); a separation between intentions and objectifications (G. Klein); a distinction between practical aims and argumentative strategies (F. Watson). The effect is the same, sometimes against the intention of the interpreter in question: Paul is found consistent only if the interpreter knows how to tell the coherent kernel from the unimportant husk. See H. Hübner, The Law in Paul’s Thought (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1984); U. Schnelle, Wandlungen im paulinischen Denken (SBS 137; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1989); idem, Paulus: Leben und Denken (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), e.g., 585–91; J .C. Beker, Paul the Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984); D. Patte, Paul’s Faith and the Power of the Gospel: A Structural Introduction to the Pauline Letters (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983); G. Klein, ‘Gesetz III. Neues Testament’, TRE 13 (1984): 58–75; F. Watson, Paul, Judaism, and the Gentiles: A Sociological Approach (SNTSMS 56; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986). 16  In this vein, T. van Spanje devoted a whole monograph to the refutation of my claim that Paul is inconsistent: Inconsistency in Paul? A Critique of the Work of Heikki Räisänen (WUNT 2:110; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999). While the description of my position in the first part of the book is fair enough, the refutation itself is full of problems. At times van Spanje is content with discussing minor points (173–80); he even refutes at length a position which he attributes to me but which I explicitly reject (pp.  180–88). Moreover, he often puts forward idiosyncratic interpretations of his own; were they correct, they would ‘refute’ not only my interpretations but also those of almost everybody else: cf., e.g., 208–10 on Gal. 3.10–13; 222 on Rom. 7.1–6; 227 on a strange distinction between the law per se and the law in God’s overall plan of salvation, etc. See also B. Matlock’s review of van Spanje in RBL (2000). 17  This position is not to be confused with the ‘new perspective on Paul’ introduced by Sanders and Dunn. 18  Gager makes a virtue out of necessity by asserting that in Romans 9–11 Paul chose the

70

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

To be sure, serious attempts to see Paul as a coherent systematic theologian after all have been recently undertaken by Boyarin and Engberg-Pedersen, who, however, play down Paul’s most negative statements. According to Boyarin, what Paul affirms is the ‘spiritual sense’ of the Torah; what he denies is its literal sense.19 Engberg-Pedersen claims that Paul’s thought ‘makes coherent sense once it is seen in the light of … the ancient ethical tradition’ (of the Stoics in particular).20 But Engberg-Pedersen constructs Paul’s Stoic-like philosophy on a very abstract level, and Boyarin actually accepts that Paul did have conflicting convictions with regard to the election of Israel 21 – which would seem to undermine his case. Some prominent scholars have no problem at all in attributing inconsistency to Paul. Michael Goulder is outspoken: Paul believed contradictory things, he was ‘in an impossible position’ and was ‘reduced to offering a series of arguments which were weak and contradictory’.22 Gerd Theissen explicitly agrees with me: Paul’s ‘thought is full of contradictions. One does more justice to him, when one does not explain them away, but interprets them historically and psychologically.’23 Most strikingly, David Brown, a systematic theologian and a strategy of ‘unreliable implied author’; generations of interpreters have fallen prey to this strategy. J. G. Gager, Reinventing Paul (New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 131, 134: Paul ‘misleads in order to convince’ (131, my italics), dropping his guise only in 11.11b–32 (138). Gager is following S. K. Stowers, A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994). An even stranger set of readings is offered by Mark D. Nanos, The Mystery of Romans: The Jewish Context of Paul’s Letter (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 239–88. 19 Boyarin, Radical Jew, 132. The letter which kills is, according to Boyarin, the literal meaning (56). Boyarin holds that Paul had a conscious ‘hermeneutical’ law theory, but his systematic reading of Paul fails to convince. For example, Paul’s assertion that through the Torah he died to the Torah (Gal. 2.19) means, according to Boyarin, that Paul discovered the opposition of the true (allegorical) Torah to that which is understood as Torah by other Jews (122). 20 Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics, 171–72, 348–50, takes Gal. 3.19 as a reference to the law’s ‘curbing transgressions’; see against this Kuula, Galatians, 145–47, 153, 155–56, 174–75. Engberg-Pedersen (173) practically ignores the very negative verse Gal. 3.20 and tries to improve the problematic argument of Rom. 1.18–3.20 by claiming that, according this passage, Jews and Gentiles merely risk sinning (207–8, 218). 21 Cf. Boyarin, Radical Jew, 323 note 1: Boyarin states that he finds the section on the Jewish people of Sanders’ Law successful. Yet in this very section Sanders makes most forcefully the point concerning ‘conflicting convictions’. 22  M. D. Goulder, A Tale of Two Missions (London: SCM, 1994), 33–34. 23  G. Theissen, ‘Röm 9–11 – eine Auseinandersetzung des Paulus mit Israel und mit sich selbst: Versuch einer psychologischen Auslegung’, in I. Dunderberg et al. (eds.), Fair Play: Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity (FS H. Räisänen; SNT 103; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 311–41, esp. p.  311. Agreeing with me, Theissen states that ‘Paul is in his theology concerned with legitimizing new experience with old traditions. One who pours new wine in old wineskins must run the risk that the wineskins burst or that the new wine within them remains hidden…’ See also D. Mitternacht, Forum für Sprachlose: Eine kommunikationspsychologische und epistolär-rhetorische Untersuchung des Galaterbriefs (ConBNT 30; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1999); he regards my work as a convincing refutation of the notion that

Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11

71

colleague of Dunn’s, looking at the biblical tradition from a larger theological perspective, comments that Paul ‘resorts to a bewildering variety of arguments against the law’. The ‘more natural interpretation’ is, he claims, ‘that Paul is desperately floundering in his attempt to find suitable arguments to undermine its central role, rather than that he has a coherent theology about its significance’.24 What need have we of any further witnesses? Why should finding inconsistency be a ‘last resort’ in the first place? Is it so self-evident that humans in general ‘strive for consistency in their thinking’?25 In general, theologians (or their critics) are not overly reluctant to find inconsistency or self-contradictions even in ‘good’ thinkers. Consider Boyarin’s section ‘Bultmann against Bultmann’. On a central point, Bultmann ‘contradicts his own view’, ‘Bultmann the exegete contradicting Bultmann the systematic theologian’. 26 What Boyarin allows in Bultmann, he would not allow in Paul.

2. Analysis of Romans 9–11 2.1. On Paul’s situation Rather than returning to the issue of Paul and the law, I shall in what follows summarize my interpretation of Romans 9–11, a section in which Paul’s conflicting convictions, as I see them, come to light very clearly.27 It will be seen that I do not take the situation in the congregations of Rome (which Paul had neither founded nor yet visited) as the key to interpreting the letter, although Paul undoubtedly had gained some information about it. The really burning issue was hardly the situation in Rome (although Paul has something to say on that, too, at least in chapters 14–15) 28; the main issue in the letter seems to be a Paul was a great thinker or even a philosopher (55–56), also mentioning that he had to totally change his own view in the course of his research. 24 Brown, Tradition, 307 with note 103. M. Reasoner recalls in his review of Kuula a remark by Robert M. Grant in the mid-80s: ‘The longer I read Paul, the more I wonder – did this man know what he was talking about?’ CBQ 68 (2006): 151. 25  T. Laato, Paulus und das Judentum: Anthropologische Erwägungen (Åbo: Åbo Akademis förlag, 1991), 105. N. T. Wright is very reluctant to find inconsistency in Paul, but in speaking of Jewish ‘monotheism and its modifications’ he notes that ‘most humans are quite good at holding together things which can be shown to be mutually contradictory’: The New Testament and the People of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 258. When he continues by stating that therefore ‘the different positions are not necessarily incompatible’, I confess that I don’t understand his logic. 26 Boyarin, Radical Jew, 82–85. 27  For more comprehensive treatments see H. Räisänen, ‘Römer 9–11: Analyse eines geistigen Ringens’, ANRW II.25.4 (1987), 2891–939; idem, ‘Paul, God and Israel’. 28  It is less certain that the Roman situation is in view in Rom. 11.13–24 where Paul warns Gentile Christians of boasting over ‘the original branches’ of the metaphorical olive tree. Interpreters generally take this as a reference to the attitude of (some?) Gentile Christians in

72

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

problem of his own making.29 Paul’s moving wrestling in chapters 9–11 suggests to me that he is in the process of making sense of his own experience in Galatia (and in Corinth) which had been filled with controversy. This exercise prepares him for his visit to Jerusalem in the near future, a visit which worried him and for which he asked the Roman fellow-believers to pray. It also serves (or so he must have hoped) to expel the suspicion that the Jewish Christians in Rome may have had concerning his mission, and to move them to come to his aid in realizing his planned mission to Spain. It seems reasonable to view at least chapters 9–11, if not Romans as a whole, ‘as being Paul’s reflection on the problem of Jew and gentile in the light of his past difficulty in Galatia and the coming encounter in Jerusalem’.30 Rhetorical approaches to the section can be helpful, but their significance may today be overrated. Now as before it seems to me that Paul is not just concerned to persuade others with this or that rhetorical feat. He seems hard put to convince himself that God’s word has not failed.

2.2. Romans 9.1–5 In his letter to the Galatians (Gal. 3–4), Paul had gone a long way towards virtually denying any significant continuity between Israel as a people and his faith communities.31 In Galatians he does not seem to think of Abraham as an ancestor of the covenant people at all, but only ‘as an exemplary individual who received promises that aimed far into the future’ (Gal. 3.15–18).32 The history of Israel as God’s chosen people is ignored.33 In Gal. 4.21–31 Paul does draw a ‘historical’ line, but it is a line of slavery: the covenant of Sinai gives birth to Rome to their Jewish Christian brothers and sisters. But Paul does not here refer to a Gentile Christian attitude to Jewish Christians (who have, of course, remained in the ‘tree’), but to ‘unbelieving’ Jews who have been ‘cut off’. It is therefore not at all clear that the problem of chapters 14–15 is already referred to in 11.13–24. Cf. D. Zeller, Der Brief an die Römer (RNT; Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1985), 15–16. 29  Cf. O. Kuss, Der Römerbrief, Bd.  3 (Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1978), 700. 30 Sanders, Law, 31. 31  It is often claimed that Paul merely extends Israel’s covenant to embrace even Gentiles. Yet in Galatians, there is no salvific covenant previously established into which Gentiles could be included in the first place. Paul may once have started his mission simply by demanding that Gentiles be included within the covenant, but by the time of dictating Galatians he has left this position behind. The notion of an expanded covenant fits the position of Paul’s Galatian opponents better. This has been convincingly argued by J. L. Martyn, ‘Events in Galatia: modified covenantal nomism versus God’s invasion of the cosmos in the singular gospel. A Response to J. D. G. Dunn and B. R. Gaventa’, in J. M. Bassler (ed.), Pauline Theology. Vol. 1: Thessalonians, Philippians, Galatians, Philemon (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 160–79 and, following him, Kuula, Galatians, 199. 32 Kuula, ibid., 82. 33 See also U. Luz, Das Geschichtsverständnis des Paulus (BevT 49; München: Kaiser, 1968), 279–86. In Galatians, the Jews have been ‘allegorized out of real historical existence’: Boyarin, Radical Jew, 156.

Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11

73

slaves (4.24–25). Non-Christian Jews are descendants of the slave woman Hagar; the Jesus-believers alone are ‘children of the promise, like Isaac’. ‘[T]raditional Jewish terms, motives and approaches … are reinterpreted in such a manner that the continuity remains only nominal.’34 In such a context the expression ‘God’s Israel’ (Gal. 6.16) can only refer to the Christian communities.35 The church, which is in process of formation, is the true Israel. Paul’s troubled relation to Israel did not leave him alone, however. In Romans 9 he gives expression to ‘great sorrow and unceasing anguish’ because of his people (Rom. 9.2–3; cf. 10.1).36 He even expresses the unreal wish that he could be ‘accursed’ (ἀνάθεμα) and ‘cut off from Christ’ for their sake. This implies that they must be in the very plight he is willing to enter for their sake: they are anathema.37 This outburst opens an exposition which covers three long chapters. Recent interpreters agree that Paul is here concerned with the problem of Israel, which is also the problem of the trustworthiness of God’s promises. There is also a growing awareness that earlier research focused excessively on Paul’s theological ideas. Chapter 9 once provided the classic support for the doctrine of predestination; chapter 11 predicted the conversion of the Jews. Bultmann could still hold that Romans ‘develops in purely theoretical fashion [!] the principle of Christian faith in antithesis to the principle of the Jewish Torah-religion’.38 Yet the social context and function of Paul’s writing has to be taken seriously. My interpretation starts from the assumption that Paul’s social experience as the ‘apostle to the Gentiles’ is reflected throughout the section. Scholars agree that the chapters are ‘as full of problems as a hedgehog is of prickles’.39 Their solutions go in quite different directions. To me, the internal tensions provide a key to the interpretation of the section. Paul raises the worrisome question of how the gospel can be taken to represent a triumph for God, even though most Jews have rejected it. He gives a long list of their advantages (which must come as a complete surprise to someone who has read Galatians): ‘They are Israelites, and to them belong the sonship, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship and the promises; to 34 Kuula, 35 

155.

Galatians, 94. G. Lüdemann, Paul: The Founder of Christianity (Amherst: Prometheus Books, 2002),

36  On the connection of the section with other parts of the letter, chapters 3 and 8 in particular, see Räisänen, ‘Römer 9–11’, 2894–95. 37  H. Hübner, Gottes Ich und Israel: Zum Schriftgebrauch des Paulus in Römer 9–11 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), 16. 38  R. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament. Vol. 1 (London: Macmillan, 1951), 209. Notoriously, Bultmann did away with Paul’s vision of Israel’s salvation in Rom. 11 as ‘speculative fantasy’, which he did not discuss under ‘The Theology of Paul’ at all in his NT theology, deferring it to his section ‘The Development Toward the Old Church’: Theology of the New Testament 2 (London: Macmillan, 1955), 132. 39  N. T. Wright, The Climax of the Covenant: Christ and the Law in Pauline Theology (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1991), 231.

74

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

them belong the patriarchs, and of their race, according to the flesh, is the Christ …’ (Rom. 9.2–4). Yet what gain will Israelites have for all these privileges, if they remain outside the salvation in Christ?

2.3. Romans 9.6–23 God’s integrity is at stake: has his word failed, if Israel stays outside?40 Paul answers by redefining ‘Israel’ – or, in Hübner’s words, by ‘juggling’ with the concept of Israel:41 all those who are ‘of Israel’ (the empirical people) do not really belong to Israel. Who belongs and who does not is freely decreed by God. He has always freely called some, such as Jacob, and not others, such as Esau, without any regard to their character or ancestry (9.7–13). Paul does not think, say, of God’s foreknowledge of wicked deeds. God is wholly sovereign in his decisions, so much so that he loved Jacob and hated Esau even before they were born. Therefore the gospel is not being rejected by the elect of God, for the majority of ethnic Israel never belonged to the elect!42 The gospel is being rejected by the non-elect and accepted by the true ‘Israel’. Everything is as God meant it to be. Paul goes to great lengths in undergirding the thesis of God’s free election. That God can show unexpected mercy is in line with the surprising experience that he has lately called Gentiles to enter his people.43 But to make this point, the ‘positive’ verse 15 would suffice: ‘I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion.’ Such a concern alone does not, however, account for the negative side of God’s action (vv. 17–18). Since Paul’s problem is the rejection of his message by most Jews, he is led to 40  Kuula describes the underlying problem well: ‘As a native Jew, Paul had learned that God has made an eternal covenant with his people Israel. But the fundamental conviction of Paul the apostle that the Jews must turn to Christ in order to be saved, implies that the covenant is no longer the way of salvation. This appears to mean that God has cancelled the covenant, and in this he has been unfaithful to his promises ... But this is contrary to everything that holy scriptures teach about the covenant, which is eternal, and about God, who is trustworthy.’ Kuula, Romans, 294. 41 Hübner, Gottes Ich, 17. 42  It is quite inadequate to summarize the point of Rom 9.6–13 as Dunn, Jesus, 148 does: ‘Those who are Israelites, but who fail to recognize the covenant character of their status as Israelites, have to that extent sold their own birthright’ (my italics); cf. idem, Romans 9–16 (WBC 38B; Dallas: Word Books, 1988), 540: ‘Paul’s argument concerns the character and mode rather than the fact of election.’ No, it concerns precisely the ‘fact’! Eskola, Theodicy, 152 note 35 speculates that my above conclusion (stated already in 1988: ‘Paul, God and Israel’, 182) ‘must be based on the conviction that Paul accepted the concept of double predestination and was here attempting to solve the dilemma of divine election’; this is very odd, since I actually draw the opposite conclusion (cf. ‘Paul, God and Israel’, 186). 43  It is often thought that this is the problem which Paul sets out to tackle in the section; thus, e.g., L. Gaston, Paul and the Torah (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1987), 97; Gager, Reinventing, 132; Nanos, Mystery, 263.

Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11

75

develop this other side of God’s sovereignty as well. Not only does God freely choose whom he wills to be saved; just as freely he also ‘hardens whom he wills’ (9.18).44 This lesson is drawn from the biblical example of God’s dealing with Pharaoh in Exodus; astonishingly, this classical enemy of Israel here stands for the Jews of Paul’s time.45 Verse 19 shows that Paul senses that a moral problem is involved in his argument: how can humans be held responsible for their doings if everything is effected by God?46 All Paul can do is to assert that the Great Potter has the right to create what he wants, even ‘vessels of wrath’ prepared for destruction (9.22).47 This would logically imply double predestination.48 The unbelieving Jews of Paul’s time are to be seen as such vessels of wrath. Gerd Lüdemann rightly points out: ‘The fact that we know from Rom. 11 that this is not Paul’s last word on the problem of Israel and salvation history must not be a reason for toning down the sharpness of Paul’s argumentation in an interpretation of verses 22– 23, or doing away with it on dialectical grounds.’49

2.4. Romans 9.24–29 Paul then shows from Scripture that God always intended to also call Gentiles to be his sons.50 He further argues from Scripture that not all Israel will be saved, but only such seed as God has left in it (9.24–29). The idea of a remnant does not entirely agree with the one just presented that all Israel was never elected; it presupposes that in the beginning there was an elected ‘whole’. Even so, Romans 9.6–29 gives a clear answer to the question, Has God’s word failed (v. 44  For instance, E. E. Johnson, The Function of Apocalyptic and Wisdom Traditions in Romans 9–11 (SBLDS 109; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 148 ff. and Wright, Climax, 238–39 do not take this negative side seriously enough. Eskola, Theodicy, 152–53 resorts to the explanation that Paul employs the hardening theme ‘as a kind of metaphor’ for Israel’s fall and sin’. Kuula, Romans, 299 n.  9 rightly asks why Paul should have wasted so much ink in speaking metaphorically about God’s decisions if he only meant humans’ response to the gospel. 45 Hübner, Gottes Ich, 45. 46  J. C. O’Neill, Paul’s Letter to the Romans (London: SPCK, 1975), 157–58 frankly states that v.  18 contains a ‘thoroughly immoral doctrine’; the objection in v.  19 ‘is entirely warranted, and the reply does nothing to answer it’. Cf. Kuss, Römerbrief 3, 730: the picture of God given in these verses contains ‘despotic, tyrannical, Sultanic’ traits. 47  R. Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 596 is content to emphasize the ‘positive’ side of the verse, its mention of God’s patience. 48  It is probably no coincidence, however, that the sentence ends as an anacoluthon. Paul appears to be uncomfortable with the notion of double predestination; cf. Kuss, Römerbrief 3, 732. 49 Lüdemann, Paul, 158. 50  It now seems as if the inclusion of the Gentiles is the point of the whole chapter, the thing in need of justification; such a view is indeed taken by some interpreters. But this was not the starting point of chapter 9. It is not the inclusion of Gentiles that could have aroused the suspicion that God does not keep his promises. Paul’s thought has taken on a new turn in v.  24.

76

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

6)? No, it has not, for God never promised anything for ethnic Israel, for the whole empirical people.51 Paul started the section with an impressive catalogue of Israel’s privileges, but by now he has in effect denied them to the Israel ‘according to the flesh’.52 It seems clear that the majority of the Jews will remain outside of salvation. At this point a reader hardly feels that the treatise should go on. Nothing seems to be lacking; there is no need for a continuation.53 Yet Paul does not leave the issue at that.

2.5. Romans 9.30–10.21 The next section introduces a quite different point of view. Paul explains why Israel, now seen as an ethnic entity after all, has failed to attain righteousness, whereas gentiles have found it (9.30–33). We now hear nothing about sovereign divine hardening or about God’s freedom to reject whom he will. On the contrary, God has held out his hands towards Israel ‘all day long’, patiently inviting her to salvation; Israel, however, remains ‘a disobedient and contrary people’ (10.21).54 Clinging to works, she has refused to obey God and to accept his action in Christ with faith. Thus she has stumbled over the stumbling stone, Christ (9.32–33). Salvation is meant for all: there will be righteousness for everyone who believes (in Christ, 10.4); ‘everyone who calls on the name of the Lord (Christ) will be saved’ (10.13).

2.6. Romans 11.1–36 Then, however, Paul suddenly asserts that God cannot have rejected his people, ethnic Israel (11.1–2). This is rather surprising after chapter 9, but it continues the argument about the remnant which started in 9.27. Paul states God cannot possibly reject his people, but in light of what follows this only seems to mean that God cannot totally reject all of his people. For Paul himself, one of the few believing Israelites, is a living testimony to the existence of a chosen remnant (v. 1) – hardly a very convincing argument if the unbelief and destiny of the great majority of the people is the problem.55 Ethnic Israel has split into the elect 51 Kuula, Romans, 304 correctly notes (contra Dunn, Theology, 510, 514) that ‘the redefinition of Israel on the basis of God’s specific call in Christ amounts to a denial of the election of the historical Israel’. 52  It is therefore inappropriate to use the catalogue 9.4–5 as evidence that Paul had not broken with the religion of his fathers. 53 Hübner, Gottes Ich, 59. 54  It is unjustified simply to identify ‘disobedient’ with ‘hardened by God’; thus Johnson, Function, 140; D. Sänger, Die Verkündigung des Gekreuzigten und Israel: Studien zum Verhältnis von Kirche und Israel bei Paulus und im frühen Christentum (WUNT 75; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994), 159, 162. 55 Kuula, Romans, 328 notes that ‘it would be more logical to infer that since only a small

Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11

77

remnant and the hardened rest (11.7). The election of the remnant is based on God’s grace alone (v. 6). The others have been hardened: ‘God gave them a sluggish spirit, eyes that would not see and ears that would not hear’ (v. 8). The psalm citation in v.  9 could suggest, however, that the hardening is a punishment for the way of life of the hardened (their ‘table’ is to become ‘a stumbling block and a retribution for them’), which would connect this section with 9.30–10.21. In any case it is clear that no happy end is envisaged for the great majority of the people. Now the argument takes a new turn, and there is a remarkable change of tone. Paul goes on to suggest that the hardening of Israel has a positive purpose in God’s plans: somehow56 it serves to bring salvation to the gentiles (11.11–12).57 In vv.  12 and 15 Paul hints at the possibility that God will after all accept the people of Israel, which comes as a surprise after what the apostle has said so far. To be sure, still in v.  14 he speaks in a cautious manner: in helping Gentiles to gain salvation he, the ‘apostle of the nations’, may perhaps rouse in his kinsmen (positive) ‘jealousy’ towards the happy Gentiles; thus he may be able to attract ‘some’ fellow Jews to the path of salvation. Yet the next verse (15) hints at something much greater which has to do with eschatological fulfilment, the resurrection of the dead; it seems that Paul already has in his mind the ‘mystery’ which he is to disclose a little later (vv. 25–26). In v.  16 he brings two images that appear somewhat loose in the context (but anticipate v.  28) to the effect that a whole is holy, if its core is holy. The whole must mean Israel; the core, which is compared to the ‘dough offered as first fruits’ (to the priest) on one hand and to the root of a tree on the other, probably (in light of v.  28) signifies its patriarchs. Because of them, or rather because of the promise given to them, the people still has a special relationship with God. The image of a holy root, which causes even the branches to be holy, leads to the parable of the olive tree. Israel is like a cultivated tree, from which some branches have been broken off and onto which branches of a wild tree have been grafted (11.17–24).58 In effect Paul is saying that Israel remains God’s people; some apostates have been excluded, and some believing Gentiles have been inminority of the Jews have accepted the gospel, God has surely rejected the majority of the people’. 56  Because otherwise the parousia would have occurred immediately? 57  In v.  14 ‘the apostle to the Gentiles’ (v. 13) gives a strange account of his motives: the real purpose of his mission is to aid the salvation of Israelites by making them ‘jealous’ of Gentile Christians. Yet such an idea cannot have been the driving force behind Paul’s missionary effort; the notion of jealousy, discovered by Paul in Deut. 32.21 by way of an idiosyncratic reading, serves an apologetic purpose with regard to Jewish Christians (who may have thought that Paul’s liberal practice is an obstacle to Christian mission among Jews) and is to be deemed a secondary rationalization of Paul’s efforts; thus also Schnelle, Paulus, 387. When Paul speaks of his call in Gal. 1.15–16, he explicitly mentions the task to win Gentiles, referring to Isa. 49.1 (a passage that has Gentiles, not Israelites, in view). 58  On the possibility of such a horticultural operation see Jewett, Romans, 683–85.

78

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

cluded as proselytes. The parable stands in a curiously ambiguous relation to the notion of the remnant, for the image of a tree and branches suggests (contrary to the social reality) that only a small minority of Israel (‘some’ branches) have ‘fallen away’. Paul is here speaking to Gentile Christians who are not to ‘boast over the original branches’ (v. 18), even though some of these have, at present, been ‘cut off’ (vv. 17, 20) – due to human failure, not by a divine decree. Gentiles are admonished to remain in faith so that they will not be ‘broken off’ as well (v. 22). Here the idea of divine hardening would be out of place. But God has the power to graft back again those Israelites who have fallen, ‘if they do not persist in their unbelief’ (v. 23). God deals equally with everybody, Jews as well as Gentiles, depending on whether they continue in his kindness or fall into unbelief. The tone is similar to that found in the section 9.30– 10.21: the plight of Israel is due to its own false attitude. But now there is hope in the air as well: the situation can be changed. And indeed a miracle will happen. Paul discloses a ‘mystery’: the hardening will not be final. When the ‘full number of the Gentiles’ has ‘come in’, then59 all Israel – not just a remnant60 – will be saved (11.25). Paul appeals to a word of Isaiah which he seems to connect with Christ’s parousia:61 ‘The Deliverer will come from Zion, he will banish ungodliness from Jacob ...’ (vv. 26– 27). This will happen because the Israelites are ‘beloved for the sake of their forefathers’; ‘the gifts and the call of God are irrevocable’ (v. 29). Paul implies that he has received this knowledge (a ‘mystery’) as a revelation, possibly through a spirit-guided exegesis of Scripture. The bold idea of the salvation of ‘all Israel’ differs completely both from the stern judgement Paul had presented in 1 Thess. 2.14–16 (supposing that these verses are not an interpolation) 62 and from his attitude to Israel in Galatians. 59  The expression καὶ οὕτως can be taken in a temporal sense (‘then’) which does not exclude a modal nuance either (‘in this manner’): Jewett, ibid., 701. 60  No mitigation of this expression should be accepted. For such attempts see, e.g., Wright, Climax, 250–51: the salvation of all Israel means that Gentiles will join Abraham’s family; Schnelle, Paulus, 389: Paul is only thinking of that part of Israel which will come to believe in Jesus. Correctly Jewett, Romans, 702: ‘It seems most likely that Paul’s “mystery” was believed to include all members of the house of Israel, who, without exception, would be saved.’ 61  Thus, e.g., Jewett, ibid., 704 (contra, e.g., Wright, Climax, 250). Some scholars decline the connection with parousia, thinking that Paul has a spectacular future success of the mission among Jews in mind: Sanders, Paul, 196; J. Becker. Paulus: Der Apostel der Völker (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1989), 500–501. Since the returning Christ should come from heaven, not from Zion, Paul may simply be referring to Jesus’ ‘first’ coming (in which case the future tense only indicates that this was a future event for Isaiah). In addition, the other passages in which Paul deals with the parousia (1 Thess. 4, 1 Cor. 15) are difficult to harmonize with this one. Kuula (who accepts the parousia interpretation) notes that ‘Paul has not consistently integrated the idea of the conversion of the whole Israel into his overall scheme of the parousia’ (Romans, 338). A very peculiar interpretation is given by Nanos, Mystery, 278–79: the one who will come ‘from Zion’ is Paul himself, returning from his journey to Jerusalem! 62  They are considered an interpolation by B. A. Pearson, ‘1 Thessalonians 2.13–16: a Deu-

Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11

79

Therefore some scholars assume that Paul’s theology developed in this regard essentially between Galatians and Romans. 63 But the thesis of this section is also completely different from Paul’s thesis a couple of pages before in chapter 9. This fact militates against the development theory (unless one assumes that Paul’s theology took a decisive new turn during a possible dictation break between Romans 9–10 and Romans 11 – or between 11.10 and 11.11!). 64 Recently a novel interpretation of Romans 11.25–27 has gained some ground: Paul is taken to presuppose that Israel will be saved independently of Christ’s work, simply on the basis of God’s covenant with Abraham. On this interpretation, faith in Christ is the intended road to salvation for Gentiles, but not for born Jews. Paul is thought to maintain a theology of ‘two covenants’: Jews will be saved because of the covenant with the fathers, and Gentile Christians because of the new covenant established in Christ. 65 This theory is often connected with the idea that Paul remained a practising ‘good Jew’, fully loyal to his old tradition. 66 The theory is admirable in its ecumenical scope, but there is very

tero-Pauline Interpolation’, HTR 64 (1971): 79–94, and many others. Sänger, Verkündigung, 196 note 737, tries to harmonize 1 Thess. 2.14–16 with Romans 11 in a singularly unconvincing manner: Paul is aggressive in writing 1 Thess., as he knows that the Jews are sawing their own branch since the salvation of Gentiles is a necessary condition for their own salvation. On this reading, the salvation of Israel is a special concern of Paul in 1 Thess. 2.14–16. No wonder Sänger omits to comment on the divine wrath εἰς τέλος of v.  16b. 63  U. Wilckens, Der Brief an die Römer, Bd.  2: Röm 6–11 (EKKNT VI/2; Köln: Benziger, 1980), 185; Hübner, Gottes Ich, 134. 64  Some interpreters do assume that in 11.11–32 Paul puts forward something which he did not yet have in mind when he expressed his sorrow in 9.1–3; e.g., N. Walter, ‘Zur Interpretation von Römer 9–11’, ZTK 81 (1984): 172–95, esp. p.  176. This is, of course, not impossible, provided that one does not build a full theory of theological development on this foundation (in which case it seems odd that Paul did not delete Romans 9 altogether). On the other hand, G. Strecker, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1996), 220, regards Rom. 11.25–27 as a mere tactical concession due to the ‘church-political’ situation, to be assessed critically in light of Paul’s own theology of justification by faith. 65  E.g., Gaston, Paul; Gager, Reinventing. 66  Thus Nanos, Mystery. Gager, building on the work of Gaston and Stowers, passionately argues that Paul presented no criticism at all of the Torah. All critical points about curse, condemnation and death concern the Torah only in the case that it is imposed on Gentiles: (‘W)hen Paul appears to say something (e.g., about the law and Jews) that is unthinkable from a Jewish perspective, it is probably true that he is not talking about Jews at all. Instead we may assume that the apostle to the Gentiles is talking about the law and Gentiles’ (Reinventing, 58, in the original italicized). This ‘new Paul’ is a highly unlikely creation. Paul himself states quite clearly that he, ‘being all things to all men’, lives among Jews ‘as if he were a Jew’ (1 Cor. 9.20); he has become as one of the Galatian Gentiles (Gal. 4.12). The view of Paul as a ‘good Jew’ leaves unexplained why he was repeatedly whipped in the synagogue (2 Cor. 11), why he got the reputation of seducing others away from the law (Acts 21) or why conservative Jewish Christians still in the second century regarded him as their worst enemy. It is another thing that Paul always regarded himself as a Jew, and as one of the few true Jews at that. Cf. already D. W. Riddle, ’The Jewishness of Paul’, JR 23 (1943): 240–44, esp. p.  244: ‘Always regarding himself as a faithful and loyal Jew, his definitions of values were so different from those of his

80

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

little exegetical evidence for it. 67 The ‘mystery’ of Romans 11 is a tenuous basis for an assertion which would nullify everything that Paul writes elsewhere (including Romans 10!) about the crucial significance of Jesus for all humanity, for the Jew first (!) and also for the Greek. The idea of the salvation of ‘all Israel’ – in whatever way this is conceived to happen – is at odds with Paul’s other statements and has rightly been called a ‘desperate theory’.68 When Paul ends up by emphasizing that God’s promises to his people will after all remain valid, he is in fact defending his own mission: what happens in the near future will justify his liberal practice which has upset born Jews. Much is made of the parable of the olive tree in Romans 11 by those who emphasize Paul’s continuity with Judaism. But this parable does not reflect Paul’s usual ‘ecclesiology’ (which is that of the body of Christ). Paul’s all-important ‘in Christ’ language is missing in Romans 9–11 altogether. Paul’s normal position is, in Sanders’ words, that both Jews and Gentiles had to ‘join what was, in effect, a third entity’.69 On that basis, Paul could have devised a parable of a third olive tree into which faithful Jews and converted Gentiles were ‘grafted’: in the church of Christ Jewish and Gentile Christians lived together without scrupulously observing the revealed Torah, the central symbol of Jewish identity – a practice which brought Paul the reputation of being a renegade (Acts 21.21, 28). From the viewpoint of a non-Christian Jew, Paul’s vision of the salvation of all Israel is not nearly so generous as many Christians, often in connection with Jewish-Christian dialogue, tend to think. In effect, Paul is saying that Jews will be saved since they will eventually become Christians, so that the eschatological ‘mystery’ assures ‘the ultimate vindication of the church’.70 This salvation is for non-Christian Jews ‘a bitter gospel not a sweet one’ because it is conditional precisely on abandoning their separate cultural and religious identity.71 ‘If the only value and promise afforded the Jews, even in Romans 11, is that in the end they will see the error of their ways, one cannot claim that there is a role for Jewish existence in Paul.’72 From a traditional Jewish perspective Paul’s theolo-

contemporaries that, notwithstanding his own position within Judaism, he was, from any point of view other than his own, at best a poor Jew and at worst a renegade.’ 67  Paul states in 1 Cor. 9.20 that even Jews must be ‘won’, i.e., converted. If Jews were not expected to believe in Jesus, why should Paul complain about their unbelief (Rom. 11.20, 23) or disobedience (11.31)? What is supposed to arouse the ‘jealousy’ of Israel, if the Gentiles have not gained anything that Israel would not possess already? For a fuller critique see Räisänen, ‘Paul, God, and Israel’, 189–92. 68 Kuss, Römerbrief 3, 792; similarly Sanders, Law, 198; Kuula, Romans, 344. 69 Sanders, Law, 172. 70  R. M. Ruether, Faith and Fratricide: The Theological Roots of Anti-Semitism (New York: Seabury, 1974), 105–6. Sänger, Verkündigung, tries to refute Ruether’s thesis, but unintentionally ends up by confirming her point: see my review in JBL 116 (1997), 374–75. 71 Boyarin, Radical Jew, 152. 72  Ibid., 151.

Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11

81

gy, even in Rom. 11, is ‘supersessionist’73 and it may even have done a lot of harm to Jews, as it has kindled Christian hopes for their grand-scale conversion. Since this has not happened, the disappointment has been ever so great (playing a part in the hardening of old Luther’s attitude, for instance). God may not have rejected his people (11.1–2), but by the end of chapter 11 Paul has in effect rejected the arguments he had set forth in chapter 9. To be sure, everything still depends in 11.25–32 on God’s sovereign action, but all emphasis now rests on his compassionate mercy. One gets the impression that even the sin and disobedience of all, Jews as well as Gentiles, is willed and effected by God (a thesis which stands in sharp contradiction to Romans 1–2) so that he can show his irresistible grace towards all and sundry: ‘God has consigned all men to disobedience, that he may have mercy upon all’ (v. 32). The section fittingly ends with a doxology that praises the endless richness of God’s wisdom.74

3. Paul’s Dilemma Paul’s arguments fluctuate back and forth, as if he is desperately searching for a solution to the problem of continuity and discontinuity which is, however, too difficult to be solved.75 He tries different solutions: (1) Israel as a people was never chosen by God. God has in advance elected only a small ‘remnant’ to be saved. The others he has from the start prepared for destruction; they have been hardened by him. Salvation depends on God’s arbitrary choice. Many interpreters (notably Dunn) fail to take this side of Paul’s argument seriously. Explaining away Paul’s clear statements on God’s arbitrary manner of acting in this passage makes it easier for them to assert that the argument of Romans 9–11 is coherent. (2) God has not hardened anyone. Israel herself has been stubborn; those (Jews or Gentiles) who accept Christ in faith will be saved. (3) God has provisionally hardened the great majority of the people of Israel. In the end, however, the whole people will be saved, since God has in his grace elected it long ago. Salvation is based on the promises given by God to (the patriarchs of) Israel. Undoubtedly Paul has Jewish Christians in mind when he speaks of God’s merciful election in 9.6–23 (the first solution). The shape of his argument pre73 Boyarin, ibid., 202. To be sure, the doctrine is nevertheless not ‘anti-Judaic’ (correctly Boyarin, ibid., 205). 74  Some scholars think that by resorting to a doxology, Paul tacitly admits that he has landed in a cul-de-sac; cf. Kuss, Römerbrief 3, 826; Walter, ‘Zur Interpretation’, 177. 75  In a similar vein, e.g., Ruether, Faith, 105–6; Kuss, Römerbrief 3, 825; Sanders, Law, 197–99; Theissen, ‘Röm 9–11’; Walter, ‘Zur Interpretation’, 173, 176: Paul is attempting to ‘square the circle’; Schnelle, Paulus, 390; Lüdemann, Paul, 162.

82

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

vents him, however, from spelling this out; otherwise the train of thought which rests on God’s total sovereignty would lose its force. One of the many peculiarities of this section is the fact that ‘faith’ is not mentioned in it at all.76 The opposite of ‘works’ is here not ‘faith’ (as usually in Paul) but ‘his call’ (v. 12). Nor would a mention of ‘faith’ fit into this passage; it would damage it. Where any human activity is excluded, even faith inevitably disappears from the picture. In Romans 9.6–23 Paul speaks as if humans are saved simply by God’s arbitrary action: their destinies are decreed by God before they are born. Verse 14 shows that Paul is not insensitive to the problematic nature of this thesis. He even tries to refute some predictable objections, but all he can do is to assert that the Almighty cannot be unjust since he has the power to do whatever he wants. In all this, however, Paul is not developing a ‘doctrine’; he is wrestling with a burning practical mission problem: why does Israel not accept the message? Elsewhere (2 Cor. 4.3–4) Paul occasionally attributes the blindness of the unbelievers not to the God of Israel, but to the ‘god of this aeon’. This fact shows for its part how far he is from possessing a consistent ‘doctrine’ of divine hardening. The introduction of Satan into Rom. 9 as the cause of Israel’s stubbornness would have totally destroyed the argument based on God’s sovereignty. Compared with the general tenor of his letters, Paul here goes ‘too far’, as the argument leaves no room for faith. The idea of double predestination emerges as a side effect: it is an argument which Paul tries, but which he soon drops. In Romans 11.25–36, by contrast, he seems to go ‘too far’ in the opposite direction. In fact the logic of the argument would here seem to lead to the notion of apokatastasis, the ‘restoration’ of all: ‘God has consigned all men to disobedience, that he may have mercy upon all’ (v. 32).77 Here, too, faith seems dispensable; God’s overwhelming grace is enough. The difference of this assertion from the roughly parallel statement in Gal 3.22 is instructive. The latter belongs to a context where the realization of God’s plan is connected with ‘justification by faith’ (as usual in Galatians): ‘The Scripture consigned all things to sin, that what was promised to faith in Jesus might be given to those who believe.’ It is difficult to emphasize human faith and divine omnipotence simultaneously. In fact, the most ‘normal’ passage in the self-contradictory section Romans 9–11 is, in light of the total picture that emerges from Paul’s letters, the middle part (9.30–10.21) which stresses the crucial nature of a faith decision (10.9–13) and the importance of the task of proclaiming the gospel.78

76 

Cf. Kuss, Römerbrief 3, 709; Hübner, Gottes Ich, 24–25. Some scholars think, however, that the ‘universalist’ idea of the salvation of all and sundry was indeed Paul’s ultimate aim in this section; see Jewett, Romans, 712: ‘The expectation of universal salvation in this verse is indisputable, regardless of the logical problems it poses for systematic theologians.’ 78  Cf. Kuula, Romans, 331. 77 

Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11

83

With all its tensions, Rom. 9–11 vividly illustrates how central and how difficult the questions of identity and continuity were for Paul. The section shows him in a struggle to legitimate his mission and to assert his and his little group’s identity in terms of traditional values. If God has made Jesus Christ the only road to salvation, his covenant with Israel and his election of the people seem to lose their significance. Yet Scripture affirms that the covenant will be valid forever and that the Torah is given as an eternal order. In Romans 9–11 Paul defends both the new and the old order of salvation, but the attempt to do justice to both inevitably ends up in contradictions. In the olive tree parable, Paul talks as if his church were a mainstream synagogue with some new proselytes from which a few apostates have been expelled. The social reality was quite different: to speak in the language of the parable, almost all old branches had been ‘cut off’ and a very small number of new branches of a ‘wild olive tree’ had been ‘grafted’ onto the old tree. In Rom. 11 Paul attempts to argue for salvation-historical continuity, but without much success. In the end, he resorts to the desperate idea that the continuity will be realized at the parousia at the latest. ‘Paul’s fundamental will is to establish a continuity since God’s trustworthiness demands it, but the inevitable logic of his soteriology speaks against it.’79 For Paul, ‘two loyalties were absolute and both were constitutive of his identity: to Jewishness and to Christ. Neither was negotiable, intellectually or emotionally...’80 It is the tension between a novel liberal practice and the pressure towards a more conservative ideology that gets Paul into difficulty. His practice, the abandonment of circumcision and food laws, amounted to a break with sacred tradition; but his legitimating theory in Romans stresses continuity, so that he can even assert that it is he who truly ‘upholds the law’ (Rom. 3.31).

4. Yet Once More: Consistency and Inconsistency I return to the issue of consistency that has become a watershed in Pauline scholarship. It may be mentioned as a footnote to the history of Finnish studies on Paul81 that I first became aware of the tensions in the thought of the apostle when preparing The Idea of Divine Hardening, a book that appeared in 1972. 82 In this early work I was comparing qur’anic and biblical texts that dealt with 79  Kuula, ibid., 344. Kuula astutely observes that ‘Paul finds himself in a similar situation to the wretched “I” in Rom. 7: his will points to one direction but the hard facts of reality in another.’ 80  J. L. Houlden, The Public Face of the Gospel: New Testament Ideas of the Church (London: SCM, 1997), 35; cf. Sanders, Law, 199. 81  This article first appeared in a volume concerned with Finnish studies on Paul (The Nordic Paul: Finnish Approaches to Pauline Theology, L. Aejmelaeus & A. Mustakallio, eds.; LNTS 374; London: T&T Clark, 2008). 82  H. Räisänen, The Idea of Divine Hardening: A Comparative Study of the Notion of

84

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

God’s ‘negative’ activity (such as hardening people or leading them astray). At this point I was not yet aware of the many problems involved in Paul’s treatment of the law; I was introduced to them a few years later through Hans-Joachim Schoeps’s work. But already at that early stage, after a rather sketchy discussion of the idea of hardening in Romans 9–11, I could not but conclude that contradictory trains of thought are present in these chapters. I found guidance and support in liberal German scholarship;83 Hardening largely follows scholars of older generations such as Otto Pfleiderer, Heinrich Julius Holtzmann and Heinrich Weinel. 84 It may be more interesting, though, to take note of the stimuli provided by the commentary on Romans by C. H. Dodd.85 Dodd greatly appreciates Paul, but he does not shrink from singling out points where the apostle, in his opinion, presents a bad argument or is simply wrong. For example, the prediction of the conversion of the Jews appears artificial from a modern standpoint, but in addition it is ‘doubtful whether it is really justified on Paul’s own premisses’. There are two divergent and ‘perhaps inconsistent lines’ in his argument, as Dodd cautiously formulates. Either the nation of Israel is the heir of the promise, or its place has been taken by ‘the New Israel, the body of Christ in which there is neither Jew nor Greek’. In the latter case there is no ground for allowing special treatment for the nation of Israel. Dodd notes that ‘Paul tries to have it both ways. We can well understand that his emotional interest in his own people, rather than strict logic, has determined his forecast.’86 In the hardening passage Rom. 9.17–23 Paul takes ‘a false step’ and ‘pushes what we must describe as an unethical determinism to its logical extreme’.87 The comparison with the potter which represents God ‘as a non-moral despot’ is ‘the weakest point in the whole epistle’, but then again it does not remain Paul’s last word. 88 In not being afraid of ‘calling a spade a spade’ Dodd represents British common sense thinking at its best. In this tradition I have later found a fair number of like-minded Divine Hardening, Leading Astray and Inciting to Evil in the Bible and the Qur’an (PFES 25; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 1972, 21976). 83 I guess that more modern German commentaries were mostly too theological in a ‘roundabout’ way (more or less covering up the internal discrepancies) to be really helpful. 84 Räisänen, Hardening, 79, 85–86. 85  Ibid., 79–83. 86  C. H. Dodd, The Epistle of Paul to the Romans (MNTC; London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1947), 182–83. 87  Dodd, ibid., 157–58. Jewett, Romans, 585–86 counters Dodd by stressing that Paul’s rhetoric worked among his audience, since the idea of hardening ‘was widely accepted throughout biblical literature. That Yahweh would harden Pharaoh’s heart was repeatedly stated in the exodus narrative ... There was no scandal in reiterating this theme for Paul’s audience... Paul applies the widely shared teaching about Pharaoh’s hardening in order to make the much more controversial case that God’s mercy is sovereign.’ But to bring out this positive intention, no emphasis on the hardening would have been necessary. 88 Dodd, Romans, 159.

Chapter 4: Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11

85

estimations of such points in Paul’s thought that I must consider self-contradictory.89 As stated in the beginning, biblical scholars are often quite reluctant to admit contradictions in Paul’s thought. Such an assumption is often regarding as a last resort. Yet I had to note in connection with Hardening that Christian scholars have not had inhibitions when it comes to pointing out self-contradictions, or ethically problematic features, in a foreign tradition – in the Qur’an or, say, in Qumran.90 In connection with the New Testament, however, one prefers to speak of paradoxical tension and the like. Behind many (not all!) 91 criticisms of the thesis that Paul is inconsistent lurks religious anxiety. As one critic states, it is important to find ‘coherence in Paul’s argument if his theology is ultimately to inform our own perspectives and behavior’. He asks, ‘Why should I take seriously the opinions of someone who is himself so confused that he contradicts himself in the space of fifteen hundred words [Romans 9–11] on a matter central to these chapters… ?’92 It is difficult not to see here a residue of the old doctrine of inspiration, if not of inerrancy. Is there not even a ‘docetic’ tendency in the attempts to find coherence at all costs in Paul’s thought? Real humans (including great theologians of the stature of Bultmann93) are inconsistent and may well contradict themselves! Sanders’ work, which emphasizes Paul’s conflicting convictions, has the great merit of making the apostle a being of flesh and blood: Paul wrestled ‘desperately’ with his dilemmas; Sanders speaks of his ‘passion of expression’, ‘torment and passion’, anguish, fear and even doubt.94 It is also complained that if the ‘positive’ attitude in Rom. 11 is an anomaly in Paul, then it becomes difficult to use that chapter as a Christian foundation for dialogue with Jews.95 I am afraid that this is indeed the case and that we should face it. There are different ways of taking a person seriously. The religious problem is somewhat mitigated, if we can take Paul as a discussion partner rather than as an authority. Why couldn’t even a Christian join Boyarin when he states: ‘I am wrestling alongside [Paul] with the cultural issues with which he was wrestling, and I am also wrestling against him in protest against some of the answers he came up with’?96 Rather than taking any of Paul’s statements as direct answers 89 

Cf. Räisänen, Paul and the Law, 11–12. Cf. Räisänen, Hardening, 97–98. 91  The point made here cannot be applied, e.g., to the contributions of Engberg-Pedersen or Gager nor, of course, to those of the Jewish expositors of Paul, such as Boyarin. 92  D. J. Moo, ‘The Theology of Romans 9–11’, in D. M. Hay & E. E. Johnson (eds.), Pauline Theology. Vol. 3: Romans (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 240–58, esp. p.  240. 93  See above, p.  71. 94 Sanders, Law, 76, 79, 197–98. 95  Moo, ‘Romans 9–11’, 240. 96 Boyarin, Radical Jew, 3. Cf. Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics, 304. 90 

86

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

to our questions, it might be helpful to see his struggle as a potential example in our situation as well, when embracing cultural pluralism is imperative. Paul is wrestling with his sacred tradition in light of his new experience (positively, the living together of different ethnic groups in his churches; negatively, the rejection of his message by most Jews). We, too, try to make sense of our traditions in light of our experience, which includes the necessity of a critical approach to all traditions and an awareness of the terrible things that have happened and are happening in the world, partly because of some of our own traditions. It is a fair demand that an interpreter of Paul try to ‘understand’ him as far as possible – and yet one should not try excessively hard, for Paul’s is one stance in a conflict situation. If one presses equally hard to make sense of positions other than, or opposing, Paul’s, one may be forced to admit that there are problems in Paul’s position. I find ‘fair play’ all-important in biblical study, i.e., the taking seriously of the fact that we are listening to one party in a conflict in which the other side generally remains mute. Responsible scholarship must try to do justice both to Paul and to those Jews and Christians who disagreed with him. Probably every side had a point and some understandable concerns, and we should try to do justice to this diversity. Nascent Christianity was a religion with conflicting convictions. Not only were persons and groups engaged in conflict in the visible world; the struggle between tradition and innovation also took place in the microcosm of the mind and heart of Paul, a controversial Jew with conflicting convictions.

Chapter 5

Begotten by the Holy Spirit From early in the Christian era, Jesus was honoured as the Son of God by his devotees, but the title can mean different things to different people. There is no reason to assume that it necessarily indicated an ontological status, let alone a physical relation to the deity.1 Thus, at the beginning of his letter to Romans (Rom. 1.3–4), Paul quotes an early creedal statement: Jesus ‘was descended from the seed of David in terms of the flesh and was appointed Son of God in power in terms of the Spirit of holiness as from the resurrection of the dead’.2 This statement is open to different interpretations and translations. However, because ‘the two-fold structure of the statement as a whole suggests some kind of contrast between the halves’, the most natural reading on the level of the pre-Pauline tradition is that ‘Jesus was installed into a position or status that he did not have before’.3 That is, Jesus became the Son of God on the basis of his resurrection, through the intervention of God’s Spirit.4 A related point is made in sermons attributed to Peter and Paul by the author of Acts. The righteous one had been killed by lawless men, but God had raised him up from among the dead and exalted him to a place of lordship at his own right hand (Acts 2.22–36); God made the crucified Jesus Lord and Christ (v. 36). The title ‘Son of God’ does not occur here, but it is found at a comparable place in a sermon attributed to Paul, who quotes Psalm 2.7 and applies it to Jesus’ resurrection. What God had promised to the ancestors, he fulfilled ‘by raising Jesus, as also it is written in the second psalm, “You are my Son, today I have begotten you”’ (Acts 13.32–33). Even though Acts is a relatively late literary doc-

1  In the Hebrew Bible and in early Jewish tradition the term Son of God refers to different characters: of angels; Israel (Ex. 4.22f, Hos. 11.1 etc.); the righteous Israelite (esp. Wis. 2.17f). Above all, the king is regarded as God’s son, the classic example being 2 Sam. 7.14; cf. Ps. 2.7. Whether the Messiah was sometimes called the Son of God is disputed, though some Qumran fragments may indicate that he was (esp.  4Q174 = 4QFlor 1.10–11). 2  Trans. from J. D. G. Dunn, Romans 1–8 (WBC 38A; Dallas: Word Books, 1988), 4. Otherwise, biblical quotations in this essay are from the NRSV. 3 C. Tuckett, Christology and the New Testament (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2001), 50. 4  Paul changes this in that he places the formula in the overall framework of a Christology of preexistence.

88

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

ument, this christological conception must be old.5 Presumably the author had access to archaic traditions through contacts with Jewish Christian groups. Another line of thought connects Jesus’ divine sonship with his baptism. As in the statement in Romans 1.4, God’s Spirit is active in the event. At the time of the baptism, the Spirit descends on Jesus (or even into him, according to Mark) ‘like a dove’, and a heavenly voice declares him to be God’s Son (Mark 1.10–11 par). Here Jesus’ special status dates from the very beginning of his public career (earlier than his resurrection).6 In connection with the baptism, the Spirit takes possession of Jesus. In the words of Luke’s Peter, this was the moment when ‘God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power’ so that he was able to heal ‘all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him’ (Acts 10.38).7

1. Virginal Conception in Paul, Mark, or John? In time, the beginning of Jesus’ special relationship to God came to be dated even earlier, being connected by some Christians with his conception in his mother’s womb. It is true that this view is not common in the earliest sources. Paul states that Jesus was, as a real human being, ‘born of a woman’ (Gal. 4.4), but he shows no interest in the circumstances of Jesus’ birth. 8 Mark, the earliest author of a Gospel, included no birth narrative. Neither did John, who wrote a generation later and who may or may not have known the infancy stories of Matthew and Luke. 5  If a Christology ‘from below’ did not exist at an early stage, one wonders how it could have come into existence at all, given the increasing tendency to venerate Jesus in very exalted ways. 6 In one early tradition, preserved in some manuscripts in Luke 3.22, the divine voice speaks at the baptism with the words of Ps. 2.7: ‘You are my Son, today I have begotten you.’ 7  Luke betrays no awareness of a contradiction between a sonship established at the resurrection and a sonship rooted in the baptism. 8  D. Guthrie, New Testament Theology (Leicester: Inter-Varsity Press, 1981), 371 claims that the use of the word γίνομαι instead of a form of γεννάω both in Rom. 1.3 and Gal. 4.4 ‘appears to differentiate the birth of Jesus from normal human birth’. This conclusion is premature, for γίνομαι is frequently used of normal human births; for example, 1 Esd. 4.15–16 (ἐγένοντο is parallel to ἐγέννησαν); Tob. 8.6 (ἐγενήθη is used to describe the descent of humankind from Adam and Eve). Also see W. Bauer and K. Aland, Griechisch-deutsches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament (6th ed.; Berlin 1988) s.v. γίνομαι I 1 a. In addition, Justin Martyr provides telling evidence. In Dial. 67.2, his Jewish antagonist, Trypho, blames the Christians for telling myths similar to the myths of the Greeks: ‘you should be ashamed and rather claim about this Jesus that he was born as a human being from humans (ἄνθρωπον ἐξ ἀνθρώπων γενόμενον).’ Justin himself uses the same phrase in speaking of some Jewish Christians whose view he criticises (Dial. 48.4); in both cases, γίνομαι is used of a normal birth that is explicitly contrasted with a virgin birth. On the other hand, authors who do assume the virginal conception of Jesus do not shrink from using the word γεννάω: Luke 1.35, Matt. 1.20; Ign. Trall. 9.1, Smyrn. 1.1.

Chapter 5: Begotten by the Holy Spirit

89

Some have sought indications of a knowledge of Jesus’ miraculous birth in Mark and John – a knowledge that they may have presupposed their readers to possess, contenting themselves with oblique hints. A hint of this sort has been found in Mark 6.3: Jesus is called ‘the carpenter, son of Mary’ by the townspeople of Nazareth. Based on the fact that a Jewish man was normally referred to as the son of his father,9 Larry Hurtado suggests that probably ‘this matronymic reference to Jesus by those pictured in the scene as offended by him is to be taken as their “slur against his legitimacy”’.10 In Hurtado’s opinion, this sort of slur, by the time of Mark’s gospel, had already begun circulating as a Jewish polemical response against the claim that Jesus had been miraculously conceived. Mark 6.3 may be the author’s irony: ‘a derogatory comment that unwittingly says what readers can recognize as truth’. Hurtado goes even further: ‘perhaps the intended readers were expected to know the claim that he really is “son of Mary” and not the offspring of his father, Joseph, because he was conceived by divine miracle.’11 If this is true, it is likely that ‘still earlier the prior claim that Jesus was miraculously conceived […] was circulating widely enough to generate such aspersions’, and the slur ‘had to have been around long enough’ [say, a decade or more] ‘that Mark could expect his Christian readers to recognize it’ in 6.3.12 This chain of hypotheses, built on one single phrase, is extremely vulnerable. The fact that Jesus is known as the ‘son of Mary’ reflects only part of the confusion in the minds of the people of his hometown. They are just as much offended by the fact that they know Jesus’ brothers, even by name, and that his sisters are ‘here with us’. The offense thus consists in the fact that Jesus, the simple local carpenter, is too well known to the people for them to accept him as a mighty teacher and healer.13 A prophet indeed has no honour in his home-town (Mark 6.4). Hurtado pays no attention to Mark’s devaluation of the mother and brothers of Jesus in 3.20–21 and 31–35.14 It is very unlikely that an author who could 9  Matthew and Luke have, in different ways, changed the reference: ‘the carpenter’s son’ (Matt. 13.55); ‘the son of Joseph’ (Luke 4.22). 10  L. W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 319, quoting J. Marcus, Mark 1–8 (AB 27; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 375. 11 Hurtado, Lord, 319–21, differing at this point from Marcus, Mark 1–8, 375. The groundwork for this interpretation of Mark 6.3 was laid by E. Stauffer, Jesus: Gestalt und Geschichte (Dalp-Taschenbücher 332; Bern: Francke, 1957), 23. 12 Hurtado, Lord, 322. 13  Cf. R. A. Guelich, Mark 1–8:26 (WBC 34A; Dallas: Word Books, 1989), 310: The common knowledge of who Jesus really was – ‘a local son, a common, ordinary man with a trade and a family known to all’ – ‘led the townspeople to reject the alternative that God might be using him in a special way.’ Guelich concludes that, whatever the reason for the matronym, it ‘need not be a cruel insult. Neither the reference to his trade nor his brothers and sisters connotes anything pejorative.’ 14  For an analysis of the section, see my Die Mutter Jesu im Neuen Testament (AASF 247; Helsinki, 21989), 26–36.

90

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

envisage Mary believing that her son was out of his mind (a stance that Mark juxtaposes with the unforgivable assertion of the scribes that Jesus is in league with the ruler of the demons, 3.22–30) would have thought that she had conceived him miraculously. The attempts to understand Mark 6.3 as a ‘slur’ lead to overcomplicated explanations. A slur would only be understandable if it had been common town gossip that Jesus had actually been born as an illegitimate child.15 However, Mark would hardly have desired to ‘preserve for antiquarian reasons actual conversations of the inhabitants of Nazareth in Jesus’ time’,16 especially if they cast a shadow on Jesus. Moreover, if a charge of illegitimacy had been circulating from the outset of the Jesus movement, one would expect to find more hints of it in the early sources. Furthermore, to respond to this a challenge with the assertion of a virginal conception would have been to play, rather naively, straight into the hands of the opponents. The use of the matronym in informal speech (not to be confused with a genealogical formula17) is understandable because the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers, were known to the early church (Acts 1.14), whereas Joseph was not; he was probably dead by the time of Jesus’ public appearance. In John 8.41, Jesus’ Jewish opponents state in the course of a debate: ‘We are not illegitimate children.’ Some scholars think that the emphasis on ‘we’ implies: ‘but you are’: Jesus is illegitimate. With this reading, the opponents are turning the Christian conviction of a miraculous birth into malevolent slander.18 However, ‘sexual innuendo has always been a means of insult and denigration.’19 Any suggestion of illegitimacy here ‘would be extremely subtle, espe15  Thus J. Schaberg, The Illegitimacy of Jesus: A Feminist Theological Interpretation of the Infancy Narratives (The Biblical Seminar 28; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 160– 64. 16  This is correctly stated in Hurtado, Lord, 320. 17  Cf. H. K. McArthur, ‘Son of Mary’, NovT 15 (1973): 38–58, esp.  57: ‘Mary’s boy from down the street’. Of the (admittedly not very close) parallels that he mentions, Acts 23.16 (‘the son of Paul’s sister’) comes perhaps closest. 18 Guthrie, Theology, 370 (Guthrie believes this interpretation to be ‘possible’). Hurtado, Lord, 324 hesitates but notes that ‘it is curious that the Jewish crowd not only denies birth from fornication but also claims, “We have one father, God himself.”’ He goes on: ‘If John expected his readers to know the idea that Jesus was conceived directly by divine empowerment, he could have intended the crowd’s claim here to be taken as an ironic counterclaim that actually hints at the truth of Jesus’ own conception.’ Unfortunately, this theory depends on the ‘if’. If the words of the crowd imply an attack against Jesus’ putative illegitimacy, it is strange that they do not continue their attack on these grounds; instead they turn to accusing him of being a Samaritan and demon possessed (v. 48). R. E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah: A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in Matthew and Luke (New York: Doubleday, 1977), 541 states that ‘the hint of a Jewish charge of illegitimacy is more plausible here than in Mark 6:3. Yet, the charge is far from certain.’ Even this seems to be an understatement. Schaberg, Illegitimacy, 157 also finds in John 8.41 a challenge of Jesus’ illegitimacy but denies the connection with the idea of virginal conception. 19  J. D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 347.

Chapter 5: Begotten by the Holy Spirit

91

cially since previously (6:42) John has “the Jews” say that Jesus is the son of Joseph and that they know his father and mother. Could a reader, who had already read such a reference to Jesus’ parents, be expected to catch simply through an emphatic “we” a totally different charge by opponents that Jesus was illegitimate?’20 The Jewish slander, which arose as a response to Christian claims of Jesus’ virginal conception, belongs to a later period;21 Origen dealt with it in his response to Celsus (Cels. 1.32).22

2. The Virginal Conception in Luke It is Matthew and Luke who produce stories about Jesus’ birth. The two sets of stories are quite different from another.23 They are also full of traces of extensive editing and careful composition by each evangelist.24 Nevertheless, a common substratum shines through. It consists of a Hellenistic (apparently Syrian) Jewish-Christian tradition about the miraculous nature of Jesus’ birth. Jesus’ mother, Mary, who was betrothed but not yet formally married to Joseph, became pregnant without sexual intercourse. The matter was explained either to Mary (Luke) or to her fiancé (Matthew) by an angel. Luke interweaves the birth and early childhood of Jesus with related stories about John the Baptist. John is great, and his birth is nothing short of a miracle. But Jesus excels his precursor in everything; his birth is even more miraculous than John’s. John’s father, Zechariah, is visited by an angel of the Lord, who announces the birth of a son to him and his barren wife, Elizabeth. The almost-miraculous event of a child born to elderly parents, or to a barren woman who has lost all hope, stands in a venerable biblical tradition (Sarah, the mother of Isaac, and Hannah, the mother of Samuel, being the prime examples). The child in question is an extraordinary figure, and the circumstances of his birth anticipate his later life, which is totally guided by God. Subsequent tradition enhances the miraculous element (see below). 20  R. E. Brown et al., Mary in the New Testament: A Collaborative Assessment by Protestant and Roman Catholic Scholars (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1978), 205. The authors continue: even if one recognized a hint, ‘it would be an extraordinary leap from that to a Johannine affirmation of the virginal conception. The more logical conclusion would be that […] Jesus’ opponents were rejecting his references to God as Father.’ 21  See J. Maier, Jesus von Nazareth in der talmudischen Überlieferung (EdF 82; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978), 130–267. 22 The Gospel of Thomas contains a saying (logion 105) that is intriguing but difficult to interpret: ‘He who knows the father and the mother will be called the son of a harlot.’ The saying may be an early reflection of the kind of Jewish polemic known from Origen and the Talmud, but this is far from certain. 23  In particular, it is impossible to harmonize the flight to Egypt (Matt. 2.13–15) with the time frame of Luke 2, in which Jesus’ parents return to Nazareth shortly after his birth. 24  See the analyses in Brown’s magisterial Birth of the Messiah.

92

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

Luke associates Jesus’ mother with this line of women who experience unexpected births. The angel Gabriel is sent to Mary, who is introduced as a virgin engaged to Joseph. The angel announces that Mary has found favour with God. She will bear a son, Jesus, who ‘will be great and will be called Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor, David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever’ (Luke 1.32–33). In other words, Mary will give birth to the promised eschatological king; ‘Son of the Most High’ is, in this context, a messianic title that denotes the future function of the child rather than an ontological status. Jesus’ genealogical connection to his royal ‘ancestor’ David seems to be dependent on the fact that Joseph, Mary’s husband-to-be, is ‘of the house of David’ (v. 27). Thus far, the author gives no indication that the birth within a soon-to-be consummated marriage is extraordinary in any way. What is surprising is the future task of this child rather than the nature of his birth. Even the veiled language used by the angel in his reference to the actual conception in v.  35 in itself does not necessarily imply anything beyond the normal: ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.’25 The result of this divine empowering is that ‘the child will be called holy – Son of God’. ‘Son of God’ is syntactically best regarded as a loosely appended predicate to ‘holy’.26 No ontological – let alone physical – sonship seems envisaged. It is hardly far-fetched to consider this sentence to be a reference to a normal birth that is under the special care, protection and blessing of God. Luke, however, has something more special in mind, which is confirmed by Mary’s wondering question in 1.34. Any girl would probably be surprised to hear that she has been chosen to be the mother of the Messiah. This, however, is not what confuses Mary; strange as this may appear, she seems to take this part of the message for granted. She asks instead how the event is possible, since she does not ‘know of any man’. Virginity should hardly be a matter of great concern when a girl engaged to be married is promised a child.27 Mary’s question is a literary device that allows the narrator to make his point: this is an extraordinary event. The birth of Mary’s child will be (indeed, must be!) a greater miracle than the maternity of elderly Elizabeth, to which the angel refers as a confirming sign in v.  36. Following this, Gen 18.14 is quoted: ‘For nothing will be impossible with God’ (v. 37), with the effect that Mary is portrayed in parallel with 25  The verb ἐπισκιάζω recalls God’s presence in the cloud above the tabernacle in the wilderness (Ex. 40.35). 26  Thus, e.g., F. Bovon, Luke 1: A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 1:1–9:50 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 52. The alternative is to read the clause: ‘The child will be holy; he will be called the Son of God’; thus, e.g., J. A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke 1 (AB 28; New York: Doubleday, 1981), 334. For a discussion of the alternatives see my Mutter, 143–44. 27  Older Catholic expositors resorted to theories of a previous vow of virginity on Mary’s part.

Chapter 5: Begotten by the Holy Spirit

93

Sarah. If this young virgin will experience a miracle that surpasses other miracles that happened to barren Israelite women from Sarah to Elizabeth, what else could it be but a conception without the participation of any male partner at all? The Holy Spirit will produce the child. This is, for Luke, nothing short of a new act of creation, comparable to the making of the world when the Spirit of God hovered over the waters (Gen. 1.2; compare, for example, Jdt 16.14) or to the formation of Adam from the dust into which God breathed life. Luke’s story line (though not the annunciation story in itself) implies that the conception takes place immediately, perhaps even while the angel is speaking.28 The narrative as a whole is a theological composition in the style of a legend. The author makes little effort to adjust the events to real-life circumstances. Neither Mary’s fiancé nor any relatives or representatives of the patriarchal family play any role at all. Mary is the sole focus; she alone leaves for ‘a town in Judea’ (which town?) to meet her elder relative Elizabeth (Luke 1.39–40). Elizabeth immediately knows why the child in her womb leaps when Mary arrives. Filled with the Spirit, she exclaims: ‘Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb […] Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfilment of what was spoken to her by the Lord’ (1.42–45). Luke inserts a hymn (obviously of Jewish-Christian origin) in which Mary extols the great things that God has done to her in ‘regarding the lowliness of his maiden’ (1.48). Thus far, however, the narrative has not disclosed anything that may be regarded as ‘lowliness’ (ταπείνωσις) on Mary’s part – unless her virginity is regarded in this way. It is more plausible to think of elderly Elizabeth as the one whose ‘lowliness’ has been removed; indeed, some Latin manuscripts ascribe the hymn to her. Several scholars have followed suit, conjecturing that Luke wrote ‘and she said’ with Elizabeth in mind and that early copyists subsequently attributed the hymn to Mary. Yet the economy of the narrative surely requires that Mary be the speaker (otherwise Elizabeth would be speaking during the entire encounter of the two women, and Mary not at all). Luke is interested in Mary and not Elizabeth, and he has probably inserted 1.48, which connects the hymn – though not very smoothly – with the annunciation scene. The narrator connects the originally independent story of Jesus’ birth (Luke 2.1–20) with the annunciation scene by referring to Mary as Joseph’s ‘fiancée’ (2.5), even though the couple is depicted travelling as husband and wife. Apart from this editorial touch, the stories in Luke 2 do not presuppose a virginal conception. In the story of Jesus’ presentation in the temple (2.22–40), the narrator speaks quite innocently of Jesus’ ‘parents’ (2.27) or of his ‘father and mother’ (2.33, in this order!). Likewise, in the story of the boy Jesus in the tem28  In Luke 1.36, Elizabeth is said to be in the sixth month of her pregnancy; in 1.57 the time comes for her to give birth. In the meantime, pregnant Mary has visited her, staying ‘about three months’ (v. 56) with her. This leaves little, if any time between the annunciation and the conception.

94

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

ple (2.41–52), the expression ‘his parents’ is used (2.41), and notably, the mother even employs the words ‘your father and I have been searching for you’ (2.48). This usage troubled some copyists, who changed v.  33 to ‘Joseph and his mother’ and v.  41 to ‘Joseph and Mary’. It is the story of the annunciation alone that presupposes the idea of a miraculous conception,29 and even in this story it hinges on four easily detachable words (Mary’s question in 1.34b). It is tempting to assume that it was Luke himself who introduced the idea by inserting these words. However, this theory is disproven by the fact that a similar narrative structure exists behind Matthew’s story of the annunciation of Jesus’ birth – to Joseph! One is thus forced to posit a common tradition behind the two annunciation stories.

3. The Virginal Conception in Matthew Unlike Luke, Matthew does not produce a story that initiates the reader into the mystery of Jesus’ birth. He does not need to do so; he apparently assumes that his readers already know the story. The language is direct and blunt: in the words of the omniscient narrator, Mary was ‘found to be with child from the Holy Spirit’ (Matt. 1.18). Her pious husband-to-be, Joseph, is embarrassed and decides to dismiss her quietly in order not to expose her to public disgrace.30 Happily, a dream solves Joseph’s problem. An angel of the Lord tells him what the reader already knows: ‘the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit’ (1.20). Despite the objections of many interpreters, it could hardly be stated more clearly that the Spirit fulfils the role of the father in Jesus’ birth. Mary has indeed been impregnated by the Holy Spirit. For Matthew, however, the virginal conception is somewhat embarrassing – not because of any alleged Jewish slander (which belongs to a later time) but because it seems to jeopardise Jesus’ Davidic ancestry. For Matthew, it is all-important that the Messiah be a descendant of David. Thus he puts together an artful genealogy in which three series of 14 generations each (a sign of God’s providential planning) lead to Joseph (1.2–16). If, however, Jesus is not Joseph’s son, the genealogy is pointless. Matthew is eager to demonstrate that this is not 29  Luke also inserts a parenthetic explanation into his genealogy: the father of Jesus was Joseph, ‘as was thought’ (3.23). 30  Matthew does not reveal how Joseph found out. Contrast the Protevangelium of James. How Mary would have retained her honour in the long run remains a mystery; Matthew’s narrative hardly attempts historical verisimilitude. Cf. B. R. Gaventa, Mary: Glimpses of the Mother of Jesus (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1999), 41: none of the ‘various attempts to reconstruct historically the option available to Joseph […] explains how a genuinely secret or private divorce might be possible. Whatever action Joseph takes, Mary’s pregnancy will scarcely remain a secret.’ Gaventa’s paralleling of Joseph’s action with King Herod’s in Matthew 2 (both present a threat to Mary) is, however, unconvincing.

Chapter 5: Begotten by the Holy Spirit

95

the case. In what looks like an ‘enlarged footnote’31 to the genealogy, he underlines that Joseph, emphatically called ‘son of David’ by the angel, is encouraged and instructed to adopt Jesus as his legal son and thus engraft him into David’s family tree. Joseph, not Mary (as in Luke), is to give the child his name, Jesus.32 For Matthew, Jesus is the Davidic Messiah, not because of the circumstances of his birth, but almost in spite of them. Much ink has been spilled in trying to explain the occurrence of four unexpected women (Tamar, Rahab, Ruth and ‘the wife of Uriah’) in the genealogy. The inclusion of women is striking enough in itself, yet what is more surprising is the selection of these four women in particular (instead of, say, the great foremothers Sarah and Rebecca). Those women have generally been identified as anticipatory types of Mary, with particular reference to the sexual ‘irregularity’33 that can be found in the biblical stories about them. Yet the existence of sexual deviation is not clear in all four cases (least of all in the story of Ruth). It is difficult to identify a plausible common denominator among these women; the interpretation that seems to cause the fewest difficulties is that they were all perceived to be Gentiles,34 in which case any intended connection with Mary disappears. Matthew adds a reference to the Septuagint version of Isa. 7.14, which renders ‘young woman’ (‘almah) with ‘virgin’ (παρθένος): ‘Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel.’ Despite the opinion of many scholars, this reading can hardly have been the ultimate source of the notion of Jesus’ virginal conception. Isa. 7.14 was probably discovered by Matthew himself as he sought to prove that Jesus’ life fulfilled the Scriptures, after the idea of the virginal conception was already established in the tradition Matthew used.35 Jesus’ virginal conception may be difficult to grasp for some readers, but Matthew emphasises that everything has happened precisely according to God’s plan disclosed through Isa 7.14. Matthew concludes by underlining Joseph’s obedience to the angel’s instructions. At the end of the passage (1.25), however, he adds an act of piety not commanded by the angel: Joseph abstained from sexual relations with Mary 31  K. Stendahl, ‘Quis et Unde – Who and Whence? Matthew’s Christmas Gospel’, in id., Meanings: The Bible as Document and as Guide (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 76. 32  The importance of the name-giving is demonstrated by the fact that an interpretation of the name is given. 33 Brown, Birth, 74: ‘It is the combination of the scandalous or irregular union and of divine intervention through the woman that explains best Matthew’s choice in the genealogy.’ 34  H. Stegemann, ‘“Die des Uria”: Zur Bedeutung der Frauennamen in der Genealogie von Mt 1,1–17’, in G. Jeremias et al. (Hrsg.) Tradition und Glaube: Das frühe Christentum in sei­ ner Umwelt (FS K. G. Kuhn; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972), 246–76. 35  The use of the Septuagint wording in a quotation is generally an indication that it is the evangelist himself and not a predecessor who is responsible for its insertion: U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, Bd.  1 (EKK I/1; Düsseldorf & Zürich: Benziger, 2002), 143.

96

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

until the birth of her son.36 Interpreters try in vain to deny any connection between this act and the Greek motif of the father’s abstinence between conception and birth in several stories of divine begettings, such as the stories about Heracles, Plato, and Alexander.

4. Influences and Parallels The Greco-Roman world was thoroughly familiar with the idea of a miraculous (though not literally virginal) conception. This concept in general can be traced back to the birth myth of the pharaohs, who were each thought to have a divine father and a human mother.37 This myth was applied to kings (for example, Romulus, Alexander), heroes (Heracles), and philosophers (Pythagoras, Plato).38 On Jewish and Christian soil it was cross-fertilised with the biblical idea of the miraculous pregnancies of barren women. In the biblical stories, the husband is normally not excluded. Later, however, God’s part was sometimes emphasised to such a degree that the normal method of conception seemed (almost or wholly) out of the question. Philo states that the literal meaning of the story of the barrenness of Sarah, who at the age 90 finally bore a son to 100-year-old Abraham, is this: ‘it is not owing to the faculty of conception that a barren woman should bear a son, but rather to the operation of divine power’ (QG 3.18; cf. 3.56). In a famous passage from De Cherubim 40–52, Philo is often thought to presuppose a tradition of miraculous pregnancies in the cases of Sarah, Leah, Rebecca and Zipporah (the wife of Moses), though he resorts to his own allegorical interpretation: the women represent virtues that are manifested in humans by God.39 The story of the birth of Melkisedek in the Slavonic Enoch is explicit about the exclusion of the male human element.40 Melkisedek’s mother was barren, 36  It is natural to consider the sentence to imply that, after this, the marriage was consummated. 37  However, it was not denied that the Pharaoh had a human father, too. 38  E.g. Plutarch, Alex. 2.2–4; Quaest. conv. 8.1 (717 E: Plato); Diogenes Laert., Vitae 3.2 (Plato). 39  This passage played a key role in Dibelius’ derivation of the virginal conception of Jesus from Hellenistic Judaism: M. Dibelius, ‘Jungfrauensohn und Krippenkind: Untersuchungen zur Geburtsgeschichte Jesu im Lukas-Evangelium’, in id., Botschaft und Geschichte. Vol. 1: Zur Evangelienforschung (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1953), 30–35. 40  Referred to by Luz, Matthäus 144; D. Zeller, ‘Konsolidierung in der 2./3. Generation’, in D. Zeller (Hrsg.), Christentum I: Von den Anfängen bis zur Konstantinischen Wende (Die Religionen der Menschheit 28; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2002), 132. Schaberg, Illegitimacy, 220 note 202, admits that the conception of Melchisedek occurs ‘apparently without human paternity’, even though it is technically not a virginal conception (as the woman had earlier had sexual relations with her husband). This does not diminish the value of the story as a close parallel to the infancy stories of the gospels. It is not clear why Schaberg is of the opinion that

Chapter 5: Begotten by the Holy Spirit

97

never having given birth to a child by Nir, her husband. In old age ‘she conceived in her womb, but Nir the priest had not slept with her’ (2 En. 71.1–2). Nir did not believe in the innocence of his wife and wanted, rather like the Matthaean Joseph, to dismiss her. Suddenly the wife died; before she was buried, the baby was born from her corpse – a prodigious child, fully developed, physically, who ‘spoke with his lips and blessed the Lord’. Eventually Nir also praised the Lord ‘because by his word he has created a great priest, in the womb of Safonim, my wife. For I have no descendants. So let this child take the place of my descendants and become as my own son’ (2 En. 71.30–31, MS A). Hellenistic Judaism seems to have prepared the way for those Christians who resorted to the idea of a virginal conception.41 It was surely neither a question of conscious ‘borrowing’ nor an attempt to advertise Jesus to people accustomed to the divine births of their heroes.42 But the idea was ‘in the air’ in the Greco-Roman world. Christian interpreters often deny the relevance of the parallels. A typical objection is that they ‘consistently involve a type of hieros gamos where a divine male, in human or other form, impregnates a woman, either through normal sexual intercourse or through some substitute form of penetration. They are not really similar to the non-sexual virginal conception that is at the core of the infancy narratives, a conception where there is no male deity or element to impregnate Mary.’43 Of course, the cases are not completely similar. But why should this be an obstacle to considering the parallel to be an (indirect) influence – or at least an illuminating analogy? Parallels generally tend not to be perfect matches; there is always room for reinterpretation and new emphases in new contexts. Certainly, miraculous conception became, in Jewish and Christian environments, more sublime than conception in stories about gods involved in sexual relations with women – an abomination to the Jewish imagination ever since the story of the sons of God mating with mortals in Genesis 6. The begetting is not ascribed to God, but to his Spirit. This is different from the Greek tales, though one should note the sublimation already implied in the story in which Danae was impregnated by Zeus from a distance in a shower of gold and in the Egyptian idea that Apis was conceived by a ray of moonlight. At any rate, the beget‘the author is primarily depicting the appearance on earth of a superhuman, perhaps angelic, being, not the conception of a real human being’. 41  Zeller, ‘Konsolidierung’, 132. 42  Thus T. Boslooper, The Virgin Birth (London: SCM, 1962), 227–37, esp. p.  230; H. M. Teeple, How Did Christianity Really Begin? A Historical-Archaeological Approach (Evanston: Religion and Ethics Institute, 1992), 104: ‘the Christian Virgin Birth stories’ were created ‘primarily to enhance Jesus as the Christ for missionary purposes in the Greco-Roman world’. 43  R. E. Brown, The Virginal Conception and Bodily Resurrection of Jesus (New York: Doubleday, 1973), 62; cf. idem, Birth, 523. Similarly e.g. Fitzmyer, Luke I, 342.

98

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

ting by the Spirit clearly converges with the attempts of educated pagan authors, such as Plutarch, to reinterpret the mythology. In the Life of Numa (4), Plutarch states that the Egyptians believe, justifiably in his view, that ‘it is not impossible for the spirit of a god to approach a woman and procure in her certain beginnings of parturition’. In Table Talk 8.1,2 (717D), Plutarch mentions the tale of Plato’s begetting by Apollo, which he rejects because he finds it incompatible with the immutability of God, based on his belief that begetting implies a change. He reinterprets the issue: as in the creation of the world, the god activates a principle of becoming (ἀρχή) in matter, though not in the manner of human begetting (718A).44 Conception by a divine father plays a significant role in pharaonic ideology, and the texts of Plutarch that speak of conception through the πνεῦμα ‘are surely influenced by this Egyptian theology’. ‘Theogamy, divine marriage, was thus spiritualized and, as such, made more tolerable.’45 It is true that even Plutarch presents in these passages the divine operation ‘in terms which suggest immediacy, though through very refined matter’.46 Yet the material nature of the impregnating element need not mark a significant difference from the gospel accounts.47 Can one, without further ado, assume that the πνεῦμα in the gospel stories is purely immaterial? At least in the baptism stories the Spirit descends in a visible form like a dove; in the Pentecost account (Acts 2), it materialises in fiery tongues; the σῶμα πνευματικόν (1 Cor. 15.44) imagined by Paul is obviously composed of some sort of matter (however fine).48 In the ancient view, even a divine breath could work ‘materially’ in the same way as the male seed was thought to work (according to Aristotle and his school), by igniting a movement in the matter contained in the womb. Moreover, the idea of copulation with a deity is avoided in the accounts of the births of Plato or of Apollonius, which only mention a vision of Apollo or of Proteus.49 Justin was the first of many educated Christians who recognised the connection, though they explained it in different ways. Justin (Dial. 67) claimed that the Greek myths had been invented by Satan to counterfeit the subsequent, true, miraculous birth of Jesus.50

44 

G. Delling, ‘παρθένος’, TDNT V (1967): 826–36, esp. p.  830. Luke I, 46, largely following E. Norden, Die Geburt des Kindes: Geschichte einer religiösen Idee. Studien der Bibliothek Warburg 3; Leipzig & Berlin: Teubner, 1924. 46 Delling, ibid., 830. 47  Cf. Teeple, Christianity, 103: Plutarch’s idea is essentially the same as that in Matthew and Luke. 48  One often appeals to the idea that ‘for a Palestinian the very fact that the “Spirit” is feminine makes it impossible to attribute the role of the man to the pneuma’: Delling, ibid., 835–36. But this argument presupposes the very notion of sexual begetting which the same interpreters are keen on rejecting. 49  Diogenes Laert., Vitae 3.2; Philostratos, Vita Apoll. 1.4. 50  Origen takes a more positive tack in Contra Cels. 1.37. 45 Bovon,

Chapter 5: Begotten by the Holy Spirit

99

5. The Place of the Virginal Conception in Early Christianity Jesus’ special relation to God was thus retrojected to the very beginning of his life. For a significant period of time, however, this attempt to interpret and to enhance Jesus’ significance remained rather isolated. Matthew mentions the virginal conception almost in passing, because he is more concerned with solving the emerging problem.51 Luke seems, at first glance, explicitly to connect the virginal conception with Jesus’ divine sonship (Luke 1.34–35). Strikingly, however, Luke’s birth Christology apparently makes no significant difference to his unfolding narrative. As we saw above, Jesus is proclaimed God’s Son by the divine voice at his baptism, and in Acts, God’s raising of Jesus from the dead is singled out as the beginning of Jesus’ divine sonship. Luke makes no effort to harmonise different concepts of ‘sonship’. He does not suggest that the manner of Jesus’ conception is in any way connected to the presence of a divine element within him.52 Luke 1.35 can be integrated into Luke’s overall theocentric view. Jesus is destined to be the Saviour before he is born. The verse anticipates what is to come: the Spirit guides the ministry of Jesus and gives it its stamp (Luke 3.22, 4.1,14, 10.21, Acts 10.38, cf. also Luke 4.36, 5.17). Luke 1.35 indicates that the roots of Jesus’ spirit power can be traced further back in time than his baptism.53 The annunciation story serves to underline the fact that nothing is impossible for God (Luke 1.37), suggesting an analogy between Jesus’ birth and the act of creation. The Qur’an (no doubt influenced by Jewish-Christian traditions) has developed this emphasis.54 The Qur’an accepts Jesus’ virgin birth, but denies that it indicates Jesus’ divinity; it is a sign of God’s omnipotence. ‘God creates what He will. When he decrees a thing He does but say to it “Be”, and it is’ (3.47). An 51  Matthew, too, has a view of Jesus as a Son of God with transcendent connotations (cf. Matt. 2.15, 3.17, 17.5, 21.37; ‘the Son’ in 11.27, 21.38, 24.36, 28.19), but it is not clear that he connects this with the miraculous birth. Stendahl, ‘Quis et Unde’, 77 plausibly claims that ‘in Matthew the virgin birth story is theologically mute: no christological argument or insight is deduced from this great divine intervention’. 52  If it had, the conclusion would be unavoidable that the idea of virginal conception is new to Luke, who has not yet integrated it into his prevailing christology. It is in any case a plausible hypothesis that Luke added the infancy stories later to a finished gospel, or draft of a gospel, which began with Luke 3.1. See Brown, Birth, 239–50. 53  Moreover, Luke 1.35 is linguistically parallel to Luke 24.49 and epecially to Acts 1.8: ‘you [the apostles] will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you.’ Jesus’ birth from the Spirit points forward to the outpouring of the Spirit at Pentecost; in other respects, too, the Lukan Jesus is a model for his church (Räisänen, Mutter, 102). Dunn, Jesus, 348 points to a possible experiential background of the idea of Jesus’ virgin birth: ‘The believers who experienced the Spirit bringing them such a vivid sense of sonship to God [cf. Gal. 4.6–7, Rom. 8.15–17] will hardly have thought that Jesus’ sonship was of a lesser kind.’ 54  Cf. H. Räisänen, Das koranische Jesusbild: Ein Beitrag zur Theologie des Korans (Schriften der Finnischen Gesellschaft für Missiologie und Ökumenik 20; Helsinki: Missiologian ja Ekumeniikan Seura, 1971) 23–37.

100

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

explicit parallel is established between Jesus and Adam: ‘Truly, the likeness of Jesus, in God’s sight, is as Adam’s likeness; He created him of dust, then said He unto him, “Be”, and he was’ (3.59).55 With this emphasis, the Qur’an actually may be closer to the original notions of Jesus’ virginal conception than later ecclesiastical thought on this matter. The idea of a virginal conception is not found in those first-century writings that presuppose preexistence (the letters of Paul and the gospel of John in particular). If the manner of Jesus’ birth is understood to make Jesus the Son of God in an ontological sense, this idea seems conceptually incompatible with the idea of the incarnation, which regards Jesus as a preexistent being. The systematic theologian Wolfhart Pannenberg argues that there is a much sharper contradiction between preexistence and virgin birth than between preexistence and installation into a status by resurrection. An eternal sonship, he thinks, is compatible with the idea that this sonship is publicised later (by resurrection). By contrast, eternal divine sonship is incompatible with the idea that the foundation of the sonship is only laid within time. If Jesus’ divine sonship is based on his divine begetting in the womb of Mary, it cannot have preexisted in a transcendent world.56 Gerald Downing puts the matter nicely: It may well seem that originally virgin birth and incarnation (as we have come to term them) were alternatives. In Matthew and in Luke as they stand, and despite the genealogies, Jesus has no human progenitor; Mary receives a specially created seed and provides the fertile field in which it grows, and that is the starting point for this Son of God. Rather differently, John (John 7.42) and Hebrews (Heb. 7.14) and Paul (Rom. 1.3; 9.5) suggest a starting point for the Son of God prior to his taking on a human life, but a human life which was of the seed of Abraham and of David.57

It is another matter that early Christians were fully capable of combining concepts that seem logically incompatible. Ignatius of Antioch is the first author to combine both traditions.58

55  Consequently, Jesus can be called the ‘word’ of God in the Qur’an (4.171) – not in the sense of the Johannine Logos, but because his birth was due to God’s creative command, Be! Correspondingly, Jesus is in 4.171 designated ‘a spirit from Him’ [God]; since God gave life to Jesus by ‘breathing his spirit’ into Mary (21.91, 66.12) – another expression also used in the Koran (in accordance with Genesis) of the creation of Adam (15.29 etc.). Translations according to A. J. Arberry, The Koran Interpreted (The World’s Classics; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986). 56  W. Pannenberg, Grundzüge der Christologie (Gütersloh: Mohn, 21966), 142. 57  F. G. Downing, ‘An Iconological Argument’, in G. J. Brooke (ed.), The Birth of Jesus: Biblical and Theological Reflections (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 101–10, esp. p.  101. 58  To be sure, the accuracy of this statement depends on the dating of the Odes of Solomon, where the same combination occurs (the virgin birth in 19.6–11; preexistence e.g. in 7.4–7, 41.11–15). The combination also occurs in the apology of Aristides; however see the caveats (in view both of the condition of the text and of the uncertainty of dating) expressed by H.

Chapter 5: Begotten by the Holy Spirit

101

The above theological critique pertains to Christologies that make the divine sonship of Jesus dependent on the manner of his birth. It does not apply if the ‘begetting by the Spirit’ is taken in a weaker sense (as outlined above in the section examining Luke’s presentation of the matter) to show that the existence of Jesus is rooted in God’s Spirit. But it does apply to the ecclesiastical Christologies that governed the field beginning in the middle of the second century. The poetic passage Ign. Eph. 7.2 already contains ‘the kernel of the later two-nature Christologies’59: Jesus is seen as ‘both fleshly and spiritual, begotten and unbegotten, God come in the flesh […] both of Mary and of God’. This is the earliest known statement that unequivocally establishes a causal connection between Jesus’ divinity and his virginal conception, even combining the mutually incompatible notions of virginal birth and eternal preexistence. Yet even here, the mention of the mother primarily ‘emphasizes the true humanity of Jesus and not the supernatural birth’. 60 Ignatius, Eph. 18.2 speaks of ‘Jesus the Christ, our God, who was carried in the womb by Mary according to God’s plan – of the seed of David and of the Holy Spirit’. Ignatius draws on the tradition of Rom. 1.3–4, but instead of a two-stage Christology, as in Romans, Ignatius introduces virtually a two-nature Christology. Unlike Rom. 1.4 (or even Luke 1.35), the Spirit is here not the agent of a new act of God. The statement describes what the preexistent Jesus always was. Ignatius, Eph. 19.1 mentions three ‘mysteries’ that ‘eluded the ruler of this age’. They are ‘the virginity of Mary and her giving birth and the death of the Lord’. Presumably, ‘the cosmic events described in this section were set forth by Ignatius to defend in greater detail the reality of their earthly components – the incarnation and the passion’.61 According to Ign. Trall. 9.1, Jesus was ‘of the family of David, of Mary’; he was ‘truly born, both ate and drank, was truly persecuted […] was truly crucified and died’. Again, the reference to Jesus’ birth is used as an argument in a debate against Docetism. Mary is mentioned as a guarantor of Jesus’ true humanity. 62 Indeed, the virgin birth only became important in the second century.63 Its presence in Matthew and Luke in due time established it as a basic ‘Christian truth’ that came to underline the divinity of Jesus. It was, however, sternly denied for centuries by a branch of Jewish Christianity that held fast to the view that Jesus was a ‘mere man’, ‘engendered from sexual intercourse and the seed of Freiherr von Campenhausen, Die Jungfrauengeburt in der Theologie der alten Kirche (SHAW; Heidelberg: Winter, 1962), 15 n.  1. 59  W. R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch: A Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 60. 60  Ibid., 61–62. 61  Ibid., 87. 62  Cf. also Smyrn 1.1. 63  See the excellent account in von Campenhausen, Jungfrauengeburt.

102

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

a man, namely Joseph’. 64 Origen even refers to some Gentile Christians who continued, in his time, to deny the virgin birth (Comm. Matt. 16.12). 65 In Gnostic-Christian literature, the Gospel of Philip (55.23–27) also seems to polemicise against the virginal conception.66 In most layers of early Christian tradition there is little interest in the mother of Jesus. Mark portrays her and her other sons in an almost hostile tension with Jesus who, they think, has gone mad (Mark 3.21, a comment understandably dropped both by Matthew and Luke). By contrast, Luke sketches a sympathetic picture of Mary as an exemplary Christian woman – a humble listener to the divine word spoken to her (cf. Luke 2.18, 2.51, 8.19–21).67 John introduces the mother in key scenes at the beginning and end of Jesus’ career (2.1–11; 19.26– 27), but her role remains somewhat vague. However, one gets the impression that she was regarded as a person of rank in John’s circle. The second-century Protevangelium of James venerates Mary even more. In this novelistic work Jesus is totally eclipsed by his mother. ‘A reader who knew only the Protevangelium might reasonably conclude that Mary is the holy figure and that Jesus’ holiness derives from hers.’68 ‘James’ relates stories about the life of young Mary in ‘sacred purity’ (spent in priestly custody in the temple which is described with paradisal overtones), of her engagement to the old widower Joseph, and of the seemingly scandalous but actually miraculous circumstances of her pregnancy. The delivery itself is also miraculous; a midwife testifies that it did not affect Mary’s virginity (virginitas in partu). 69 The birth is painless as well, thus proleptically undoing the curse on Eve (Gen. 3.16). Mary appears as a new Eve, the prototype of a redeemed woman.70 The combination of this sort of popular storytelling with the hoary tradition of mother goddesses (in Ephesus in particular) later produced a doctrinal Mariology and a multifaceted cult of the Virgin. After the second century, the virgin birth of Jesus was gradually separated from Christology and became associated with Mariology.

64 Justin,

Dial. 48.4; Epiphanius, Pan. 30.2.2; cf. 30.14.2; 69.23.1. von Campenhausen, Jungfrauengeburt, 17 with n.  4. 66  ‘Some said, “Mary conceived by the holy spirit.” They are in error. They do not know what they are saying. When did a woman ever conceive by a woman? Mary is the virgin whom no power defiled. She is a great anathema to the Hebrews who are the apostles and [the] apostolic men.’ Trans. by Wesley W. Isenberg in NHL. The Holy Spirit, or Sophia Achamoth, is here a female character. The following section 55.33–36 shows that Jesus did have an earthly father (Joseph), otherwise he would ‘not have said “My [father who is] in heaven”’, but simply ‘my father’. See M. Franzmann, Jesus in the Nag Hammadi Writings (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 49–50. 67 Räisänen, Mutter, 118–24. 68 Gaventa, Mary, 119. 69  Another popular tradition has it that Mary did not need a midwife at all, since the birth was totally painless (Od. Sol 19; Asc. Isa 11.1–16); in the latter text the birth is clearly docetic. 70  The new Eve motif is also found in Justin, Dial. 100,4–6. 65 

Chapter 5: Begotten by the Holy Spirit

103

In the anti-Docetic battle beginning with Ignatius, the virginal conception safeguarded the reality of the incarnation. It may have had some plausibility as an argument against those who claimed that Jesus was not born at all but just appeared on earth (Marcion) or that the divine Christ ‘passed through Mary as water through a tube’ (Valentinus). Nevertheless, a normal birth would surely have been a stronger proof. In fact, Marcionites or Valentinians or others in the same vein were actually able to accept the virginal conception; they simply interpreted it in their own ways, and indeed the idea of a miraculous, painless birth actually lent itself well to Docetic interpretations.71

6. Epilogue In modern times, doubts have been expressed, even by a great number of Christian theologians, concerning not only the biological credibility but also the theological adequacy of the doctrine of Jesus’ virginal conception. Arthur Peacocke concludes that ‘theologically speaking the doctrine of the virginal conception is actually “docetic” in its implications’. ‘In the light of our biological knowledge’, it is ‘impossible to see how Jesus could be said to share our human nature, if he came into existence by a virginal conception of the kind traditionally proposed.’72 Still, the idea may retain theological significance as a symbolic statement which underlines the meaning of Jesus’ life. In tension with preexistence Christology, the idea of virginal conception may be considered to be part of a ‘Christology from below’: a human being is provided with a special task and ability from the beginning of his life. When the continuity of this notion with earlier conceptions of sacred marriage in ancient cultures is acknowledged, it is possible to appreciate the common tradition that unites, all reinterpretations and refinements notwithstanding, Christianity (and even Islam) with age-old traditions of humanity.

71  Testim. Truth 45.6–18: ‘John was begotten by the word through a woman, Elizabeth; and Christ was begotten by the word through a virgin, Mary […] John was begotten by means of a womb worn with age, but Christ passed through a virgin’s womb […] she was found to be a virgin again.’ Trans. by S. Giversen and B. A. Pearson in NHL. Cf. Franzmann, Jesus, 52, 54. 72  A. Peacocke, ‘DNA of Our DNA’, in G. J. Brooke (ed.), The Birth of Jesus: Biblical and Theological Reflections (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 65.

Chapter 6

The Prodigal Son in a Far Country: Finnish Scholars Read Luke’s Parable The younger son [...] took his journey into a far country. (Luke 15.13 KJV).

1. Introduction Soon after Kari Syreeni had taken office at Åbo Akademi University, Vesa Ollilainen defended his dissertation on the Prodigal Son.1 Following mainstream scholarship he argues that the parable, practically in its present form, goes back to the historical Jesus. Naturally Ollilainen discusses other views as well. In his Introduction he mentions for the first time the minority view that the parable ‘comes from Luke’, which he later discusses in more detail. This view, he notes, is mainly represented by Luise Schottroff2 and Heikki Räisänen. I shall make a few comments on Ollilainen’s interaction with my studies towards the end of this article. First, however, I wish to call attention to an intriguing footnote, in which the author hints at the existence of a recent Finnish tradition of questioning the authenticity of the parable. This supposed tradition is, he suggests, based on an article of mine, the results of which were apparently overnight adopted by other Finns. I argued that it is unlikely that the Prodigal Son belongs to the bedrock of Jesus’ authentic teaching. A later setting in Luke’s church is probable, even though Luke has no doubt had some pieces of tradition to work with.3 Ollilainen thinks he can demonstrate an immediate Wirkungsgeschichte: Significantly, Räisänen’s position on the Lukan origin of FP [Filius Prodigus] has influenced other Finnish scholars. In his article on Luke’s message of repentance, Kiilunen (1992:110–112) appears to accept Räisänen’s position [...] Syreeni (1995:199–200) holds to 1  V. Ollilainen, Jesus and the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Åbo: Åbo Akademi, 2008). This article was first published in the Festschrift for Kari Syreeni. 2  L. Schottroff, ‘Das Gleichnis vom verlorenen Sohn und die Theologie des Lukas’, ZTK 68 (1971): 27–52. 3 H. Räisänen, ‘Luukkaan vertaus tuhlaajapojasta’, TAik 97 (1992): 177–83; idem, ‘The Prodigal Gentile and His Jewish Christian Brother: Lk 15,11–32’, in F. Van Segbroeck et al. (eds.), The Four Gospels 1992 (FS F. Neirynck; BETL 100; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1992), 1617–36.

106

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

Räisänen’s reasons for FP’s Lukan origin [...] Perhaps most illuminating, in his dissertation published before Räisänen’s article, Salo holds to the opinion that FP belongs to tradition (1991:135 n.  76: ‘It is next to impossible to find clear redactional tendencies in it’), while in his later work on Luke’s soteriology Salo considers the most natural position to be that in its present form FP arises from Lukan redaction (Salo 2003:103).4

The claim made in this little footnote, seemingly perhaps of little consequence, deserves to be scrutinised – if only to destroy any illusion that ‘follow the leader’ has ever been a methodological principle in Helsinki. I shall show that Kiilunen and Syreeni did not follow my lead. On the contrary, one meets here with a case of ‘triple attestation’: independently of each other, three Finnish scholars felt in the early 1990’s that the established conviction of the authenticity of the Prodigal Son is beset with serious problems. Afterwards one may indeed speak of a (developing) Helsinki tradition of interpreting the parable, as the writings of all three scholars on the subject have of course been available to the next generation. Still, it would be unfair to assume that younger scholars have blindly accepted the views of their teachers. After reviewing two more recent Finnish contributions to the topic (Kalervo Salo, who is mentioned in Ollilainen’s footnote, and Anni Pesonen, whose work appeared later) I shall briefly comment on Ollilainen’s treatment of my position. Sadly, I have to conclude with a comment on another casual footnote – unlike Ollilainen’s, a truly vicious one – by Richard Rohrbaugh, who asserts that my interpretation is tainted by subtle anti-Semitism.

2. Kari Syreeni Ollilainen refers to Syreeni’s Finnish book on hermeneutics of 1995, in which he is said to hold to my reasons for the Lukan origin of the Prodigal Son, set forth in my two articles in 1992. However, as early as 1987 Syreeni had stated in a book review that the authenticity of the parables in general is ‘a thorny problem’; in particular, it can be suspected that ‘the parable of the Prodigal Son is strongly shaped or even created by Luke’.5 In 1991 he contributed an article on the image of God in Jesus’ parables to a joint volume by Finnish scholars. In it, he considered the possibility that the Prodigal Son is based on the parable of two brothers which Matthew knew (Matt. 21.28–31), or something like it. But he also pointed to connections with Mark’s vineyard allegory (Mark 12.1–12), stating that ‘Luke’s brothers are a kind of combination of the figures found in Matthew [21] and Mark [12]. In Matthew, both brothers are Jews: one is a converted sinner, the other a pious one who turns out to be fraudulent. In the Prodigal 4 Ollilainen,

Jesus, 23 n.  91. K. Syreeni, ‘Review of Georg Baudler, Jesus im Spiegel seiner Gleichnisse’, TAik 92 (1987): 344 (emphasis added). 5 

Chapter 6: The Prodigal Son in a Far Country

107

Son, too, the brothers partly represent the same types: a converted wastrel and a blameless but irritated older brother.’ And as in Mark’s vineyard parable, even ‘the Lukan figures reflect the rivalry between the Gentile Christian church and Judaism: the younger brother represents the new beneficiary of the heritage of Israel who steals the favour of the father’. 6 Furthermore, Syreeni expressed doubt concerning the authenticity of the parable by noting that Joachim Jeremias’ assumption of its origin (an authentic speech of Jesus) was questionable. Yet Jeremias had correctly perceived the apologetic function of the parable, which ‘serves to legitimate the Christian world view’.7 The fact is, then, that Syreeni suspected the authenticity of the parable on one hand and found signs of the Jewish-Christian question in it on the other. That is, he made the very two points that are central to my interpretation – in 1991, a year before my articles appeared. Obviously Kari did not get his ideas from them, and in fact I referred to his work in my Finnish article of 1992. 8 When Kari’s paper was reprinted in his 1995 book, he made no changes to what he had written on the Prodigal Son, but simply appended a reference to my article in an endnote: ‘The thinness of the traditional background of the parable of the Prodigal Son and Luke’s considerable contribution to its shape are convincingly shown by H. Räisänen ...’9 It would have been more plausible for Ollilainen to suggest that Syreeni’s thoughts had influenced me, rather than vice versa, leading me to my unorthodox conclusions. Yet the truth is that I did not get my ideas from him either. I developed my view of the Prodigal Son simultaneously with Kari,10 independently of him.

3. Jarmo Kiilunen In July 1992 a Finnish Festschrift for Aimo T. Nikolainen appeared. In his contribution Jarmo Kiilunen expressed the wish that the possibility that Luke had created the Prodigal Son (even though favoured by only few scholars) be carefully considered.11 It is ‘difficult to avoid the notion that the parable about a fa6 K. Syreeni, ‘Jeesuksen vertausten jumalakuva’, in R. Saarinen & R. Uro (toim.), Jumalakuvakirja (Kirkon tutkimuskeskus A 54; Pieksämäki: Kirkon tutkimuskeskus, 1991), 19–36, esp. p.  23; reprinted in K. Syreeni, Uusi testamentti ja hermeneutiikka: Tulkinnan fragmentteja (PFES 61; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 1995), 193–215, esp. p.  199. 7  Syreeni, ‘Jeesuksen vertausten jumalakuva’, 24; idem, Tulkinnan fragmentteja, 200. 8  Räisänen, ‘Luukkaan vertaus’, 179 n.  39; ibid., 182 n.  65. This article was available to Ollilainen who refers to it in his book. 9 Syreeni, Tulkinnan fragmentteja, 214 n.  14. 10  My English article was completed in November 1991. The Finnish one was written afterwards (even though it appeared first). 11  J. Kiilunen, ‘Sanoma kääntymyksestä: Luukkaan toimintaohjelma kirkolle’, in L. Aej­

108

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

ther and his two sons in its present form stems largely from Luke’s own hand’, he wrote.12 Ollilainen infers that Kiilunen ‘appears to accept Räisänen’s position’,13 yet Kiilunen wrote his piece before my two articles were published. Since I make several references to Kiilunen’s contribution, too, in my Finnish article of 1992 (having had access to his manuscript as one of the editors of the Festschrift),14 it might have been more appropriate for Ollilainen to reach the opposite conclusion: that Kiilunen’s work had influenced mine. After all, I quote in my article those very words, in which Ollilainen finds evidence of Kiilunen adopting my position.15 But in a recent e-mail Kiilunen confirms my assumption that the three of us reached similar conclusions independently of each other. In the early 1980’s, Kiilunen was involved in the project of retranslating the Bible into Finnish. Working in the unit on Luke-Acts he became increasingly aware of Luke’s great creative contribution to the texts.16 Without denying that Luke had some traditions at his disposal he felt that ‘that tradition was very thin and of a rather vague nature’. On this background Kiilunen composed his article for the Festschrift Nikolainen. He writes to me in retrospect: I’m somewhat embarrassed to confess that it is only now, twenty years later, that I heard of Kari’s thoughts that go in the same direction. By contrast, I still remember well how surprised and glad I was when your piece in Teologinen Aikakauskirja appeared – surprised, since I did not know about your interest in the subject, and glad, since I discovered that I was not alone with my ‘radical’ thoughts.17

Jarmo also remembers something I had totally forgotten: how we wondered at the situation and were amused by it, when we met next time. He reminds me that at the time he was busy working as a Diocesan educator in the Church of Finland. There was little regular contact between us those days, which explains the fact that we did not know of each other’s activities earlier. Kiilunen shares my conclusion: Ollilainen’s assumption is mistaken. What really is ‘significant’ is the fact that the ‘testimonies’ of three independent witnesses agree.

melaeus (ed.), Aimo annos eksegetiikkaa (FS A. T. Nikolainen; Helsinki: Kirjapaja, 1992), 103–24, 110. 12  Ibid., 112. 13 Ollilainen, Jesus, 23 n.  91. 14  Räisänen, ‘Luukkaan vertaus’, 177 n.  7; 178 nn. 13, 22, 23.; 179 n.  34; 182 n.  65. 15  Ibid., 182 n.  65. 16  This insight is documented in Kiilunen’s work on the Good Samaritan: J. Kiilunen, Das Doppelgebot der Liebe in synoptischer Sicht: Ein redaktionskritischer Versuch (AASF, B 250; Helsinki: Suomalainen tiedeakatemia, 1989), 69–77, esp. p.  75–76. 17  J. Kiilunen, e-mail, October 28, 2011.

Chapter 6: The Prodigal Son in a Far Country

109

4. Kalervo Salo What Ollilainen finds ‘perhaps most illuminating’ is Kalervo Salo’s change of position: ‘in his dissertation published before Räisänen’s article, Salo holds to the opinion that FP [Filius Prodigus] belongs to tradition [...], while in his later work on Luke’s soteriology Salo considers the most natural position to be that in its present form FP arises from Lukan redaction’.18 In this case it is undeniably true that my article has had an influence. In his dissertation of 1991 Salo wrote that ‘it is next to impossible to find clear redactional tendencies’ in the parable.19 In his Finnish book twelve years later, however, he states that the theory of a mainly Lukan origin best explains the data. He notes that this interpretation has been presented in greatest detail by Heikki Räisänen, but he also refers to Luise Schottroff, Michael Goulder and Jarmo Kiilunen.20 It would be unfair to assume that the author has changed his position simply to make it conform to mine (or anyone else’s). This is how Salo himself sees the matter in retrospect: It just happened that the articles of Jarmo Kiilunen and you in particular made me rethink. What convinced me were the arguments, no matter who presented them. Regarding Luke’s other example stories, I follow Jarmo Kiilunen’s article […] The result with respect to my own work would have been the same after I had read those articles, even if I had not known who wrote them. It simply appears that, as far as Luke’s theology is concerned, the three of you have made a foundational discovery (which was not yet accessible when I was writing my dissertation).

Salo adds, with tongue in cheek no doubt, that the one thing that now annoys him is that he did not once make that discovery himself.21 It is worthwhile to note that Salo’s change of mind is part of a far-reaching reorientation: he now attributes the bulk of the ‘example stories’ in the third gospel to Luke’s editorial work. For example, in his dissertation he had stated that in Rich Man and Lazarus (Luke 16.19–31) Luke’s editorial activity is most likely ‘only linguistic in nature’22 , whereas in the later book he finds that ‘the best option is to view the text as representing Luke’s own theology’.23 The importance of the cumulative weight of the distinctively Lukan example stories, to 18 Ollilainen,

Jesus, 23 n.  91. K. Salo, Luke’s Treatment of the Law: A Redaction-Critical Investigation (AASF Diss., 57; Helsinki: Suomalainen tiedeakatemia, 1991), 135 n.  76; cf. ibid., 296. 20  K. Salo, Luukkaan teologian ydin: Luukkaan evankeliumin ja Apostolien tekojen pelastuskäsitys (PFES 84; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 2003), 103. 21  K. Salo, e-mail, February 16, 2012. 22 Salo, Luke’s Treatment, 150. 23 Salo, Luukkaan teologian ydin, 123, referring to M. Goulder, Luke: A New Paradigm (JSNTS 20; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989), and to O. Lehtipuu, Kuva kuolemanjälkeisestä elämästä Luukkaan vertauksessa rikkaasta miehestä ja Lasaruksesta (Lk 16,19– 31) (unpublished licentiate thesis; University of Helsinki, 1998). 19 

110

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

which Ollilainen pays scant (if any) attention, will hopefully become clear when this article proceeds. As for the explanation of the parable, even in 1991 (that is, before the appearance of my articles) Salo had adopted the typological interpretation on the Lukan level: ‘the parable could have been used among Luke’s audience as having implications for the unity of the church’ of Jews and Gentiles.24 In 2003 he repeats this interpretation, adding references to me and Petr Pokorný.25 In this regard there is no change of position in his work.

5. Outi Lehtipuu Outi Lehtipuu does not discuss the Prodigal Son, but since she presents analogous considerations regarding several Lukan parables, her work is relevant here. Discussing the origin of the Rich Man and Lazarus, she brings an extensive quotation from Birger Gerhardsson that serves to weaken the case for authenticity. Gerhardsson, though known as a proponent of a rather conservative view of the origin and development of the Jesus traditions, wrote: There are a number of narrative meshalim peculiar to one evangelist: one in Mark, 11 (or 10) in Matthew, 18 (or 17) in Luke. The differences between these three groups of meshalim show, I think, that early Christianity has felt itself entitled to rework some of the Master’s texts and even formulate new narrative meshalim, created in the spirit and style of Jesus, and also to put them in the mouth of Jesus. Each of the three streams of tradition reveals even in this case a certain peculiarity. Here, the freedom of re-working (sometimes creating) seems to have been considerable. This especially applies to the Lukan tradition [...] It is tempting to venture a guess. The longest and most ‘novelistic’ narrative meshalim are presumably most likely to be secondary. 26

Lehtipuu comments that Gerhardsson ‘does not give any examples of these secondary parables but it is easy to define the “longest and most novelistic” parables in the Lukan tradition: the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son, and the Rich Man and Lazarus.’27 She then discusses the issue of oral tradition and concludes: 24 Salo, Luke’s Treatment, 135–36 (with n.   77), referring to M. Klinghardt, Gesetz und Volk Gottes: Das lukanische Verständnis des Gesetzes nach Herkunft, Funktion und seinem Ort in der Geschichte des Urchristentums (WUNT 2:32; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988). 25 Salo, Luukkaan teologian ydin, 103 (with n.  34), 106, referring to Räisänen, ‘Prodigal Gentile’, 178–81 and P. Pokorný, Theologie der lukanischen Schriften (FRLANT 174; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 57–58. 26  B. Gerhardsson, ‘Illuminating the Kingdom: Narrative Meshalim in the Synoptic Gospels’, in H. Wansbrough (ed.), Jesus and the Gospel Tradition (JSNTSup 64; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 266–309, esp. p.  296–97; quoted by O. Lehtipuu, The Afterlife Imagery in Luke’s Story of the Rich Man and Lazarus (NovTSup 123; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 23–24 (emphasis added). 27 Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 24 (emphasis added).

Chapter 6: The Prodigal Son in a Far Country

111

No matter what kind of tradition Luke may have had, the story [Rich Man and Lazarus] in the written form as we now have it must be attributed to Luke himself. He has chosen the words and expressions for telling his story and shaped the points he wishes to make. This applies to all of his gospel. 28 Regardless of the fact, then, that Luke might have used (most probably orally transmitted) tradition, his own contribution in shaping the story of the Rich Man and Lazarus has been substantial. Thus it is more justified to speak of ‘Luke’s story’ than of ‘Jesus’ story.’29

It remains for me to underline that the same indeed goes for the Prodigal Son.30

6. Anni Pesonen My position has later been approved by Anni Pesonen, whose dissertation on Luke and the ‘sinners’ appeared a year after Ollilainen’s. She finds the part played by Luke in the creation of the Prodigal Son so significant that ‘the parable as it now stands must be attributed to him’, even though he may have worked on a traditional parable.31 Pesonen refers to Schottroff, Goulder and myself, and continues: The view that Luke’s own role was great arises from three basic observations. The present parable betrays characteristic Lukan story-telling. It reflects Hellenistic influences, and it seems to address the controversy between Jewish Christians and Gentile Christians.32

She then proceeds to discuss these three lines of argumentation at some length.33 In listing characteristic features of Lukan story-telling she follows Gerhard Sellin, Michael Goulder and Mark Goodacre;34 in assessing the (Jewish and) Hellenistic parallels, Luise Schottroff. On the Jewish-Gentile issue she follows my interpretation, adding critical remarks on some objections that had been made to it in the meantime.35 Finally, Pesonen points to ‘one more way in which the theology of the parable suits the time of Luke better than the time of Jesus’, especially in light of the introduction Luke 15.1–2. The comparison of the toll 28 

Ibid., 27 (emphasis added). Ibid., 28–29 (emphasis added). 30  Lehtipuu (ibid., 28 n.  85) lists a number of striking similarities between these two parables. 31  A. Pesonen, Luke, the Friend of Sinners (Helsinki, 2009), 141, 161. Available as e-thesis: http://urn.fi/URN:ISBN:978–952–10–5440–2. 32  Ibid., 141. 33  Ibid., 141–58. 34  G. Sellin, ‘Lukas als Gleichniserzähler: die Erzählung vom barmherzigen Samariter’, ZNW 65 (1974): 166–89; ZNW 66 (1975): 19–60; M. Goodacre, Goulder and the Gospels: An Examination of a New Paradigm (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996). For Goulder, see above, n.  23. 35 Pesonen, ibid., 154–55; cf. also 157. 29 

112

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

collectors and sinners (verses 1–2) to the prodigal son ‘works only if Jesus is seen as representing God’.36 Pesonen looks at the Prodigal Son especially as one of Luke’s ‘sinner texts’, to which her dissertation is devoted. Her attribution of the parable mainly to Luke’s creative activity is part of a bigger picture that she paints: ‘the author of the Third Gospel had a crucial role in making generations of Christians see Jesus as a friend of sinners’, dressing ‘his theological convictions in the garb of a historial drama.’ ‘The Lukan material, such as the Prodigal Son, the Sinful Woman, the Pharisee and the Toll Collector, and Zacchaeus, had better be bracketed as sources for reliable historical information.’ 37 In the concluding chapter of her work Pesonen relates her work to relevant other recent studies. She notes the importance of Michael Goulder, David Neale38 and Jarmo Kiilunen to her main thesis.39 To be sure, Goulder’s ‘fascinating’ analysis of Luke’s story-telling style could only be applied ‘with much pruning’, whereas Neale and Kiilunen are generally found to be ‘very sound’. ‘Kiilunen’s twenty-page article offers the basic outline of a highly insightful and well-grounded theory of the message and origin of the Lukan sinner texts’, though ‘its limited scope allows but little discussion with scholarly literature’; Pesonen’s work serves to complement Kiilunen’s (and Neale’s).40 Where she parts with Kiilunen (she says) is ‘in taking rather more seriously the possibility of special traditions behind the sinner texts’; however, the ‘practical difference between assuming quite free invention and assuming some free invention and some strong reworking of traditions that quite probably were there, but cannot be reconstructed, is not very great’.41 Pesonen thus would not have needed my article on one particular ‘sinner text’, the Prodigal, to come to see this parable as (more or less) a Lukan creation. She would have reached this view anyway in the process of formation of her overall view of the sinner texts. Throughout, Pesonen finds features in the sinner texts that point to Luke’s (rather than Jesus’) cultural and religious situa-

36  ‘The idea that Jesus himself created this parable to defend his friendship with undesirables presupposes that Jesus saw himself as somehow representing God. Defending Jesus’ friendship with sinners with a parable like the Prodigal Son requires the conviction that Jesus is God’s chosen messenger in some very special way. Given the difficulty of biblical scholars in reaching any kind of agreement on Jesus’ views of himself, it is better not to build too much on such an assumption. The evangelist, on the other hand, certainly could equate drawing near to Jesus with drawing near to God.’ Pesonen, Luke, 158–59. 37  Ibid., 222. 38  D. A. Neale, None But the Sinners: Religious Categories in the Gospel of Luke (JSNTSup 58; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991). 39 Pesonen, Luke, 222–27. 40  Ibid., 225. 41  Ibid., 227.

Chapter 6: The Prodigal Son in a Far Country

113

tion.42 If one seeks for a Finnish ‘authority’ that started her onto her path, that role would belong to Jarmo Kiilunen. What I did convince Pesonen of is (she says) ‘the fact that the Prodigal Son is connected with the controversy between Jewish Christians and Gentile Christians’. Räisänen’s article gave me the insight that the vital motive that made Luke embellish the sinner theme in his gospel may have been that he saw the sinners as forerunners of those Gentiles who converted to Christianity. This was why Luke took pains to present the identification as a sinner as admirable, virtuous, advantageous, and even necessary for anyone who would not wish to resemble his self-righteous and merciless Pharisees. Luke used his sinners to symbolize true Christian piety in general, but he also covertly hinted, or at least paved way for the idea, that identification as a sinner belonged especially to Gentile Christians and was particularly their virtue.43

Thus in the hands of Anni Pesonen Luke’s characterization of a sinner figure in one parable grows into an intriguing overall hypothesis of the Lukan ‘sinners’ in general as forerunners of believing Gentiles – something for future scholarship to consider in earnest. Pesonen manages to find a persuasive reason for the well-known puzzle that ‘Luke loses all interest in sinners in Acts’: ‘this is because Gentile Christians are Luke’s real concern’.44 In any case, the wider context of Luke’s double work is to be taken with full seriousness in interpreting even the Prodigal Son. This means taking even Acts fully into account, something not undertaken by Ollilainen in his book.45 The works of Salo and Pesonen suggest indeed that a tradition of interpreting the Prodigal Son seems to be on the rise in Finland: Luke’s creative contribution is regarded as crucial, and his motivation is sought in an attempt to sort out conflicts between Gentile and Jewish Jesus-believers. This tradition is inspired by the work done independently by three different scholars in Helsinki twenty years ago. 42 

See, e.g., ibid., 118–21 on the Sinful Woman. Ibid., 227–28. Cf. ibid., 174: ‘Intertestamental Jewish writers like Philo and the author of Joseph and Aseneth join New Testament authors like Paul and the author of Ephesians in associating Gentiles with sin, darkness and evil [...] The conversion of Gentiles into Judaism or Christianity was therefore seen to require remorse, repentance and a new life [...] In this cultural context repenting sinners are not an odd symbol of and model of identification for converting Gentiles.’ 44  Ibid., 39. Pesonen (ibid.,154–55) infers from an article of Syreeni that, ‘as in Luke’s view the time of Judaism proper is over, unconverted Jews are unlikely to be Luke’s concern in the Prodigal Son [...] There is too much enmity in the Lukan view on the unconverted Jews in the closing of Acts (28:23–28) for it to be likely that these could be portrayed as the brother mildly and gently persuaded by (God) the father in the parable.’ See K. Syreeni, ‘Matthew, Luke, and the Law: A Study in Hermeneutical Exegesis’, in T. Veijola (ed.), The Law in the Bible and in its Environment (PFES 51; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 1990), 126–55. 45  C. Tuckett (‘Statement of the Opponent on Vesa Ollilainen, Jesus and the Parable of the Prodigal Son, 2008’) notes that Ollilainen’s analysis may at times be skewed, because ‘very little account is taken of the evidence from Acts’. 43 

114

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

7. On Ollilainen’s Critique of My Work I take the opportunity to briefly comment on what I take to be shortcomings in Ollilainen’s discussion of my article(s). He attributes to me arguments I have not used on one hand, and omits to mention my weightiest reasons altogether on the other. According to Ollilainen, Schottroff and Räisänen argue that the parable’s teaching on repentance is wholly Lukan; therefore the prodigal Son stems from Luke.46 This may or may not be true as regards Schottroff’s argument; it is certainly not true as regards mine. I only inferred from the parable’s ‘Jewish’ soteriology of repentance that it does suit a late (Lukan) date (compare 1 Clem.), but I added that it would suit Jesus’ own thought world just as well.47 Thus, the ‘Lukan teaching on repentance’ remained inconclusive for me; I did not follow the logic that Ollilainen ascribes to me. What actually caused me to incline towards inauthenticity was, as I make clear on the page in question, ‘the total lack of eschatology (futurist or realized)’ in the parable.48 To me, a very important argument in the process of ascribing the parable to Luke, rather than to Jesus, was its resemblance to other ‘illustration’ stories peculiar to Luke: the Good Samaritan (Luke 10.29–37), the Rich Fool (12.16– 21), the Unjust Steward (16.1–9), the Rich Man and Lazarus (16.19–31), and the Pharisee and the Toll Collector (18.9–14); cf. also the parable of the two debtors (Luke 7.41–43). Clearly these stories constitute a special group, featuring ‘three actors involved in a “triangle drama”, or two persons of whom one puts forward a soliloquy’. Utilizing the work of Gerhard Sellin in particular,49 I concluded that in view of the many structural and thematic similarities (as well as numerous Lukan traits) ‘the suspicion arises that Luke himself is mainly responsible for the form and content of these stories’.50 This most crucial argument is completely bypassed by Ollilainen, who does not even mention Sellin in his bibliography.51 46 Ollilainen, Jesus, 67, referring (as far as my work is concerned) to Räisänen, ‘Prodigal Gentile’, 1620–21. 47  Räisänen, ‘Prodigal Gentile’, 1621. Curiously, Ollilainen ( Jesus, 119 n.  27) thinks that I am here applying the notoriously dubious criterion of double dissimilarity, although I am doing no such thing. He ascribes to me the logic that ‘the soteriology of the FP [Filius Prodigus] is both “typically” Jewish as well as “typically” Lukan, therefore implying Lukan authorship’ (emphasis added). This ‘therefore’ totally distorts my argument. 48  Räisänen, ‘Prodigal Gentile’, 1621. It is only in passing and in a different context that Ollilainen notes my observation on eschatology (Ollilainen, Jesus, 177 n.  198). His discussion of possibly eschatological features in the parable (177–78) does not yield very convincing results. 49  G. Sellin, ‘Lukas als Gleichniserzähler’. On the importance of Sellin’s findings cf. also Lehtipuu, Afterlife Imagery, 28 n.  86. 50  Räisänen, ‘Prodigal Gentile’, 1619, cf. 1635–36. 51  Cf. Tuckett’s critique (‘Statement of the Opponent’): ‘There is [in Ollilainen’s book] no

Chapter 6: The Prodigal Son in a Far Country

115

Nor does it become clear to Ollilainen’s readers what actually moved me to consider the possibility that the elder brother of the parable might stand for a Jewish Christian faced with a Gentile convert. Ollilainen omits to mention my point that the elder brother seems to be an ‘insider’, something that does not (in my view) fit a setting in the life of Jesus.52 Naturally, Ollilainen is fully entitled to reject my arguments. But he should have given an adequate account of them first. On a more positive note, Ollilainen comments in a footnote that my attempt to interpret the Prodigal Gentile in light of Acts 10–11 and 15 ‘appears to be a real possibility’ (though he abandons it in the end).53 But it is interesting to find that he supports me in rejecting the counterargument (of Arland Hultgren and Michael Wolter) 54 that the Jewish-Gentile question was ‘a non-issue in Luke’s day’. Ollilainen rightly notes that ‘this is a surprising position’, for ‘why then would Luke write, for example, Acts 15?’55

8. Rohrbaugh’s Accusation of Anti-Semitism Notwithstanding some shortcomings, Ollilainen’s critical discussion of my theses moves on a sound scholarly level. Alas, this is not the case with all critics. Browsing at a recent book at the book table in an SBL conference brought a hair-raising surprise: I was blamed for ‘subtle anti-Semitism’ because of my interpretation of the Prodigal Son. The allegation, made by Richard Rohrbaugh, is nothing short of absurd. real discussion of the possible way in which the parables recorded by one of the different (synoptic) evangelists might be significantly different by those recorded by another, and what this might say about the question of authenticity. Thus there have been a number of studies arguing that the parables appearing only in Luke form a highly distinctive subset of the gospel parables taken as a whole. None of this is discussed very explicitly here.’ 52  Räisänen, ‘Prodigal Gentile’, 1623–24; 1635. 53 Ollilainen, Jesus, 134 gives as his reasons for rejecting my interpretation three details of the parable that are difficult to fit into a conflict between Gentile and Jewish Christians (here he follows M. Wolter; see next note). I think all these points have been met adequately by Pesonen, Luke, 153–54. For instance, she comments on the objection that ‘the allegory of “returning to the Father” would not suit the situation of the Gentiles who have never known the God of Israel’ as follows: ‘[...] the conversion of Gentiles is indeed depicted as returning or repentance by Luke in the Areopagus scene, especially Acts 17:26–31, and by Paul in Rom 1:18–21. Odd though it may seem to the modern mind, Luke and Paul share the idea that Gentiles somehow ought to have known God through his creation and therefore have wilfully chosen idolatry. Conversion from Gentile religions is for both Luke and Paul a moral issue and requires repentance of sin. The Letter to the Ephesians naturally reflects this starting point as well.’ 54  A. Hultgren, The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 84; M. Wolter, ‘Lk 15 als Streitgespräch’, ETL 78 (2002): 25–56, esp. p.  53–54. 55 Ollilainen, Jesus, 71 n.  55.

116

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

Concerned to read the New Testament in cross-cultural perspective, Rohrbaugh abandons ‘allegorical’ readings of the Prodigal Son. He writes: The typical allegory imagines the father as God incognito, the older son as a Jew (or a Jewish Christian: Räisänen) and the younger son as a Gentile Christian. The subtle anti-Semitism of such interpretations is to be deplored. Whatever claim to sense such a reading makes in patristic exegesis (Ambrose, Augustine, et al.) and elsewhere, it makes no sense whatever at the level of Jesus.56

Of course it makes no sense ‘at the level of Jesus’! As Rohrbaugh himself points out, I do not attribute the parable to Jesus. If I did, I would naturally have to give up the typological explanation. The ‘allegory’ belongs to the Lukan level. And it is indeed possible to detect anti-Jewish (supersessionist) overtones in the story told by Luke, when it is read in this way. But if this is the case,57 the problem should, of course, be blamed on the story-teller himself rather than to the modern analyst.58 Why shoot the messenger? In fact, Rohrbaugh’s reading of the parable in light of the social conditions of a Galilean village begs the question of origin. Such a reading can only work, if Jesus was the teller of the story in its present form. This, however, should be argued, not just presupposed. If Luke is responsible, the odds are that we are moving in a different world.

56 R. Rohrbaugh, The New Testament in Cross-Cultural Perspective (Eugene: Cascade Books, 2006), 91 n.  8 (emphasis added); quoted in J. G. Crossley, Jesus in an Age of Terror: Scholarly Projects for a New American Century (London: Routledge, 2008), 132. 57  Cf. Syreeni’s statement, referred to above (n. 6) that the Lukan figures of the two sons ‘reflect the rivalry between the Gentile Christian church and Judaism: the younger brother represents the new beneficiary of the heritage of Israel who steals the favour of the father’. 58 Crossley, Jesus, 132–33 (cf. 175) is justified in presenting harsh criticisms of Rohrbaugh’s procedure: ‘Given the gravity of the accusation of antisemitism against a contemporary scholar, some indication or evidence might be expected to at least allow the reader to make some kind of informed judgment. Instead, we are simply left with a particularly unsavoury image of a New Testament scholar who has to be wrong now.’ Crossley sensibly refers to other ‘wellknown’ work of mine that should be enough to dispel any suspicion of anti-Semitism on my part.

Chapter 7

Jesus and Hell In his Letters from the Earth, Mark Twain wrote: ‘It is believed by everybody that while [the Deity] was in heaven he was stern, hard, resentful, jealous, and cruel; but when he came down to earth and assumed the name Jesus Christ ... he became sweet and gentle… Whereas it was as Jesus Christ that he devised hell and proclaimed it! Which is to say, that as the meek and gentle Savior he was a thousand billion times crueler than ever he was in the Old Testament… ’1 Clearly Twain’s Jesus does not stand in a continuum with regard to the issue of hell: he stands out as the very mastermind behind the place of torment. Biblical scholars do not, of course, regard Jesus as the inventor of hell; they look to early Jewish writings in order to bridge the gap between the shadowy Sheol of the Hebrew Bible and the fiery Gehenna of the gospels. But many do not place him into a real continuum in this question either. Hell is often played down as a Jewish idea 2 which was taken up by the early Christians, but not Jesus. Should some of the sayings about Gehenna be genuine after all, then Jesus is only using conventional language, familiar to his audience, for rhetorical effect. It may be asked whether the issue of hell can be isolated from the larger picture; no doubt it would be appropriate to consider the issue of Jesus and the judgment in general. Nevertheless, the notion of hell is a problem in its own right. It is felt to be problematic in a way that the idea of judgment is not. An official report of the Church of England from 1995 states that the notion of everlasting damnation is incompatible with the affirmation that God is love and needs to be reinterpreted: ‘Hell is not eternal torment, but is the final and irrev1  M. Twain, Letters from the Earth (ed. by B. DeVoto; New York & Evanston: Fawcett Publications, 1962), 45 (emphasis added). 2  An interesting exchange on this topic took place a century ago. Johannes Weiss commented on Mark 9.48: ‘This is the foundation passage for the horrible doctrine of the everlasting pains of hell, a doctrine which is, indeed, consonant with the outward Jewish dogma of retribution, but not with the gospel of the God whose nature is love.’ J. Weiss, Die drei älteren Evangelien (SNT 1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1917), 164. The Jewish scholar Claude Montefiore (to whom I owe the translation of the above quotation) retorted by pointing out that ‘Christianity has made much greater use of the horrible doctrine than Judaism, and Judaism has freed itself from it more easily and completely than Christianity’. He went on: ‘It is amusing to think that from the Jewish pulpit, under which I sat for many years, the horrible doctrine of eternal punishment and eternal pain was habitually referred to as characteristically Christian.’ C. G. Montefiore, The Synoptic Gospels (London: Macmillan, 1909), 232–33; cf. 754 (on Matthew 25).

118

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

ocable choosing of that which is opposed to God so completely and so absolutely that the only end is total non-being … Whether there be any who so choose, only God knows.’3 The report corresponds to a powerful trend in modern theology. In ‘New Testament theologies’ even the notion of judgment plays no great role, and the punishment of hell almost none at all.4 Presumably this is so because the authors also want to preach a message, and in most present-day sermons hell has no place. Even many evangelical theologians are disturbed by traditional notions of hell, so much so that their language recalls that of Twain: ‘Unending torment speaks to me of sadism, not justice’, it ‘seems a flight from reality and common sense’ (J. Wenham); ‘Surely a God who would do such a thing is more nearly like Satan’ (C. Pinnock).5 The solution for these scholars, too, is a doctrine of annihilation. This is strongly opposed by another wing of evangelicals who appeal to the testimony of the New Testament. 6 Despite the silence of New Testament theologies, hell does indeed loom large in the texts; but then one can try to show that they have been misinterpreted. Thus, David Powys argues in a recent monograph from an evangelical perspective that there is ‘little or no NT warrant ... for the expectation that the unrighteous will undergo ongoing post-mortem retribution’.7 It will be one my tasks to ask, whether the pertinent texts have unending torment or annihilation in view. But the main questions are those which follow from the specific approach of the Jesus in Continuum seminars: Is there a continuum? In light of the treatment of the topic ‘hell’ in early Jewish and early Christian texts, what can be said about Jesus’ view? 3  The Mystery of Salvation, The Story of God’s Gift. A Report by the Doctrine Commission of the General Synod of the Church of England (London: Church House, 1995), 199. Quoted in R. A. Mohler Jr., ‘Modern Theology: The Disappearance of Hell’, in C. W. Morgan & R. A. Peterson (eds.), Hell Under Fire: Modern Scholarship Reinvents Eternal Punishment (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2004), 15–41, esp. p.  21. 4  See my observations on ‘the suppression of hell in exegesis and theology’ below, 148–52. The more recent works by I. H. Marshall, New Testament Theology: Many Witnesses, One Gospel (Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2004) and F. Thielman, Theology of the New Testament: A Canonical and Synthetic Approach (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2005) confirm my point; Thielman has managed to write an 800-page ‘New Testament theology’ without even mentioning Mark 9.43–48 and hardly touching Matt. 25.31–46 (722). These works stand in a striking contrast to the earlier evangelical synthesis of D. Guthrie, New Testament Theology (Leicester: IVP Academic, 1981). Whatever the shortcomings of this virtually fundamentalist work, at least Guthrie did not shrink from pointing out that hell, to which he devoted five full pages, looms as a ‘terrifying reality’ in the New Testament (892). 5  J. Wenham, Facing Hell: An Autobiography (London: Paternoster, 1998), 254; C. Pinnock, ‘The Destruction of the Finally Impenitent’, CTR 4 (1990): 243–59, esp. p.  247. Quoted in Mohler, ‘Modern Theology’, 18, 22. 6  The latter point of view is represented in the articles collected in Morgan & Peterson (eds.), Hell Under Fire. 7  D. Powys, ‘Hell’. A Hard Look at a Hard Question. The Fate of the Unrighteous in New Testament Thought (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1998), 416.

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

119

1. Jewish Views The two main strands of Jewish eschatology have been characterized as ‘historical’ and ‘transcendent’, respectively. 8 Historical eschatology is collective and national. Following the tradition of Yahweh’s wars, many awaited a turn of history which would involve the destruction of hostile nations and Jewish sinners. In transcendent eschatology (which was a new development in Israelite religion) 9 bliss or disaster was posited beyond this earth; different fates awaited different people after death. In the historical scenario God’s enemies will be annihilated (though even this may be conceived of as a shadowy existence in Sheol, so that it is not absolutely clear whether they have really ceased to exist). An eternal pain is not envisaged; it is enough that the oppressors can no longer afflict the saints. If a resurrection is expected, the enemies (unlike the righteous) will not rise up. In visions of transcendent eschatology, too, the wicked may be annihilated. But the more sinister alternative also presents itself that they may be condemned to a longstanding or eternal torment, whether right after death or after a general resurrection followed by a judgment. The different traditions are combined in various, often inconsistent ways. It is often impossible to decide which conception is present in a text; conflicting conceptions can appear side by side and the same images can be used in different ways. For example, the fire and worms that consume the damned first appear in Isa. 66.24 in the context of historical eschatology: those who have come to Jerusalem when the Lord has shown his glory ‘shall go forth and look on the dead bodies of the men that have rebelled against me; for their worm shall not die, their fire shall not be quenched, and they shall be an abhorrence to all flesh’. The burning corpses of apostates are on display near Jerusalem (no doubt in the notorious valley of Hinnom).10 It is not implied that they will feel the flames. 8  M. Reiser, Die Gerichtspredigt Jesu: Eine Untersuchung zur eschatologischen Verkündigung Jesu und ihrem frühjüdischen Hintergrund (NTA, N.F. 23; Münster: Aschendorff, 1990), 3–4 and passim. 9  At an early stage of the biblical tradition, humans were not divided in two groups in the afterlife. A state of equal misery awaited all who died. The existence of the dead in Sheol, the netherworld, was conceived of as an empty existence of shades, void of vitality and joy, perhaps even void of consciousness. Sheol was a place where Yahweh could no longer be praised. The only worthwhile life was this life. 10  Ge (ben) Hinnom is mentioned as a neutral geographical name in earlier sources (Josh. 15.8; 18.16 etc.) Child sacrifices to Moloch (2 Kgs 23.10; 2 Chron. 28.3; 2 Chron. 33.6; Jer. 7.31; 19.2–5) brought the place a bad reputation. Jeremiah (7.32; 19.6–7) predicts it to be a place of slaughter and judgment (cf. Isa. 31.9: God has a ‘furnace of fire’ in Jerusalem). It is no surprise, then, that Jewish apocalypticism made precisely this valley the place of eschatological punishment (cf. 1 En. 90.26–27; 27.1–3; the name of the valley is not given, but its location leaves little doubt that Ge-Hinnom is meant). The name itself (in variations) occurs, apart from the New Testament (the synoptic gospels are the first attested sources for the designation Ge(h)enna), in: 4 Ezra 7.36 (furnus gehennae); 2 Bar. 59.10; Or. Sib. 1.103; 2.291 (a Christian interpola-

120

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

Yet this very passage seems later to have suggested the idea of a fiery hell, earlier known from Greek sources.11 The fire and worms of Isaiah 66 later repeatedly appear as epithets of a place of torment to which this Ge-Hinnom (Gehenna) has given the name. The following examples, which could be multiplied many times over, should give an idea of the variety of conceptions and of the difficulty of sorting them out.

1.1. Annihilation Some texts strongly suggest annihilation or extinction of the impious. Following a majestic theophany there shall be a great judgment: God will ‘destroy the wicked ones’ (1 En. 1.9),12 whereas the righteous will live in peace all their days.13 Tobit (Tobit 13–14) expects all idolaters to convert and share the joy of salvation which will last eternally (on the earth, in Jerusalem). One manuscript (LXXS), however, adds to 14.7 the qualification that all those who sin or do injustice will disappear from the earth. It is expected in Qumran that God will obliterate all idolaters and all the wicked from the earth (1 QpHab 13); there will be ‘great anger with flames of fire by the hand of all the angels of destruction ... without there being for them either a remnant or survivor’ (CD 2.5–7).14 It is also plausible to think of extinction in connection of the ‘punishments for everlasting annihilation without there being any remnant’ in 1 QS 5.13.15 Action?), 4.185 (in some manuscripts); further in rabbinic sources, e.g., in m. Abot 1.5; 5.19; b. Rosˇ Hasˇ. 16b, 17a. 11  The destruction of the wicked by fire is prominent in Persian eschatology, but this is not an eternal punishment. The idea of a punishment in the netherworld, Tartarus, appears in prominent places in Plato’s writings (e.g., Resp.  10.614–21; Gorgias 523–527) which had a great impact even in this area; see, e.g., O. Lehtipuu, The Afterlife Imagery in Luke’s Story of the Rich Man and Lazarus (NovTSup 123; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2007), 72–75. Cf. ibid., 212: ‘Rivers of fire are already associated with Tartarus in the Platonic myths and burning in fire belongs to the common imagery of otherworldly punishments in Hellenistic and Roman times.’ 12  All translations of the Pseudepigrapha are taken from J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. 2 vols. (New York: Hendrickson, 1983). 13  The sinners will be cursed (1 En. 5.7); ‘the years of your life shall perish and multiply in eternal execration’, ‘you shall make your names an eternal execration unto all the righteous; and the sinners shall curse you continually’ (5.6). The righteous, by contrast, will live in peace all their days. What are described here are not eternal fates; this is a clear case of ‘historical eschatology’. 14  Translations of the Qumran texts are taken from F. García Martínez, The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated: The Qumran Texts in English (Leiden: Brill, 1996). 15  In light of this passage, the curse in 1 QS 2.7–8 (‘Accursed, without mercy, for the darkness of your deeds, and sentenced to the gloom of everlasting fire’) which could be taken to refer to an eternal punishment, is best understood as an image of annihilation on the day of visitation, for the context points to historical eschatology: Reiser, Gerichtspredigt, 67; Powys, ‘Hell’, 140. For a somewhat different notion of the punishment in 1 QS 4.12–14 see below, 125–26. P. R. Davies notes that ‘a search for a clear and consistent view of the fate of humans, both virtuous and wicked, in the Qumran scrolls is unlikely to be successful’: ‘Death, Resur-

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

121

cording to T. Zeb. 10.3, the Lord shall bring down fire on the impious and will destroy them to all generations.16 According to the Apocalypse of Abraham, God will burn with fire those who mocked his people and ruled over them; he has prepared them to be ‘food for the fire of Hades’,17 ‘the contents of a wormy belly’ (Apoc. Abr. 31.2); ‘they shall putrefy in the belly of the crafty worm Azazel, and be burned by the fire of Azazel’s tongue’ (31.5). It looks as if the damned are destroyed to nothingness by the fire and the worm (which is here of a gigantic size), although fire and worm(s) elsewhere often signal continuing suffering.18 According to 2 Macc. 7.14, the tyrant Antiochus will have no share in the resurrection to life. Sib. Or. 4.179–190 describes what God will do after the great world fire: he will ‘raise up mortals again’ (182), namely, the pious (188). Those who ‘sinned by impiety’ will not rise; ‘these will a mound of earth cover, and broad Tartarus and the repulsive recesses of Gehenna’ (184–186).19 The Shemoneh Esre (12) prays for the quick destruction of apostates and heretics; the enlightened rabbis Simon b. Jochai and Juda b. Elai later explain the Gehinnom away with the aid of the destroying fire:20 in the flames of hell it would be impossible to survive (Gen. R. 1.17).

1.2. Ambiguous cases In other texts it is not clear whether the destruction of the sinners means a onceand-for-all extinction or a lasting state. The old ‘Animal Apocalypse’ (1 Enoch 90) describes in pictorial language how the ‘stars’ (fallen angels) are condemned

rection, and Life After Death in the Qumran Scrolls’, in A. J. Avery-Peck & J. Neusner (eds.), Judaism in Late Antiquity, part 4: Death, Life After Death, Resurrection and the World-toCome in the Judaisms of Antiquity (HO 1: Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten 49; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 189–211, esp. p.  202. 16 Cf. Jos. Asen. 12.11: Aseneth prays for rescue from the hands of the lion (the devil) ‘lest he ... throw me into the flame of fire, and the fire will throw me into the hurricane and the hurricane wrap me up in darkness and throw me out into the deep of sea, and the big sea monster ... will swallow me, and I will be destroyed for ever ...’ 17 Cf. Apoc. Abr. 15.6: Abraham sees how ‘a fiery Gehenna was enkindled’. 18  P. Volz, Die Eschatologie der jüdischen Gemeinde im neutestamentlichen Zeitalter nach den Quellen der rabbinischen, apokalyptischen und apokryphen Literatur (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1934), 314 thinks that both conceptions are found in Apoc. Abr. 31. 19  The fate of the impious is probably conceived of as their sinking back to nothingness, to the state of death in which they have already been; thus Volz, Eschatologie, 57. Volz notes that the author teaches a general resurrection, but is really interested in the bliss of the pious only. Cf. Reiser, Gerichtspredigt, 88: the punishment of the wicked is a second death. The statement ‘he will also send the impious down into the gloom of fire’ (Or. Sib. 4.43) could, however, hint at torment in hell; but the words ‘in fire’ are only found in the citation by Lactantius. Reiser, Gerichtspredigt, 88 n.  25. 20  Noted by Volz, Eschatologie, 315.

122

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

and thrown into an abyss, full of fire and flame (v. 24).21 In v.  25 the seventy ‘shepherds’ (angelic princes) are also cast into that fiery abyss. In v.  26 the same fate befalls the ‘blinded sheep’ (the Jewish apostates) who are cast into another fiery abyss southwest of Jerusalem,22 i.e., Ge-Hinnom, and they are burned. The seer specifies that he ‘saw those sheep while they were burning – their bones also were burning’. Whether this means lasting punishment in the fire23 or definitive destruction 24 remains unclear.25 Perhaps the mention of bones is intended to underline the completely annihilating effect of the fire.26 Enoch’s ‘speech of exhortation’ (part of the ‘Apocalypse of Weeks’) in 1 Enoch 91 states that ‘they’27 shall be thrown ‘into the judgment of fire, and perish in wrath and in the force of the eternal judgment’ (v. 9b). The verb ‘perish’ would seem to imply annihilation; 28 accordingly, in v.  14 ‘the deeds of the sinners’ shall be ‘written off for eternal destruction’. However, the Aramaic Qumran fragment 4QEnochg (4Q212) offers a version which seems to have a definitive punishment in view: ‘All those who ac[t wickedly will vanish] from the whole earth and they shall be hurled into the [eternal] well.’ In what follows both the Ethiopic (1 En. 91.15) and Aramaic version speak of an ‘eternal judgment’ which might be taken to involve eternal punishment. According to the Psalms of Solomon ‘the destruction of the sinner is forever, and he will not be remembered’ (Pss. Sol. 3.11–12); as sinners ‘perish forever’ (thus also 13.11), one is led to think of extinction.29 Yet it is also stated that ‘their 21  According to M. Black, The Book of Enoch or 1 Enoch: A New English Edition with Commentary and Textual Notes (SVTP 7; Leiden: Brill, 1985), 278, this is the final place of punishment. 22  In the language of the vision: ‘the abyss is to the right of that house’. 23  W. Bousset & H. Gressmann, Die Religion des Judentums im späthellenistischen Zeitalter (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1926), 278. 24 Powys, ‘Hell’, 131 finds here only the notion of destruction, ‘probably to remove the menace, so that the flock would be forever secure. There is little elaboration concerning the abysses or those in them, and no suggestion of punishment other than that of destruction.’ 25  A. E. Bernstein, The Formation of Hell: Death and Retribution in the Ancient and Early Christian Worlds (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993), 189 notes that elsewhere in 1 Enoch 89–90 destruction, not punishment, is the fate of the wicked, but here the issue remains unclear. 26  M. A. Elliott, The Survivors of Israel: A Reconsideration of the Theology of Pre-Christian Judaism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 80 n.  89 makes the interesting suggestion that the passage ‘conceals a reference to the vision of dry bones in Ezekiel 37 and subtly denies the possibility of resurrection (allowed by Ezekiel’s version) for this group of apostates’. 27  The text is ambiguous: does ‘they’ refer to the heathen or rather to the ‘towers’ (castles or palaces?), both of which are mentioned in v.  9a? 28 Bernstein, Formation, 188. By contrast, Volz, Eschatologie, 313 finds here the idea of torment. 29  H. C. C. Cavallin, Life After Death: Paul’s Argument for the Resurrection of the Dead in 1 Cor. 15. Part 1: An Enquiry into the Jewish Background (ConBNT 7:1; Lund: Gleerup, 1974), 58: the sinners appear to be annihilated; Volz, Eschatologie, 27: verse 3.12 seems to mean the exclusion of the sinners from the resurrection.

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

123

lawless actions shall pursue them below into Hades’ (15.10–13), which could refer to continued suffering, especially when it is expected that the Lord will ‘repay the sinners forever’ for their actions (2.34).30 But according to 14.9, the inheritance of the sinners is ‘Hades, and darkness and destruction’. The image of lasting darkness – with no fire in sight! – strongly suggests that ‘the sinner’s death is his destruction’ in Sheol, ‘where all real existence ends’.31 Sheol has apparently lost its old neutrality, being already the place of the unrighteous dead, but nonetheless a place of darkness and destruction rather than torment and pain.32 In the last analysis, the Animal Apocalypse and the Psalms of Solomon would seem to incline in the direction of the extinction of the sinners. In the ‘Epistle of Enoch’ (1 Enoch 92–105) it remains more uncertain ‘whether the sinners will be completely annihilated or punished everlastingly’.33 Many passages clearly speak of the destruction of the wicked either by God (with fire: 1 En. 102.1) or at the hands of the righteous (98.10–13). They shall soon be demolished and fall by the sword; ‘they shall be quickly destroyed’ (cf. 96.8, 99.16); they have ‘become ready for death (cf. 98.10), and for the day of darkness and the day of great judgment’, ‘your Creator shall rejoice at your destruction’ (94.6–10). The sinners shall soon ‘be consumed and wither away’, for they have ‘ forsaken the fountain of life’ (96.6). They ‘shall have no hope of life’ (98.14, cf. 99.1), they shall ‘perish instantly’ (99.9) and ‘be slain in Sheol’ (99.11). All this suggests annihilation of the wicked as part of ‘historical eschatology’.34 Some uncertainty remains concerning 98.3: ‘they shall perish together with their goods and together with all their glory and honour, then in dishonour, in slaughter, and in great misery, their spirits shall be cast away into the furnace’.35 On the other hand, the sinners are said to burn ‘in blazing flames worse than fire’ (1 En. 100.9). In 103.7–8 the plight of the impious souls is described with a concentration of forceful expressions which suggests that Sheol is here not con30  E. Best, The First and Second Epistles to the Thessalonians (BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1977), 262 takes these passages to refute annihilation; differently Bousset & Gressmann, Religion, 278. Cautiously Cavallin, Life, 58: the post-mortem punishment of the sinners is not clear in the context; perhaps final destruction is in view even in Pss. Sol. 14.9. 31  G. W. E. Nickelsburg, Resurrection, Immortality, and Eternal Life in Intertestamental Judaism and Early Christianity (HTS 56; Cambridge: Harvard University Press for Harvard Theological Studies, 2006), 166. 32 Powys, ‘Hell’, 137. 33 Reiser, Gerichtspredigt, 50. Cf. M. Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism: Studies in Their Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period. Vol. 1 (London: SCM, 1981), 200; J. J. Collins, 1 Enoch 1. A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch, Chapters 1–36; 81–108 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 425. 34  Cf. Volz, Eschatologie, 311: the point for the author is that the pious will be freed from being oppressed by sinners. 35 Reiser, Gerichtspredigt, 50: the place of punishment. Differently Volz, Eschatologie, 19: the wicked are killed in hell; it is a question of destruction. The matter is complicated by the fact that manuscript A lacks the words ‘into the furnace’.

124

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

ceived of as an interim abode. The souls are suffering the definitive post-mortem damnation in hell:36 ‘They will bring your souls down to Sheol; and they shall experience evil and great tribulation – in darkness, nets, and burning flame’; the souls shall enter into a great judgment ‘in all the generations of the world’, there will be no peace for the sinners. Bernstein notes that, in light of the context, ‘here is a call for vengeance. It demands more than “mere” death for the wicked who taunt the righteous.’37 In the independent section 1 Enoch 108 (introduced as ‘another book of Enoch’ in v.  1), extinction seems envisaged, when the names of the sinners are ‘blotted out from the Book of Life’, their seeds ‘destroyed forever’ and their spirits ‘perish and die’ (v. 3). But the latter part of the verse clearly refers to torment: they shall ‘cry and lament’ and ‘burn in the fire’;38 this statement is repeated in the sequel with the addition that the sinners will be in great pain (v. 5). Along with the fire the darkness of the place of punishment is mentioned as well (v.14). The ‘Book of Similitudes’ (1 Enoch 37–71) contains a number of references to hellfire. In 1 En. 54.1–2 Enoch sees ‘a valley, deep and burning with fire’, into which kings and potentates are being thrown. In the same place chains are being prepared for the demonic armies of Azazel which will be cast by angels into ‘the furnace that is burning’ on the day of judgment (cf. 56.1–4). The Son of Man will deliver the mighty oppressors to the ‘angels of punishment’ to execute vengeance on them (62.11). The punished complain that darkness has become their habitation forever (63.6), as they have been ‘cast into the oppressive Sheol’ (63.10). In vain do they beg for relief from the torture (63.1, 5–8); Sheol apparently carries features of hell here.39 On the other hand, it is also stated that ‘Sheol shall open her mouth’ and that the sinners ‘shall be swallowed up into it and perish’ in the presence of the elect ones (56.8) – a statement which would rather seem to suggest annihilation.40 This interpretation is supported by the occurrence of the reference to the presence of the elect in 48.9–10 (see below, p.  126). Moreover, 61.5 presupposes that only the righteous will rise at the resur-

36 Volz, Eschatologie, 20; cf. Bousset & Gressmann, Religion, 278; Cavallin, Life, 43–44; Reiser, Gerichtspredigt, 50. Volz, Eschatologie, 311 attributes these verses to ‘another hand’, different from the author of the main part of chapters 91–107. Cf. 1 En. 102.3: ‘you are accursed forever, there is no peace for you!’ 37 Bernstein, Formation, 190. 38 Volz, Eschatologie, 314 notes that two different conceptions are combined. 39  J. J. Collins, ‘The Afterlife in Apocalyptic Literature’, in Avery-Peck & Neusner, Judaism,119–139, 125 notes that in the Parables ‘it appears that Sheol has become identified as a place of punishment’. 40  Or perhaps a shadow-like existence in a Sheol conceived of in the old Hebrew Bible style. Cf. 1 En. 53.2: they shall ‘be destroyed from before the face of the Lord of the Spirits’ and ‘perish eternally’.

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

125

rection41 and this seems to be the case in 51.1–2 as well.42 The dwelling places and beds of the ‘strong’, by contrast, will be ‘worms’ (46.6). The ‘angels of plague’ prepare chains for them ‘in order that they may be destroyed thereby’ (53.4–5); ‘those who have led the world astray shall be bound with chains’, as they are imprisoned, ‘all their deeds shall vanish from before the face of the earth’ (69.28). The overall picture remains vague; the fate of the sinners oscillates between extinction and continued pain. In Jubilees, as well, two conceptions seem to be present: destruction (in history) and torment in an eternal place of punishment.43 Destruction is in view in Jub. 22.22: for idol-worshippers ‘there is no hope in the land of the living’; they will ‘go down into Sheol’, the place of judgment, and ‘they will have no memory upon the earth’.44 Those who break the covenant ‘will be blotted out of the book of life and written in the book of those who will be destroyed and with those who will be rooted out of the land’ (30.22). However, chapter 36 seems to envisage eternal punishment, speaking of ‘eternal execration so that their judgment will always be renewed with eternal reproach and execration and wrath and torment and indignation and plagues and sickness’ (v. 10).45 Even in Philo the situation is not quite clear: ‘it is not so easy to decide if Philo is at all thinking of a continued existence of the wicked after the death of the body, or if he rather sees their death as a final annihilation’.46 He can speak about ‘eternal death’ (Poster. C. 39) and express himself as if the death of the body denotes the total annihilation of the wicked (Leg. Cai. 91). In Congr. 57 he applies the term ‘Hades’ figuratively to ‘the life of the wicked’. Nevertheless, he can also mention a ‘land of the impious’ (Cher. 2) and even speak of eternal torments: ‘Men think that death is the termination of punishment but in the divine court it is hardly the beginning’ (Praem. Poen. 69).

1.3. Torment followed by annihilation The Community Rule of Qumran states that the wicked will be punished by angels of destruction ‘for eternal damnation ... with the humiliation of destruction by the fire of the dark regions. And all the ages of their generations they shall spend in bitter weeping and harsh evils in the abysses of darkness until 41 Cavallin,

Life, 46. Cf. Volz, Eschatologie, 311; G. Stemberger, Der Leib der Auferstehung. Studien zur Anthropologie und Eschatologie des palästinischen Judentums im neutestamentlichen Zeitalter (AnBib 56; Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1972), 47–48; contra Reiser, Ge­r ichts­ predigt, 52 n.  96. 43 Powys, ‘Hell’, 135; cf. Reiser, Gerichtspredigt, 59–60. 44 Cf. Jub. 7.29: ‘they will go down to Sheol, and into the place of judgment they will descend. And into the darkness of the depths they will all be removed with a cruel death.’ 45  Cf. Volz, Eschatologie, 29. 46 Cavallin, Life, 136. 42 

126

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

their destruction, without there being a remnant or a survivor among them’ (1 QS 4.12–14). This indicates ‘prolonged torment before annihilation’.47 4 Ezra asserts that sinners will suffer thirst and torment already in the intermediate state (7.75–76, 80; 8.59), but even worse torment awaits them (v. 84) when the ‘furnace of hell’ appears48 on the day of judgment (7.36) with its ‘fire and torments’ (v. 38). However, 7.61 would seem to suggest annihilation after a time of torment: those who perish ‘are set on fire and burn hotly, and are extinguished’. A transfer from torment to extinction also seems to be assumed in Pseudo-Philo: before the final judgment (on which see Ps.-Philo 3.10), the deeds of the wicked ‘will be expiated’ in a hell-like ‘place of fire’ in the netherworld (23.6).49 Balaam must complain: ‘I will gnash my teeth, because I have been led astray’ (18.12). But after the judgment the dwelling place of the sinners ‘will be in the darkness and the place of destruction’ and they will ‘melt away’; when God ‘renews the earth’, ‘they will die and not live ... hell will no longer spit them back, and their destruction will not be remembered ...’ (16.3). Despite some phrases that could suggest eternal pain,50 ‘hell’ (infernus) is here ‘the place of all the dead prior to resurrection, a place that will cease functioning at that time. It is not a place of unending suffering.’51 The unclear overall picture in the Similitudes of Enoch is complicated even more when it is stated in 1 En. 48.8–10 that the mighty kings ‘shall burn before the faces of the holy ones and sink before their sight and no place will be found for them’; ‘they shall not rise up (again)’. It seems that they are ‘temporarily tormented before the righteous and then vanish forever’.52 According to the schools of both Hillel and Shammai, at least the ‘intermediate’ who are neither fully good nor extremely bad can be freed from hell (b. Rosˇ Hasˇ. 16b–17a).53 To Rabbi Aqiba is ascribed the view (based on an adventurous exegesis of Isa. 66.23–24) that the punishment will last twelve months only – the implication probably being that annihilation will follow after that (m. Ed. 2.10).54 47  Davies,

‘Death’, 199. This may imply that Gehenna is already in existence from the beginning of time. 49 Cf. Ps.-Philo 15.5: souls are shut up in chambers of darkness. 50  It is said concerning Doeg the Syrian in Ps.-Philo 63.4–5 that ‘a fiery worm will go up into his tongue and make him rot away, and his dwelling place will be with Jair in the inextinguishable fire forever’ (cf. 38.4, 44.9). 51 Powys, ‘Hell’, 169; cf. Reiser, Gerichtspredigt, 96–97; G. W. E. Nickelsburg, ‘Judgment, Life-after-Death, and Resurrection in the Apocrypha and the Non-Apocalyptic Pseud­ epigrapha’, in Avery-Peck & Neusner (eds.), Judaism, 141–162, 157. 52  D. E. Aune, Revelation 6–16 (WBC 52B; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1998), 835. 53  Details in Hillel’s position can be interpreted in different ways, see Powys, ‘Hell’, 189– 90; cf. Volz, Eschatologie, 315. 54  Thus Bousset & Gressmann, Religion, 278 n.  1. Aqiba’s contemporary Johanan ben Nuri is claimed to have inferred an even shorter duration for the punishment: it will last from the feast of Weeks to Pentecost. 48 

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

127

1.4. Eternal torment Yet other texts leave no doubt that eternal torment awaits the sinners. Early on the ‘Book of Watchers’ describes the punishment of Azazel and his lot in the fire, indicating that ‘notions of ongoing torment seem to have developed with regard to non-human beings’.55 Azazel will be ‘sent into the fire on the great day of judgment’ (1 En. 10.6), there will be eternal judgment for the watchers (v.12) who will be led ‘to the bottom of the fire – and in torment – in the prison (where) they will be locked up forever’ (v. 13); ‘at the time when they will burn and die, those who collaborated with them will be bound together with them ... unto the end of (all) generations’ (v. 14).56 The famous chapter 1 Enoch 22 dwells on the different postmortem fates that await humans. At least for some accursed sinners, there will be ‘plague and pain forever’ (22.10). The details are very obscure,57 but the general idea would seem to be that those sinners who have already received their punishment in earthly life will not be judged on the day of judgment, but stay in Sheol forever;58 the really great pain, however, will be reserved for those ‘sinners and perfect criminals’ (v. 13) upon whom ‘judgment has not been executed in their lifetime’ (v. 10). The latter will apparently be at the judgment transferred to another place of torment, presumably the accursed valley of Gehenna (cf. 27.2–3).59 The Book of Judith (Jdt. 16.17) provides the first of numerous texts in which the fire and worms of Isa 66 are redeployed, ‘sometimes depicting destruction and sometimes torment’.60 The last clause makes it clear that in this case unending conscious torment is in view: ‘Woe to the nations that rise up against my people! The Lord Almighty will take vengeance on them in the day of judgment; fire and worms he will give to their flesh; they shall weep in pain for ever.’61 2 Baruch makes it clear that the time will come which has ‘no mercy on those who come into torment’ (2 Bar. 44.12, cf. 51.6); the ‘habitation’ of many will be ‘in the fire’ (44.15) which is ‘kept for them’ (59.2); ‘countless are those whom the fire devours’ (48.43). The seer is shown the mouth of hell, the ‘picture of the coming punishment’ and ‘the powers of the flame’ (59.10–11). Only the deceased righteous who sleep in hope of the Messiah will rise to life (30.1); ‘the souls of the wicked will the more waste away’ as ‘they know that their torment has come and that their perditions have arrived’ (30. 4–5). These souls seem to stay in the 55 Powys,

‘Hell’, 130. 1 En 21.7–10: Enoch sees the fiery place reserved for the angels and is frightened. 57  See the detailed discussion in Lehtipuu, Imagery, 130–35. 58 Black, Enoch, 168; Nickelsburg 1 Enoch, 308; Lehtipuu, Imagery, 135. 59 Nickelsburg, Resurrection, 169. 60 Powys, ‘Hell’, 127. 61  In the Greek text of Sirach, ‘fire’ is added to a verse where the Hebrew only has ‘worms’ (Sir. 7.17). Cf. R. E. Murphy, ‘Death and Afterlife in the Wisdom Literature’, in Avery-Peck & Neusner (eds.), Judaism,101–116, 114: ‘fire is probably an addition that comes from a mentality that distinguished between reward and punishment in the next life’. 56 Cf.

128

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

place where they are; the time of judgment means that they now incur the definitive punishment of extreme pain. 62 This fate is final. ‘There will not be an opportunity to repent anymore’; no prayers or intercessions can help those who have landed on ‘the way to the fire and the path that leads to the glowing coals’ (85.12–13). 4 Maccabees threatens the tyrant with ‘the everlasting torment by fire’ (4 Macc. 9.9); there will be in store for him ‘a fiercer and an everlasting fire’ and torments which will never let him go for all time (12.12). But the martyrs also exhort each other to avoid that fire themselves: ‘Let us have no fear for him who thinks he kills’, for eternal torment awaits those who transgress God’s commandment (13.14–15). Josephus reports on the Pharisees’ belief that ‘the souls of the wicked suffer eternal punishment’ (War 2.8.14 [163]; cf. Ant. 18.1.3 [14]), which is his own view as well. 63 The Targum Neofiti comments on Gen. 3.24 by stating that God prepared for the wicked Gehenna with ‘darts of fire and burning coals’, to avenge them ‘because they did not observe the precepts of the Torah in this world’. In the Apocalypse of Zephaniah ugly angels cast the souls of the impious into eternal punishment (Apoc. Zeph. 4.7). Zephaniah sees in the interim abode of Hades (cf. 15–16) ‘a sea of flame like a slime which casts forth much flame and whose waves burn sulfur and bitumen’ (6.2). Different punishments are described in ch. 10; in the Sahidic fragment (B) one transgressing soul is whipped thousands of times each day. Both Zephaniah (2.8–9) and the patriarchs and all the righteous (ch. 11) pray for mercy on behalf of those in torment. 64 T. Ash. 6.5 mentions torture immediately after death:65 when the evil soul departs, it is harassed by the evil spirit which it served through its desires and evil works. Slavonic Enoch surprisingly locates hell in the third heaven (2 Enoch 10). All kinds of torture – darkness, black fire, ice, dark and merciless angels – are prepared for the sinners who are in pain and weep, looking forward to endless punishment which has started immediately after death (40.12–13).66 Enoch weeps over the perdition of the impious: ‘How blessed is he who has not been born’ (or having been born, has not sinned) ‘so that he will not come into this place nor carry the yoke of this place’ (41.2). In 42.2 (manuscript J) the somewhat startling statement is made that the punishment does not quite match the offence, when Enoch complains about his tribesmen who may land in hell: ‘To

62 Volz,

Eschatologie, 46. L. L. Grabbe, ‘Eschatology in Philo and Josephus’, in Avery-Peck & Neusner (eds.), Judaism, 163–185, 183. 64  Whether their pleas have any effect we do not learn, as the final pages of the text are missing. 65 Cavallin, Life, 55. 66 Volz, Eschatologie, 35. 63 

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

129

what a small extent they have sinned in this life, but in the eternal life they will suffer forever.’ Sib. Or. 1.100–103 narrates how the Watchers are thrown to Tartarus, the ‘Gehenna of terrible, raging, undying fire’ (103). Sib. Or. 2.283–310 provides a very vivid and full picture of the place: a fiery river, whips of flame, terrible beasts, immeasurable darkness; the damned will wail, burning in fire and gnashing their teeth, wasting away in thirst; ‘no longer will death or night give these rest’ (308). Scholars disagree, however, whether this passage is of Jewish or Christian origin.67

1.5. Conclusion In most of the texts presented so far the sinners (‘they’) are collectively contrasted to the righteous (‘us’). 68 The visions of punishment are actually meant as words of promise and as encouragement to the in-group, whose afflictions will come to an end when its oppressors perish, one way or another. Ethiopic Enoch starts indeed by characterizing itself as ‘the blessing of Enoch: with which he blessed the elect and the righteous who would be present on the day of tribulation at (the time of) the removal of all the godly ones’ (1 En. 1.1). Early examples of also frightening the in-group with hell (rather than simply with earthly disasters) are rare: still, 4 Maccabees uses the fire as a warning lesson for the faithful; 2 Baruch exhorts those in exile to stay faithful in order to avoid the dire fate that otherworldly torment would be added to their present sufferings (2 Bar. 78.6, 83.8); T. Reub. (5.5) warns that promiscuous women are destined for eternal punishment, and Joseph (T. Jos. 2.2) tells how God rescued him ‘from the burning flame’, when he conquered temptation. 69 To Rabbi Jose b. Johanan is ascribed the warning that a man who talks too much with a woman brings trouble on himself and ‘ends up an heir of Gehenna’ (m. Ab. 1.5).70 One wonders, 67  J. J. Collins, ‘Sibylline Oracles’, in Charlesworth (ed.), Pseudepigrapha I, 317–472, esp. p.  330 reckons the passage to those parts of Sib. Or. 3.34–347 that ‘could have been written by either a Jew or a Christian’ and notes that ‘most scholars incline to the opinion that such passages were taken over as part of the Jewish original’. By contrast, Reiser, Gerichtspredigt, 89 considers the entire section 3.252–338 Christian. 68  The relevance of the issue of addressees is emphasized by M. Wolter, ‘“Gericht” und “Heil” bei Jesus von Nazareth und Johannes dem Täufer: Semantische und pragmatische Beobachtungen’, in J. Schröter & R. Brucker (Hrsg.), Der historische Jesus: Tendenzen und Perspektiven der gegenwärtigen Forschung (BZNW 114; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002), 365–72. 69  3 Bar. 4.16 (Greek) warns that those who drink wine insatiably ‘will secure for themselves eternal fire’. This passage may, however, be part of Christian redaction: Collins, ‘Afterlife’, 134. 70  m. Ab. also includes the following statements: ‘the shameless go to Gehenna, and the diffident to the garden of Eden’ (m. Ab. 5.20, ascribed to Rabbi Juda ben Teman); those who have ‘a grudging spirit, an arrogant mien, and a proud soul’ are ‘disciples of Balaam the wicked’ and ‘inherit Gehenna’ (anonymous, 5.19). Avery-Peck comments on the apparent unimportance of Gehenna in the early rabbinic material: ‘The undeveloped and infrequently men-

130

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

though, how literally such a warning which lacks any concrete imagery can be taken; the rabbis could be quite ‘liberal with homiletic damnation’, as George Foot Moore noted.71 While not all Jews believed in after-life (the Sadducees certainly did not), belief in retribution after death was widely shared. Our texts speak a great deal of annihilation of the sinners on one hand and of their eternal pain in a place of punishment on the other. The two views are often found side by side; there is no clear-cut boundary. The punishments range from mental distress (no peace, fear and sorrow, seeing the bliss of others) to bodily torment of the cruellest kinds, sometimes at the hands of merciless angels. The damned are plagued by thirst and cold, by worms and fire, gnashing their teeth in darkness. This torment can begin right after death, but it is likely to get worse after the day of final judgment; sometimes, however, the punishment is taken to be temporary (followed perhaps by final annihilation). The idea of post-mortem punishment was a living and controversial issue in the late first century CE.

2. Early Christian Views 2.1. Annihilation Some early Christians continue the tradition in which annihilation or extinction of the condemned is envisaged. Paul is rather reticent concerning the fate of the wicked.72 He does assume that sinners and unbelievers will have a fate different from that of the believers; he does speak of their ‘destruction’ (ἀπώλεια; forms of ἀπόλλυμι). It is not impossible to take Paul’s mentions of destruction (Rom. 2.12; 9.22; 1 Cor. 1.18; 2 Cor. 2.15; 4.3; 1 Thess. 5.3; Phil. 1.28; 3.19) as references to eternal punishment, but annihilation seems a more likely alternative. In two passages which graphically depict glimpses of the parousia, Paul seems to assume the resurrection of the righteous only: the dead in Christ

tioned idea of a post-mortem existence in the Garden of Eden or Gehenna stands alongside the far greater attention paid to the concept of a orporate world-to-come’; the relationship of the world-to-come to these notions is unclear. ‘While the Garden of Eden may be associated with the world-to-come ... the parallel existence of Gehenna during the world-to-come is not mentioned at all.’ A. J. Avery-Peck, ‘Death and Afterlife in the Early Rabbinic Sources: The Mishnah, Tosefta, and Early Midrash Compiations’, in Avery-Peck & Neusner (eds.), Judaism, 243–266, 265. 71  G. F. Moore, Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era: The Age of Tannaim. Vol. 2 (New York: Schocken, 1971), 388 n.  4. The ‘peculiarly sensitive conscience’ ascribed in b. Ber 28b to R. Johanan ben Zakkai, recorded to have expressed at his deathbed uncertainty of whether he would be conducted to the Garden of Eden or to Gehenna, is untypical; cf. Moore, Judaism 2, 321. 72  For a thorough discussion of the Pauline material, see Bernstein, Formation, 207–24.

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

131

(1 Thess. 4.16) or ‘those of Christ’ (1 Cor. 15.23)73 will rise, when Jesus returns; it is the resurrection of Jesus that makes possible the resurrection of those who have lived in communion with him in the first place. This would seem to imply that dead non-believers will not be resurrected at all,74 though it is not clear how such an idea fits with the notion of judgment of all and sundry according to their deeds which Paul puts forward elsewhere.75 Those unbelievers, again, who are alive on the last day will conceivably be judged and condemned (to annihilation?). Paul’s fragmentary allusions to the eschatological events cannot be combined to a consistent whole; his interest is focused on the salvation of the believers. He shares this ambiguity with the authors of a great number of Jewish texts. In 1 Corinthians 15 the final goal is that God is ‘all in all’, suggesting that nothing that opposes God will remain in existence. This might even imply a restoration of all.76 But in this chapter (which is all about resurrection) Paul does not say a word about the resurrection of non-Christians. The impression is that they will remain dead. By contrast, in the pseudonymous 2 Thessalonians (2 Thess. 1.7–9), the ‘punishment of eternal destruction’ causes sinners to be ‘separated from the face of the Lord’; this would seem to imply a continued unhappy existence.77 The gospel of John seems to lack the notion of eternal torment.78 Those who do not believe are ‘condemned already’ (John 3.18); without faith in Jesus one can only ‘perish’ (3.16). The evil-doers will rise to the ‘resurrection of condemnation’ (5.25–29), but as God’s wrath is expressed as a denial of life, they are probably annihilated. The judgment ‘will yield eternal life for those who believe, but judgment, wrath and death for those who do not. This is not a theory of eternal punishment.’79 In the Gospel of Thomas (70) Jesus states: ‘that which you have (within you) will save you’ and ‘that which you do not have within you’ will ‘destroy’ you. Lasting torment is out of the question. Didache states that in the end-time test many will fall away and ‘perish’ (ἀπολοῦνται, Did. 16.5). In light of v.  7 this can hardly mean a lasting punishment: ‘there will be the resurrection of the dead, 73  The word τέλος in v.  24 cannot mean ‘the rest’. It refers to ‘the end’ which will take place after the parousia. 74  1 Cor. 15.18 states that if Christ had not been resurrected, all the dead would perish (ἀπώλοντο), being probably annihilated. The implication is that this is the destiny of those who do not belong to Christ. 75  Rom. 1.32; 2.3; 2.1; 3.19. 76  If pressed just a little, the logic of some of Paul’s arguments elsewhere, too (Romans 5 and 11), would seem to hint at the idea of apokatastasis. 77 Best, Thessalonians, 262. 78  To be sure, John 15.6 could be taken to refer to the fire of hell; but it is more likely that burning is just part of the image used. 79 Bernstein, Formation, 225, 227.

132

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

but not of all.’ Clement of Rome shares this view (1 Clem. 26.1).80 Hermas consistently speaks of a definitive death as the punishment of sinners, whether non-Christians or lapsed Christians. All those who surrender themselves to evil desires will definitively die (θανατοῦνται εἰς τέλος, Hermas, Man. 12.2; cf. Hermas, Vis. 3.7.2; Hermas, Sim. 6.2.4; 9.18.2; 9.19.1; 9.20.4; 9.23.4).81 The synoptic gospels82 contain a couple of sayings which may be understood as references to annihilation. In a Q section, in which Jesus encourages his followers to confess him (in a situation that reminds one of the martyrs of 4 Maccabees) before humans (Q 12.8–9), he emphasizes that human adversaries are not to be feared: ‘Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy (ἀπολέσαι) both soul and body in hell (Q 12.4– 5).83 Gehenna is here the final place of punishment. But it seems that those punished will be totally destroyed there, body and soul. This would seem to indicate annihilation84 – possibly after a time of torment in hell85 (in which case the saying ought actually to be discussed in my next section). On the Lukan version, which has a different point, see below. Matthew’s version of another Q saying (Matt. 7.13) contains a reference to destruction which is missing in the Lukan parallel (and is generally considered an addition to Q): ‘the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction’ 80  Clement mentions mutual anger which leads to danger (1 Clem. 14.2; 59.2); he quotes scripture to the effect that law-breakers will be destroyed from the earth (14.4; the impious disappear 14.5; cf. 57.7) and that the Lord may destroy their memory (22.6). He warns of judgment (21.1) and notes that since God sees everything one must abandon impure desires to be protected by God’s mercy from ‘coming judgments’ (28.1). But in his very long letter Clement never once refers to the eternal fire or any other traditional characteristics of hell, although his whole writing has a seriously warning tone. If taken at face value, the scriptural quotations might suggest that he thought of the extinction of sinners, but all references to a future judgment are vague at best. Eschatological punishment is not a central conviction of Clement who bases his exhortation on a theology of creation. 81  According to Hermas, Sim. 4.4, the (Christian) sinners ‘shall be burnt, because they sinned and did not do repentance, and the heathen shall be burnt, because they did not know their creator’. The sinners’ punishment is not thought of as lasting. To be sure, Hermas, Sim. 6.3–5 does speak of punishments in a way reminiscent of the standard discourse on hell (e.g., ‘the time of deceptive revelry is very short, but the time of punishment and torment (βάσανος) is long’ (6.4.4). Yet these punishments ‘do not seem to be thought of as eternal punishments after the judgement. Instead they lie before the judgement, are limited in time and aim at leading the sinner back to metanoia.’ L. Pernveden, The Concept of the Church in the Shepherd of Hermas (Studia Theologica Lundensia 27; Lund: Gleerup, 1966), 299. 82  I found it necessary to discuss even the synoptic gospels first as evidence for early Christian thought. Only at a later stage can they be considered as possible evidence for Jesus’ views. 83  The wording is almost wholly reconstructed after Matt. 10.28 (the general view). The saying differentiates between body and soul. The Greek influence is obvious, but this is nothing new on Jewish soil. 84  Cf. U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, Bd.  2 (EKK, 1/2; Zürich: Benziger, 1990), 126 with n.  30. 85  Cf. E. Schweizer, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (NTD 2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1973), 160 (though he leaves the question open).

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

133

(in contrast to ‘life’). Here the word ἀπώλεια could mean annihilation, at least if the addition was made by someone other than Matthew himself, who certainly was a firm believer in eternal torment (as will be seen below).86

2.2. Temporary torment The notion of a temporary torment in hell also has its representatives among early Christians. Reminiscent of Pseudo-Philo and some rabbis, a Christian interpolation to the Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah (4.14–18) states that Christ will drag Beliar’s hosts into Gehenna, but then fire will consume the impious, ‘and they will become as if they had not been created’ – a phrase that suggests annihilation after a time in hell. In a more positive vein, following philosophical traditions, Clement of Alexandria and Origen conceive of the punishments as pedagogical and therapeutic and thus as temporary. Hell thereby becomes a kind of purgatory; its torment would be followed not by annihilation but by eternal bliss.87 Origen’s doctrine of apokatastasis was, to a degree, anticipated by ‘gnostic’ Christians. Independently of Paul, the Sethian Apocryphon of John argues for the salvation of most of humanity, excluding only apostates (Ap. John 25.16– 27.30). 88 Even one who has remained ignorant has hope: after death his or her soul will be ‘handed over to the authorities … and they bind it with chains and cast it into prison and consort with it until it is liberated from the forgetfulness and acquires knowledge. And if thus it becomes perfect, it is saved’ (26.33– 27.11). The Concept of Our Great Power, too, (46–47) suggests that impure souls will be chastised during a limited period of time until they become pure. Only the ‘sons of matter’ will be totally destroyed.

86  The logion is quoted in a Christian interpolation (see E. P. Sanders, ‘Testament of Abraham’, in Charlesworth (ed.), Pseudepigrapha I, 879, 888 n. g) to the Testament of Abraham (11.11, version A): many souls are entering through the wide gate ‘which leads to destruction and to eternal punishment’ (in contrast to Paradise, v.  10). Here there is no uncertainty: the destruction is identical with eternal punishment; Matt. 7.13 has been conflated with Matt. 25.46. 87  Sib. Or. 2.330–38 adds to the depiction of hell and heaven an oracle to the effect that intercession by saints in heaven can reverse the fate of some of the damned. This section could be either part of the Jewish original or an interpolation by a Christian editor. One group of manuscripts contains a gloss in which this doctrine is (condemned and) ascribed to Origen. See Collins, ‘Sibylline Oracles’, 333–34. 88  Cf. K. L. King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2003), 27. The reservation about apostates reveals more of the bitter disappointment in a social conflict than it does a thought-out theological position.

134

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

2.3. Eternal torment Luke reformulates the Q saying cited above. It now reads: ‘Do not fear those who kill the body, and after that can do nothing more ... fear him, who, after he has killed, has power to cast into hell ...’ (Luke 12.4–5). Luke leaves out the killing of the soul: when the body is dead, a sinner’s soul apparently goes to the place of punishment, as also happens to the rich man of Luke 16.89 Unlike Matthew’s, Luke’s version suggests an enduring punishment.90 So does the conflated version in 2 Clem. 5.4, which adds the mention of ‘fire’: ‘... do not fear those who kill you and then can do nothing more to you (= Luke). But fear him who has power to cast (Luke) both body and soul into the fires of hell (Q/Matt., ‘fires’ added) after your death.’ In this saying the warning about hell is directed to the inside group.91 In the Q scene of the banquet in the Kingdom the situation is different. There a warning is addressed to unrepentant Israel: ‘you (?) will be thrown out; there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth’ (Q 13.28). It is debated whether the reference to darkness (Matt. 8.12) should also be included in the Q version; in any case the emphatic mention of the double reaction to pain (weeping and gnashing of teeth) by those thrown out confirms that enduring torment is in store. Both traits occur in Jewish texts, but their almost formulaic combination is new. The Dialogue of the Saviour (127.16–17) later also states that ‘in that place’ there will be ‘weeping and [gnashing] of teeth over the end of [all] these things’.92 The gospel of Mark presupposes a division of people at the coming of the Son of Man (‘the elect’ are gathered, Mark 13.27), but on the whole judgment is not a conspicuous theme in the narrative,93 and the possible punishment of sinners even less. Nevertheless, the gospel does contain one striking sequence of sayings attributed to Jesus which speak of hell (γέεννα) in a very stern tone. Here, too, the threat is addressed to Jesus’ inner circle.94 The disciples are warned that if any of their limbs – hand, foot, eye – incites them to temptation, it is better to cut it off than to expose oneself to exclusion from the kingdom: ‘If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life maimed than to 89  C. Milikowski thinks that, unlike Matthew, Luke conceives of Gehenna as an intermediate place: ‘Which Gehenna? Retribution and Eschatology in the Synoptic Gospels and in Early Jewish Texts’, NTS 34 (1988): 238–49, esp. p.  241–43. However, this does not follow. Even in Luke 16 Hades is probably the final place for the rich man, cf. Lehtipuu, Imagery, 273–74. 90  Contra Powys, ‘Hell’, 280 who claims that ‘Gehenna’ is used ‘chiefly for rhetorical effect’. 91  Cf. Wolter, ‘Gericht’, 384: ‘post-conversional exhortation speech’. 92  It is uncertain whether there is any literary dependance on the canonical gospels (or on Q). 93  U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, Bd.  3 (EKK, 1/2; Zürich: Benziger, 1997), 546. 94  Cf. Wolter, ‘Gericht’, 384: ‘postkonversionale Mahnrede’; Powys, ‘Hell’, 279: ‘a call to holiness’.

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

135

have two hands and go to hell, to the unquenchable fire’ (9.43).95 Correspondingly, it is better ‘to enter life lame than to have two feet and be thrown into hell’ (9.45) or ‘to enter the Kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown to hell’ (9.47). Verse 48 adds the familiar biblical quotation (Isa. 66.24): ‘where their worm never dies, and the fire is never quenched’. In the sayings themselves, nothing is said in so many words about the duration of the punishment; it may be possible to read them also as suggesting annihilation.96 Yet the repeated mention that the fire is never quenched, along with the reference to the undying worm, makes it rather more likely that everlasting torture is indicated.97 The fire has impressed copyists: the Isaiah quotation has in the majority of manuscripts been inserted also both after v.  43 and after v.  45 (enumerated as vv.  44 and 46 in the editions), and the mention of hell in v.  45 has been complemented with the explicit mention of the unquenchable fire. Matthew reproduces the section in Matt. 18.8–9 (with some changes),98 even though he had brought a variant of it, apparently from another source (possibly Q) already in his Sermon on the Mount (5.28). There he had attached it to the warning not to look at a woman with lust as part of Jesus’ teaching on the ‘better righteousness’ required of his disciples (5.20). Hell also appears in the first antithesis of the sermon, where Jesus asserts that anger is comparable to murder in God’s sight. Not only a murderer is liable to judgment, but also one who is angry with his brother; moreover, one who insults his brother is ‘liable to the Sanhedrin’, ‘and if you say “You fool”, you will be liable to hellfire’ (Matt. 5.22). The language is hyperbolic (it is hardly meant that the Sanhedrin should deal with every verbal insult!). It is not said that the insulter will be thrown to the fire, but only that he has deserved such a judgment, and in what follows Jesus emphasizes the necessity of reconciling oneself to one’s brother while there still is time. Therefore the mention of hell may just add rhetorical force to a call to a holy life (as may be the case in m. Ab.); here it does not sound quite as threatening as elsewhere in this gospel.99 But one could also take the saying to mean that Jesus pushes God’s demand to the extreme: an 95 

In Q 3.17 the unquenchable fire occurs in the proclamation of John the Baptist. Weiss, Die drei älteren Evangelien, 164; W. Grundmann, Das Evangelium nach Markus (THKNT 2; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1980), 266; Powys, ‘Hell’, 278. Grundmann and Powys appeal to the original meaning of Isa. 66.24, but this argument is inconclusive, as original meanings (as far as they can even be tracked) need not have bothered later users of biblical passages. In many Jewish texts, Isa. 66.24 is clearly taken to refer to enduring pain. 97 Bernstein, Formation, 229. 98  The first two warnings are conflated to one and the Isaiah quotation is omitted. 99  Cf. Powys, ‘Hell’, 277: ‘This was not instruction about after-life; it was a call to holiness. Given the rhetorical nature of that call, there is little reason to find here particular endorsement of the concept used within it: they were used because of their familiarity and evocative power.’ Cf. Montefiore, Synoptic Gospels, 501: though Jesus often threatens his hearers with hell, here the threat is not meant literally. 96  Thus

136

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

offence that others would consider relatively harmless earns the severest possible punishment. If that is the case, hell is being used as a deterrent with the intention that Jesus’ followers should produce ‘good fruit’.100 In any case, elsewhere in the gospel this threat recurs time and again precisely as such a prod. Five more times Matthew has Jesus repeat the vivid description of the place of punishment which he found in Q. In two parables characters are thrown ‘into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth’ (Matt. 22.13, in the parable of the King’s Wedding Banquet, and Matt. 25.30, in the parable of the Talents). The ‘wicked slave’ of a third parable receives even more cruel treatment in that his master will ‘cut him in pieces’ before he puts him ‘with the hypocrites, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth’ (Matt. 24.51).101 In all these cases one is bound to think of an enduring painful punishment. In explanations given to some other parables the phrase is connected with the fire of hell: the wicked are thrown by angels (as in some Jewish texts) ‘into the furnace of fire (a phrase that also occurs in 4 Ezra), where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth’ (Matt. 13.42, 50). In all these cases one imagines enduring torment. The phrase about wailing is now connected with the fire of hell which was not yet mentioned in the Q saying. Strikingly, the promise given to the righteous in v.  43 is much shorter than the depiction of the fate of the wicked102 and in v.  50 the reward of the righteous is not mentioned at all; all emphasis is placed on the warning.103 In the polemical chapter 23 Jesus’ opponents, the scribes and Pharisees, are told that they are ‘children of hell’ (23.15) and can hardly expect to ‘escape being sentenced to hell’ (23.33). These cases are due to Matthew’s redaction, 104 but in his influential portrayal of the last judgment (Matt. 25.31–46) Matthew draws on earlier tradition in speaking of punishments.105 ‘All nations’ are brought before the judgment seat of the Son of Man. Those who have failed to assist Jesus’ ‘least brothers’ hear the harsh indictment: ‘You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire…’ Clearly the flames are not reserved only for mighty oppressors or for those who 100  On the other hand, this antithesis is followed by the saying on adultery to which Matthew appends, as we saw, the twin sayings of cutting and throwing away tempting limbs (Matt. 5.29–30), also known from the gospel of Mark; in this case the threat that otherwise one’s ‘whole body’ will land in hell sounds quite serious. Here the rhetorical exaggeration concerns the first half of the sayings – it is hardly a question of really amputating one’s body – but not necessarily the latter half about hell. This parallelism could support a ‘literal’ interpretation of hell even in 5.22. 101  In Matt. 18.34–35 the king of the parable hands his ‘wicked slave’ ‘over to be tortured’; cf. the mention of ‘torturers’ in hell in T. Abr. 12.18. Luz, Matthäus 3, 72 notes that the association with the torment in hell may have been intentional. 102 Luz, Matthäus 2, 342. 103  Ibid., 360. 104  Ibid., 339. 105 Luz, Matthäus 3, 521: the parable probably originated in Jewish Christian tradition.

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

137

display extreme hardening of heart. On the contrary, those condemned do not even realize that in neglecting the needs of the least brothers they have offended the divine majesty of the King (v. 34) who now takes vengeance.106 The references to judgment and punishment that recur throughout the gospel make it clear that even Christians have reason to fear, for no one can be certain of his or her fate before the great day. The judgment is final, and the punishment in the fire of hell will be very painful.107 We have seen that Luke preserves the Q threat that Jesus’ unbelieving Jewish audience will be thrown out from the banquet of the Kingdom and that ‘weeping and the gnashing of teeth’ will follow (Luke 13.28). The other Q saying on post-mortem punishment is rephrased by him: after the death of a person, God has the power to cast him into hell (Luke 12.5). Luke also gives an impressive snapshot of post-mortem existence in the story about the rich man who finds himself in great pain in Hades, a ‘place of torment’ (Luke 16.23, 28). He is in agony in the flames and cannot get help in his thirst (v. 24, cf. 4 Ezra). As in some Jewish texts, the torments begin right after death in a place to which the soul is carried by angels;108 there is no need to regard this just as an interim state.109 The story is told as a warning and as an exhortation to Luke’s audience to make the right use of their possessions. Verses in Revelation speak of a ‘lake of fire that burns with sulfur’ (Rev. 19.20; 20.10–15; cf. the Apocalypse of Zephaniah) into which the beast and his prophet are thrown (19.20).110 The same fate awaits the devil who will be ‘tormented day and night forever’ (20.10), and also anyone whose name is not in the book of life (20.15). Some interpreters think that only the devil will suffer eternally, whereas human sinners will be destroyed in the fire.111 This is inferred 106  Cf. Bernstein, Formation, 237. The aspect of vengeance found in this text gains added emphasis, if the least brothers denote Christian missionaries – which is a common interpretation of the text – rather than the needy in the world. Be that as it may, in any case the text is rather ambivalent. On one hand it carries a strong social message, stressing the value of deeds of compassion; on the other hand it reflects extreme harshness. Cf. below, 141. 107  Contra Powys, ‘Hell’, 291 who speculates that ‘it is difficult to see how the rule of God could be better advanced by their [God’ enemies] preservation in a state of torture than by their destruction’. Indeed it can be strongly argued that the kingdom of God would remain marred so long as any opposition remained in existence.’ Sure – but on this logic the idea of eternal torment should not appear anywhere in our literature, which is more than even Powys claims. Powys (292) interprets the term ‘punishment’ (κόλασις) as ‘destruction’. 108  The place is called Hades also e.g., in the Parables of Enoch. 109  The case is argued by Lehtipuu, Imagery, 265–75. By contrast, ‘Hades’ apparently does not mean a place of punishment in Q 10.15 (cf. Luz, Matthäus 2, 194 n.  22; Bernstein, Formation, 234) or Matt. 16.18 (Luz, Matthäus 2, 463). In Acts 2.27, 31 the designation is clearly used in the old biblical sense (Sheol). 110  Hell is here envisaged in accordance with the Acherusian fiery lake known from Greek accounts. 111  Thus, e.g., H. Kraft, Die Offenbarung des Johannes (HNT 16a; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 1974), 261: unlike Rev. 20.10 (and 14.9–11: ibid., 194), where eternal punishment is in

138

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

from 20.14 where it is stated that even Death and Hades are thrown into the lake of fire and that this lake is ‘the second death’; the death of Hades would seem to imply the end of the punishments inflicted in this place. While this reading is not impossible, it seems much more plausible to read chapter 20 in light of the vision in Rev. 14.9–11. There the lake is not mentioned, but it is made clear that those who have worshipped the beast ‘will be tormented with fire and sulfur’; the smoke of their torment ‘goes up forever’, ‘there is no rest day or night’. Here the punishment is undoubtedly taken to be eternal.112 As the smoke goes up ‘in the presence of the Lamb’, it also seems that he is pleased with the spectacle. While the horrors described in the book are to befall all humanity, one specific target at which the seer aims with his threats are other Christians who take a more broad-minded attitude to the pagan environment (chapters 2–3). They will end up in the lake of fire. Other authors too condemn fellow Christians to hell: Jude (13) and 2 Peter (2.17) speak of the ‘darkness reserved forever’ for their opponents, and the Apocalypse of Peter from Nag Hammadi likewise brands some other Christians as ‘workers who will be cast into the outer darkness’, away from the sons of light (78.23–25). In the Ethiopic text of the Apocalypse of Peter, Jesus himself gives Peter in advance a detailed and vivid description of the pains in hell,113 characterized both as a dark place and as unquenchable fire, a lake full of flaming mire, a place full of venomous beasts where sinners shall be tormented without rest, feeling their pains; ‘and their worms shall be as many in number as a dark cloud’. The text revels in depicting the horrendous punishments correspond to the transgressions: blasphemers will be hung up by their tongues, and so forth. view, 20.15 refers to extinction, symbolized through the lake of fire; G. E. B. Caird, The Revelation of St. John the Divine (BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1966), 186–87 (he finds this meaning even in Rev. 14); Powys, ‘Hell’, 369–71; Lehtipuu, Imagery, 261–62. 112 Bernstein, Formation, 259. Contra Powys, ‘Hell’, 366–67. He claims that this is not a direct statement about the fate of the unrighteous, but rather ‘a hypothetical threat, issued under conditions demanding the harshest of rhetoric, designed to prevent apostasy’. There is ‘no warrant for regarding them as a general description of the fate of the unrighteous’, for they concern ‘apostates, people who under persecution and torture had denied Christ’ (366). Powys even claims that ‘the tortures which had been used to coerce apostates to deny Christ the Lamb and to worship the Emperor were presumably known to the original readership’ (366); indeed, ‘the imagery seems to have arisen out of the context to which it was addressed’ (367). Powys holds the old view that the context of Revelation ‘was one of harsh and escalating persecution of believers’ (365) which has been largely abandoned in recent research. He even uses ‘practical’ arguments: ‘Fire destroys, it cannot burn someone for ever and ever’ (367). Then how can the beast and the false prophet be tortured unendingly in the lake of fire? (369). This is too modern, even though a similar argument was used by enlightened rabbis according to Genesis Rabba (see above; Volz, Eschatologie, 315). Even Rev. 22.15 still shows that ‘evil is not annihilated but contained, and those in its thralls will suffer forever’: Bernstein, Formation, 260. 113  In the Greek Akhmim fragment of the same text Peter is shown the place of punishment.

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

139

Less visual, but hardly less serious, are the terrors of the unquenchable fire with which many other authors confront their readers. With it, Ignatius (Ignatius, Eph. 16.2) threatens both those who teach bad doctrines and those who listen to them. Isaiah 66 is quoted extensively in 2 Clement (17.5–7): the righteous will see how the apostates ‘are punished with grievous torments in unquenchable fire’; ‘their worm does not die and their fire is not quenched, and they shall be a spectacle to all flesh.’114 Obviously the righteous are not put off by this sight; on the contrary, ‘they shall be giving glory to God, saying, “There will be hope for one who has served God with his whole heart”’. Perhaps surprisingly, punishment in fire is mentioned even in some writings whose thoughtworld can broadly be characterized as gnostic, as in the Valentinian Gospel of Philip (66.27–67.1): ‘an apostolic man in a vision saw some people shut up in a house of fire and bound with fiery ... lying ... flaming .... They received ... punishment, what is called the ... darkness (cf. 68.7: the Lord called destruction the ‘outer darkness’). Here the images of fire and darkness are combined, as they are in 1 Enoch 103 and 108 or in 2 Enoch. In the book of Thomas the Contender, a basic theme or catchword is ‘fire’, the fire of bodily passions that torments the soul, and its counterpart in the flames of hell: one shall be punished by that by which one sins. Thus, those who ‘love the sweetness of the fire’ will ‘be thrown down to the abyss and be afflicted by the torment of the bitterness of their evil nature’ (Thom. Cont. 141.30–34); the fire will burn them (142.2; cf. 142.32–143.1). Polycarp’s (Mart. Pol. 11.2) address to his executioner reminds one of the martyrs of 4 Maccabees: ‘You threaten me with fire which burns for an hour, and after a little is extinguished; you are ignorant of the fire of the coming judgment and of eternal punishment, reserved for the ungodly.’ As for Christians, the fire of their executioners ‘appeared cool to them, for they kept before their view escape from that fire which is eternal and never shall be quenched’ (2.3). With reference to persecutions, Diognetus also states that a Christian who subjects himself to an earthly punishment will ‘fear what is truly death, which is reserved for those who shall be condemned to the eternal fire’ (Diogn. 10.7, alluding to Matt. 10.28). Justin Martyr returns to the punishment in fire over and over again. If all people were aware of it, ‘no one would choose wickedness even for a little, knowing that he goes to the everlasting punishment of fire’ (1 Apol. 12.1–2). 115 To hostile critics he says that ’you can do no more ... than kill us; which indeed does no harm to us, but to you ... brings eternal punishment by fire’ (45.5). In 1 Apol. 8.4 Justin notes that Plato, too, knows of post-mortem punishments, even though he mistakenly thinks them to last only one thousand years. The punish114  Likewise in 2 Clem. 7.6. References to the punishment or judgment are also found in 6.7 (eternal punishment); 10.5; 15.1; 15.5; 17.1; 18.1; 18.2. 115 Likewise 1 Apol. 17.4; 21.6; 2 Apol. 1.2; 2.2; 7.5; 44.5; 60.8; Dial. 35.8; 45.4; 47.4; 117.5; 120.5 (quoting Matt. 8.12). Cf. the ‘realms of fire’ in Athenagoras, Leg. 31.

140

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

ments inflicted by Christ are, however, eternal. Justin also quotes Isa. 66.24 (1 Apol. 52.3–9; Dial.130.2) and Matt. 10.28 (1 Apol. 19.6). In accordance with Revelation, he asserts that the Devil along with his demonic troops and his human followers will be sent to the fire where will be they eternally punished (1 Apol. 28.1).

3. Placing Jesus on the Continuum One can trace several different lines from the Jewish to the early Christian tradition. The notion that the end of sinners will be their annihilation extends from the Enoch literature and Qumran to Paul, John and the Apostolic Fathers. The notion that sinners go to hell, but that there is an end to their sufferings, found in Pseudo-Philo, is carried on both in Rabbinic literature and in Clement, Origen, and some gnostic Christian writings. Yet there is an increasingly strong tradition of eternal torment, from the Enoch literature to 2 Baruch on one side and to the Synoptics, Revelation, Ignatius and beyond on the other. Common imagery is used: fire, worms, darkness; wailing, weeping and gnashing of teeth; a lake of fire. Clearly a Jesus who speaks of lasting torments would be a plausible figure both in the Jewish and the early Christian context. But a Jesus who speaks of annihilation would also fit. As the most likely cases in early Christian sources, in which the extinction of sinners seems to be in view, are found outside of the Synoptic gospels, it seems more natural to place Jesus on the ‘lasting torment’ line116 than on the ‘annihilation’ line.117 But there is often no clear-cut boundary between the two notions in early Jewish texts, and the possibility remains that Jesus may have shared the ambiguity. This reservation should be kept in mind when the following hypothesis is weighed. Gerd Theissen and Dagmar Winter work out two ‘criteria of plausibility’ for the Jesus quest.118 First, the criterion of contextual plausibility states that, while 116  Cf., e.g., J. D. G. Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 425: that Jesus spoke quite often of future judgment, ‘and of its outcome in heaven and hell’, must be considered very likely. 117  Yet note that the notion of annihilation in hell may be present in Q 12.4–5 (Matt. 10.28). Luz, Matthäus 2, 124 leaves the question of the authenticity of this saying open. The Fellows of the Jesus Seminar deny it, because members of the Jesus movement are here assumed to face death, which was not true of the disciples in Jesus’ life-time: R. W. Funk & R. W. Hoover, The Five Gospels: The Search for the Authentic Words of Jesus (New York: Macmillan, 1993), 173. However, it is not certain that a real situation of martyrdom is presupposed by v.  4; see C. M. Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity. Studies on Q (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 317. The second argument of the Fellows, that ‘the admonition to fear God was widely known in Judean wisdom’, cuts both ways. 118  G. Theissen & D. Winter, Die Kriterienfrage in der Jesusforschung. Vom Differenzkriterium zum Plausibilitätskriterium (NTOA 34; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1997), 215–17.

Chapter 7: Jesus and Hell

141

Jesus should fit into the Judaism of his time, he should also show some individuality. And secondly, plausibility of influence finds possible indications of authenticity in multiply attested features, as well as in features that go against the tendencies of the sources. In light of these considerations the following observations can be made. References to torment in a place of punishment are multiply attested. Such references are found in Q, in Mark, and in the materials peculiar to Matthew and Luke. They are found both as exhortations to the in-group, in polemics against the unrepentant (notably in Q 13.28)119 and, most emphatically, in warnings to the in-group. Several of the hell sayings bear an embarrassing harshness – towards members of the in-group! This is true of the sayings in Mark 9.43–47 and parallels (the latter include Matt. 5.29–30, a string of logia apparently taken from another source so that the criterion of double attestation applies).120 The emphatic threefold threatening of the disciples with hell is all the more striking, as Mark lacks a judgment scene in his depiction of the parousia and does not mention judgment even in his report on the proclamation of John the Baptist. The appeals to hellfire go against the author’s tendency which would seem to strengthen the case for authenticity.121 The drastic language which asks one to amputate limbs of the body reminds one of other hyperbolic expressions used by Jesus, such as the camel and the needle’s eye.122 119  The Jesus seminar voted black, as the Fellows did not ‘think such wholesale condemnations are typical of Jesus’: Funk & Hoover, Five Gospels, 159, 347–48. By contrast, Luz, Matthäus 2, 14 regards the authenticity of the entire saying as possible. 120 Luz, Matthäus 1, 348 inclines towards accepting the authenticity of Matt. 5.29–30. 121  J. Becker, Jesus von Nazaret (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1996), 72 notes that the sayings show no traces of Christian revision; ‘die grell hyperbolische Aussage ... ist eben doch nicht Jedermanns Sache’. Cf. B. Witherington III, Jesus, Paul and the End of the World (Exeter: Paternoster, 1992), 64: ‘The shocking character of this material favors its authenticity, as does the fact that we can find no Sitz im Leben in the early church where such sayings may have arisen and applied’; D. C. Allison, Jesus of Nazareth. Millenarian Prophet (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 187–88; R. Pesch, Das Markusevangelium, Teil 2 (HTKNT, 2/2; Freiburg: Herder, 1977), 116. The denial of authenticity often depends on an overall view of Jesus’ message which cannot accommodate this kind of evidence. Thus, the Jesus Seminar claims that a final judgment was not part of Jesus teaching, as he characteristically ‘spoke of God’s domain as something already present’: Funk & Hoover, Five Gospels, 86. E. Haenchen, Der Weg Jesu: Eine Erklärung des Markus-Evangeliums und der kanonischen Parallelen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1968), 330 states that the verses do not breathe the spirit of sacrifice inspired by love, but renunciation based on fear. 122  Harsh threatening of the in-group with the fire is also found in Matt. 5.21–22, if the mention of hell is taken literally (one who calls his brother a fool, is liable to hell). A ‘literal’ interpretation on the Matthaean level is supported by the parallelism between this saying and the serious sayings in 5.29–30 (cf. above). Yet this arrangement is due to editorial work; as a separate saying the threefold warning (liability to judgment, to the Sanhedrin and to Gehenna) may be closer to the ‘homiletical’ damnation in m. Ab. Whether this strengthens or weakens the case for authenticity is hard to tell.

142

Part One: Exegesis and Interpretation

Jesus seems to have spoken of a final condemnation. That was a natural thing for a Jewish preacher to do, and it also explains the central role that hell came to have in early Christian discourse, both in the gospels and elsewhere. Here the continuum is clear. The fact that severe threats of hell are addressed as warning exhortations to the in-group, sometimes in drastically hyperbolic language, is a feature which cannot easily be traced back to Jewish tradition, though some small beginnings in that direction can be detected there. Is it too bold to claim that this is where Jesus’ individual contribution may be seen: in the stern ethical requirements, seasoned with threats of hell, addressed to his own circle? Jesus is different, but not too different to be a historically plausible figure. The harshness of his message was taken up and intensified by many of his followers, analogous to contemporary developments in a ‘harsh’ direction on non-Christian Jewish soil. Matthew placed increased emphasis on this aspect; other authors from John the seer to Justin followed suit, sometimes using the threat of hell as a weapon in the inner-Christian power struggle. Nagging problems of coherence remain: how does the image of so stern a Jesus fit with that of the loving friend of sinners? But this tension exists independently of the issue of hell, given Jesus’ severe words on renunciation, on cutting family ties, and the like. A harsh side in his message, including retribution in hell, should not be denied. How responsible theology should deal with it is another story.123

123 

Cf. below, ch.  8.

Part Two

Reception History

Chapter 8

Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik In seinem einzigartig inhaltsreichen magnum opus1 bemerkt Ulrich Luz, dass die Wirkungsgeschichte u. a. auch hilft, „aus geglückten und missglückten Verwirklichungen biblischer Texte zu lernen“. „Die Wirkungsgeschichte fragt nach den Früchten biblischer Texte (vgl. Matt 7.15–23)“ und stellt dabei „von den Früchten her u.U. auch Fragen an die Texte selber“ (I, 113). Die Früchte waren nicht immer erfreulich. Luz zeigt das am deutlichsten anhand von Matt 27.24– 25 (die Selbstverfluchung des jüdischen Volkes) und 12.31–32 (die Lästerung des Geistes) auf. Wo es um antijüdische Polemik geht, ist die diejenige des Matthäusevangeliums, obgleich sie nur indirekt operiert, „sehr verhängnisvoll“ geworden (I, 198); es ist dabei zu untragbaren negativen Pauschalurteilen sowie zu „raffiniert-böswilligen historischen Fiktionen“ gekommen (IV, 466). Das Wort von der Lästerung des Geistes möchte Luz auch von seiner Wirkungsgeschichte her kritisieren, denn es hat „immer wieder zur Untermauerung eigener Wahrheitsansprüche, zur Verabsolutierung der (eigenen!) Kirche und zur Vernichtung kirchlicher Gegner“ gedient; „aus ihm sind kaum Früchte der Liebe entstanden“. Luz würde es nicht als Predigttext wählen, „es sei denn für eine Predigt gegen den Text im Dienste einer Aufarbeitung seiner Folgen“ (II, 267–68).

1. Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik Dieser verdienstvolle Ansatz könnte zu einer durchgehenden ethischen Bewertung bzw. ethischen Kritik biblischer Texte ausgebaut werden. Nach dem Zusammenbruch der liberalen Theologie nach dem ersten Weltkrieg haben sich die Exegeten und Exegetinnen mit derartigen Überlegungen nur wenig beschäftigt. Seit einigen Jahrzehnten sieht die Lage aufgrund der neuen Vielfalt von Zugangsweisen jedoch anders aus, wobei auch ethische Gesichtspunkte z. B. im Rahmen feministischer, postkolonialer oder ideologischer Kritik zur Sprache 1  U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, Bd.  1 (Matt. 1–7): 5., völlig neubearbeitete Auflage, 2002; Bd.  2 (Matt. 8–17), 1990; Bd.  3 (Matt. 18–25), 1997; Bd.  4 (Matt. 26–28), 2002 (EKK 1; Düsseldorf & Zürich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag).

146

Part Two: Reception History

gebracht werden. Methodische Ansätze mit recht unterschiedlichen Ursprüngen scheinen jetzt in Richtung ethische Kritik zu konvergieren (wobei sowohl die Forschung als auch die erforschten Texte selbst kritisch gewürdigt werden können).2 Luz selbst spricht von „Sachkritik“, die er aus der Innenperspektive der Kirche und ihrer Schriftbenutzung als Kritik der Texte „vom christologischen Zentrum des Neuen Testaments her“ bestimmt. Jeder biblische Text müsse „vom Ganzen des Neuen Testaments her ausgelegt und von seiner Mitte her ggf. kritisiert werden“ (IV, 289).3 Ein zentrales Kriterium sei dabei das der Liebe – „der radikal grenzenlosen Liebe, von der Jesus in der Bergpredigt sprach“. Dieses „funktionale“ Kriterium konvergiere mit einem anderem Wahrheitskriterium, „der Entsprechung mit der Geschichte Jesu“, die eine Geschichte der kompromisslosen Liebe sei.4 Ob die letztere Behauptung so stimmt, wird noch zu diskutieren sein. Auch versteht es sich nicht von selbst, dass gerade die (wie auch immer definierte) Liebe die Mitte des Neuen Testaments ausmache. Man könnte die Mitte auch anders bestimmen. Sie könnte etwa (wie es oft geschehen ist) in der Durchsetzung der Ehre und Macht Gottes gesehen werden, was in manchen sachkritischen Fragen zu anderen Einschätzungen führen würde (nicht zuletzt in der uns unten beschäftigenden Frage der Androhung von Höllenstrafen). Ohne die Wichtigkeit der Aufgabe, die Luz sich bei seiner Bestimmung der Sachkritik stellt, bestreiten zu wollen, möchte ich meinerseits von einer Außenperspektive an die Probleme herangehen: nicht von der Christologie und auch nicht von der Liebe Gottes oder Jesu her, sondern von allgemein-menschlichen Gesichtspunkten her. Das fordern heute auch manche Theologen.5 Manchmal deckt sich das mit dem neutestamentlichen Liebesgebot, aber es kann nicht von 2  Vgl. z. B. E. Schüssler Fiorenza, Rhetoric and Ethic: The Politics of Biblical Studies (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999); R. S. Sugirtharajah (ed.), The Postcolonial Bible (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998); D. J. A. Clines, Interested Parties: The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the Hebrew Bible (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995). Weitere Literatur bei H. Räi­ sänen, „Biblical Critics in the Global Village“, in id., Challenges to Biblical Interpretation: Collected Essays 1991–2001 (BINS 59; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 283–309; id., „På väg mot en etisk bibelkritik“, SEÅ 65 (2000): 227–42. 3  Vgl. auch U. Luz, Matthew in History: Interpretation, Influence, and Effects (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994), 92. 4  Ibid., 95–97. 5  M. Prior, The Bible and Colonialism (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 12–13, möchte biblische Traditionen programmatisch einer „ethischen Einschätzung, die sich aus allgemeinen ethischen Grundsätzen ableitet“ unterwerfen; ein solches Unternehmen sei nicht nur legitim, sondern notwendig. Prior behandelt die alttestamentlichen Traditionen vom „Land“ und ihre kolonialistische Ausbeutung. Vgl. M. A. Tolbert, „When Resistance Be­ comes Repression: Mark 13:9–27 and the Poetics of Location“, in F. F. Segovia & M. A. Tolbert (eds.), Reading from this Place. Vol. 2: Social Location and Biblical Interpretation in Global Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 331–46, esp. p.  345–46: „To call for an ethics of interpretation is to recognize the power of the Bible in the public and private lives of people

Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik 147

vornherein ausgeschlossen werden, dass auch das „christologische Zentrum“ des Neuen Testaments selbst ethischer Kritik ausgesetzt sein kann – etwa aufgrund der Verabsolutierung relativer Sachverhalte. Es ist an sich natürlich problematisch, von allgemein-menschlichen Gesichtspunkten zu reden. Wer bestimmt z. B. in einer interkulturellen Gesellschaft, was allgemein menschlich sein sollte? Gibt es eine allgemeine Ethik, die zu allem und allen passt?6 Sicherlich nicht! Doch hier geht es um etwas viel Bescheideneres, nämlich um die Kritik von Grausamkeit, Gewalttätigkeit, Ungerechtigkeit und Fanatismus, sofern dergleichen in den Texten vorkommt. Ich schließe mich hier David Clines an, der in einer ethisch motivierten Kritik des Hiob-Buches die Frage stellt, um wessen ethische Grundsätze es bei einer solchen Bewertung gehe. Er antwortet, die Grundsätze seien seine eigenen, spricht aber den Wunsch aus, dass andere einstimmen könnten. Denn weil die Grundsätze lediglich in einer elementaren Zurückweisung von Ungerechtigkeit und Grausamkeit bestünden, seien sie fast universal.7 Weil es auch hier nur um solche ganz elementaren Dinge geht, erübrigt sich m.E. eine tiefgehende Erörterung ethischer Prinzipienfragen, die sowieso meine Kräfte übersteigen würde. Das Ziel auch dieser Kritik ist es, wie bei Luz, aus der gegebenenfalls unerfreulichen Wirkungsgeschichte zu lernen.

2. Die Hölle 2.1. Die Höllendrohung im Matthäusevangelium Ich wähle als Beispiel die Höllendrohung, wie sie gerade im Matthäusevangelium betont vorkommt. Am eindrücklichsten begegnet sie in der großen Gerichtsszene Matt. 25.31–46, wo alle Völker in „Schafe und Böcke“8 geteilt werden. Diejenigen, die nicht dem Herrn in den „geringsten Brüdern“ gedient haben, sind „Verfluchte“ und werden „in das ewige Feuer, das für den Teufel und seine Engel bestimmt ist“, gesandt (V. 41). „Sie werden weggehen und die ewige Strafe erhalten“, anders als die Gerechten, die das ewige Leben genießen around the world today and to acknowledge both the good and evil that power has done and continues to do. I do not believe that such ethics can be derived from the Bible alone …“ 6  Diese Fragen wurden in der Response zu meinem mündlichen Vortrag von Frau Dace Balode gestellt. 7  D. J. A. Clines, „Job’s Fifth Friend: An Ethical Critique of the Book of Job“, BibInt 12 (2004): 233–50, esp. p.  233–34: „Who is finding ethical difficulty here?, you may well ask. Or, whose ethics are these? I am not hesitant in acknowledging them as my own, but I hope to have your consent also. Indeed, since they consist only of elemental proscription of injustice and cruelty, I would suggest that they are not far from universal, and were surely principles of Job’s own time.“ 8  Der Verfasser mag statt an Böcke an Zicklein gedacht haben, vgl. Luz, Matt. III, 533–34, aber aus wirkungsgeschichtlicher Perspektive ist dies ohne Belang.

148

Part Two: Reception History

dürfen (V. 46). In dieser Szene kulminiert eine Reihe von Drohungen, die sich auf die Höllenstrafe beziehen. In der Hölle brennt das ewige Feuer (5.22; 18.8– 9) in einem Ofen (13.42, 50); allerdings wird der Ort der Strafe auch durch „äußerste Finsternis“ charakterisiert (8.12; 22.13; 25.30). Das Los der Leute dort ist Heulen und Zähneknirschen (8.12; 13.42, 50; 22.13; 24.51; 25.30). In ein paar Gleichnissen wird dieses Los mit Foltern (18.34) und in Stücke gehauen werden (24.51) veranschaulicht. Harte Worte über die Höllenstrafe finden sich schon im Markusevangelium: es sei besser, sich zu verstümmeln, als unversehrt in die Hölle geworfen zu werden, „wo ihr Wurm nicht stirbt und das Feuer nicht erlischt“ (Mk. 9.43–48, im Grundbestand in Matt. 5.29–30 aufbewahrt). Die Drohung der Logienquelle, dass manche dorthin hinausgeworfen werden, wo Weinen und Zähneknirschen herrschen wird, findet sich auch in Lukas (Luke 13.28). Von den Evangelisten ist es aber Matthäus, der das Thema der Hölle am meisten ausbreitet; das Wort vom Weinen und Zähneknirschen scheint ihm dabei besonders wichtig zu sein. Ein Schreckensbild wird auch in der Johannesoffenbarung gemalt: die himmlischen Bücher werden aufgeschlagen und die auferweckten Toten gerichtet; wer nicht im Buch des Lebens verzeichnet ist, wird „in den Feuersee geworfen“ (Offb. 20.15), in einen „See von brennendem Schwefel“, wohin auch „das Tier“, der falsche Prophet und der Teufel schon geworfen worden sind und wo sie „Tag und Nacht, in alle Ewigkeit, gequält werden“ (20.10). Dieser hervorstechende Zug des Matthäusevangeliums wird von Luz tatsächlich problematisiert, wenn auch in relativ milder Weise: Wer Menschen mit der Androhung von Höllenqualen auf Trab zu bringen versucht, traut der Kraft der Gnade und der Tragfähigkeit des Glaubens zuwenig zu! (III, 555–56)

Das ist sicher richtig, nur könnte der Punkt noch stärker hervorgehoben werden. Aber schon darin, dass er ihn überhaupt deutlich zur Sprache bringt, ist Luz der Mehrheit der Exegetenzunft klar überlegen.

2.2. Die Verdrängung der Hölle in Exegese und Theologie Ein Blick auf repräsentative Theologien des Neuen Testaments und entsprechende Gesamtdarstellungen von Bultmann bis Theißen zeigt, dass in diesen Synthesen dem Gericht als Thema keine besonders große Rolle zukommt und von der Höllenstrafe schon gar nicht die Rede ist. Meistens kommt das Gericht nur dann zur Sprache, wenn betont werden soll, dass keineswegs so oder so, etwa nach den Werken, gerichtet wird.9 Offensichtlich nehmen die Exegeten auf die9 R. Bultmann, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (UTB 630; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1980), 77, erwähnt kurz, dass die Verkündigung des bevorstehenden Gerichts alle Schriften des NT durchziehe, was in seinem Werk jedoch weiter nicht zum Vorschein kommt. G. Strecker, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (Berlin & New York: de Gruyter, 1995), stellt auf we-

8

Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik 149

se Wirkungsgeschichte wenig Rücksicht –und das gilt auch von solchen Interpreten, die grundsätzlich großes Gewicht eben auf die Wirkungsgeschichte legen, etwa von Peter Stuhlmacher. Stuhlmacher erwähnt natürlich, dass Jesus als Menschensohn der Richter ist und dass Matthäus Hinweise auf das Gericht einfügt und seine Leser eindringlich aufruft, „sich auf die Begegnung mit dem zum Weltenrichter erhöhten Christus zu rüsten“.10 Aber es bleibt bei dieser kurzen Erwähnung. Zur großen Gerichtsszene (Matt. 25.31–46) sagt Stuhlmacher nur positiv, dass dort „Jesu Lehre von der neuen Gerechtigkeit, die in den Werken der Barmherzigkeit besteht“, ihren Abschluss findet.11 Im Zusammenhang mit der Johannes-Apokalypse wird das Gericht von Stuhlmacher gar nicht besprochen.12 Im Stellenverzeichnis von Hans Hübners dreibändigem, 1000 Seiten umfassenden Werk13 fehlen sowohl Matt. 25 als auch Offb. 20. Auch Hans Conzelmann verliert kein Wort über die Strafe. Vom Gericht erfahre man bei Matthäus nur das eine, dass ausschließlich nach den Werken gerichtet wird (dessen ungeachtet, dass der Evangelist nun eben ein Gerichtsgemälde entwirft); aber die Gerichtsszene (Matt. 25,31–46) zeige, dass wir unsere Werke gar nicht kennen, so dass das Gericht nach den Werken keine „Werkgerechtigkeit“ bedeute.14 Joachim Gnilka verschweigt den matthäischen Gerichtsgedanken nicht und widmet der Gerichtsszene eine halbe Seite, aber auch sein Bericht wendet sich völlig ins Positive: das Heil sei „ein universal entschränktes“, „das neue Gottesvolk bezieht alle Völker mit ein“. Vom Schicksal der Verdammten sagt Gnilka nichts.15 Zur Johannes-Apokalypse stellt er richtig fest, nigen Zeilen nur fest, dass das matthäische Jesus „endzeitlich Strafe und Belohnung in Aussicht“ stellt, was „apokalyptisch-realistisch vorgestellt“ sei. Immerhin erwähnt er die Formel vom Weinen und Zähneknirschen, die auf den „Endzustand der Ungerechten“ hinweist, sowie „die äussere Finsternis“ als Bezeichnung für den Strafort (406–7). 10  P. Stuhlmacher, Biblische Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Vol. 2: Von der Paulusschule bis zur Johannesoffenbarung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), 163. 11  Ibid., 165. 12  Wohl weil Stuhlmacher so sehr an der Zusammengehörigkeit der johanneischen Schriften liegt, dass andere wesentliche Fragestellungen nicht zur Sprache kommen (so fehlt auch Offb. 13 in seinem Register völlig!). 13  H. Hübner, Biblische Theologie des Neuen Testaments, 3 Bde (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990–1995). 14  H. Conzelmann, Grundriss der Theologie des Neuen Testaments (UTB 1446; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 41987), 157; 73. L. Goppelt, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (UTB 850; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 31978), führt Matt. 25.31–46 nur an, um zu zeigen, dass das eschatologische Heil von Jesus zugesprochen werde, ohne die Erfüllung des Gesetzes als Bedingung zu nennen (176). Im Matthäus-Teil stellt Goppelt immerhin kurz, aber deutlich fest: „noch drängender als die Lohnverheissung ist die Drohung mit der Verwerfung“ (561). In Goppelts Verzeichnis matthäischer „Einseitigkeiten“ (568) wird diese Drohung jedoch nicht mehr erwähnt. G. E. B. Caird, New Testament Theology (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 361 ff., deutet den Gedanken eines eschatologischen Gerichts aus der Verkündigung Jesu weg. 15  J. Gnilka, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (HTKNT Sup 5; Freiburg: Herder, 1994), 185.

150

Part Two: Reception History

dass „das Gericht vordringlich als strafendes geschildert“ ist, kommt aber am Ende zum Ergebnis, dass der Gedanke an das Heil überwiege.16 Der Feuersee bleibt sogar unerwähnt. Auch Gerd Theißen stellt das „Gerichtsmotiv“ des Neuen Testaments in einem nur positiven Licht dar.17 In den Werken, die den zentralen theologischen Inhalt des Neuen Testaments zusammenfassen sollen, wird die Hölle (und das Gericht überhaupt) also durchgehend verharmlost, offenbar weil die Verfasser auch predigen wollen; und in einer heutigen Predigt ist die Hölle gar kein Thema. Ein paar Ausnahmen gibt es allerdings; bezeichnenderweise sind es ein evangelikaler Theologe (Donald Guthrie) und ein Agnostiker (Howard Teeple), die (aus entgegengesetzten Gründen) die Texte beim Wort nehmen, und darüber hinaus ein eher systematisch orientierter katholischer Exeget der älteren Generation (Karl Hermann Schelkle). Guthrie widmet der Hölle eine gründliche Besprechung auf fünf Seiten. Er stellt u. a. fest: There is no way of avoiding the conclusion that Jesus firmly accepted that there was a counterpart to heaven for those who were condemned before God […] if Jesus’ words are given their face value, hell becomes a terrifying reality […] No time limit is set.18

Zu Offb. 20 heißt es: The whole book is concerned with the pouring out of wrath and it is not surprising therefore that the lake of fire represents the final overthrow of all opposition […] clearly the lake of fire […] involves a definitely punitive element.

16 

Ibid., 417–18. Theißen, Die Religion der ersten Christen: Eine Theorie des Urchristentums (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 22001), 379–80. Dabei behauptet Theißen, dass der Mensch unabhängig von seinen Werken nur aufgrund des Glaubens gerechtfertigt werde – als ob es das Matthäusevangelium gar nicht gäbe; ferner stellt er drei Weisen dar, auf die der Gerichtsgedanke im Neuen Testament variiert (das heißt faktisch: relativiert) werde. (Im theoretischen Teil seines Werkes stellt Theißen [30] jedoch richtig fest: „Die Angst vor der Hölle gehört ebenso zum Urchristentum wie die Geborgenheit in der Liebe Gottes.“) Auch bei G. Theißen & A. Merz, Der historische Jesus: Ein Lehrbuch (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996) ist die Beschreibung der „Gerichtspredigt Jesu” mild: sie sei Umkehrpredigt (243) und ziele „auf die Verunsicherung der Adressaten“ (246); das Gericht bestehe dabei „vor allem im Selbstausschluss derer, die nicht umkehren“ (243). Die Rede vom Selbstausschluss der Verdammten ist in moderner Theologie beliebt, entspricht aber gar nicht der Aussage von Matt. 25, wo die Verdammten von ihrem Ausschluss völlig überrascht sind. Ähnlich wie Theißen interpretiert auch R. B. Hays, The Moral Vision of the New Testament: A Contemporary Introduction to New Testament Ethics (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), 107. In seinem Buch (das fünfhundert Seiten umfasst und als „Beschreibung“ der neutestamentlichen Sachverhalte gemeint ist) wird die Hölle kein einziges Mal erwähnt, auch nicht wo Offb. 20 behandelt wird (180). 18  D. Guthrie, New Testament Theology (Leicester: InterVarsity, 1981), 888, unter Verweis auf Mark. 9.43, 48. 17  G.

Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik 151

Insgesamt, es sei nach dem Neuen Testament ein „undeniable fact […] that judgment is eternal“.19 Im Unterschied zu Guthrie will Teeple die neutestamentliche Anschauung bestimmt nicht als die undiskutable Wahrheit hinnehmen. Aber was die Anschauung selbst betrifft, drückt er sich nicht weniger klar (wenn auch ohne jede Ausmalung) aus. Die Pointe der Gleichnisse in Matt. 13 ist, dass das Reich so wunderbar sein wird, „und die Alternative in der Hölle so schrecklich ist, dass jedes Opfer sich lohnt, das das Eingehen in das Reich ermöglicht“. Aber nur die Gerechten werden eingehen, und sie werden nicht zahlreich sein (Matt. 22.14).20 Das Gerichtsmotiv im frühen Christentum wird umfassend geschildert. „Andauerndes Leiden im Feuer war die Standardform der Bestrafung beim Gericht.“21 Sieht man von diesen Ausnahmen ab, entsteht beim Leser und der Leserin der Synthesen der Eindruck, dass Exegeten nicht lesen können. Der Text wird nicht respektiert, sondern gewaltsam zurechtgemacht.22 Bei heutigen Systematikern geht es noch weiter mit der Verdrängung der Hölle. Nach dem „Rahnerianer“ Medard Kehl sei die Hölle nach christlicher Tradition zwar „eine reale Möglichkeit der menschlichen Freiheit […] insofern diese ganz und gar aus sich selbst heraus lebt und stirbt und sich in keiner Weise verdanken will“, doch man dürfe offen lassen, „ob diese Möglichkeit jemals realisiert worden ist oder noch wird“. „Wir müssen mit ihrer realen Möglichkeit rechnen, zugleich aber hoffen, dass sie für niemanden Wirklichkeit wird.“23 In unserer Zeit sind sowohl katholische als auch evangelische Theologen mit gewaltigen Schritten in diese Richtung gegangen.24 M.E. ist es dem Systematiker 19 

Ibid., 892. H. M. Teeple, How Did Christianity Really Begin? A Historical-Archaeological Approach (Evanston: Religion and Ethics Institute, 1992), 325. 21  Ibid., 354–61, Zitat: 357. K. H. Schelkle, Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Vol. IV/1 (Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1974), 112–16, ist etwas mehr zurückhaltend in seiner ebenfalls ausführlichen Beschreibung des neutestamentlichen Tatbestandes: „Die Schriftsteller des Neuen Testaments hatten wohl an den Vorstellungen ihrer Zeit über das Jenseits durchaus teil. Die neutestamentlichen Aussagen darüber sind jedoch unbetont. Sie wollen die Gewissen mahnen und warnen, haben aber kein Interesse an der Schilderung der Hölle, abgesehen etwa von einigen Texten der Johannesapokalypse.“ (113) Die matthäischen Verdammungssprüche werden von Schelkle der Redaktion zugeschrieben; man wird sie „nicht zu der ursprünglichen Rede Jesu rechnen können“ (115). 22  Vgl. auch H. Frankemölle, „Hölle III. Neues Testament“, RGG 4 3 (2000): 1847–48. 23  M. Kehl, Eschatologie (Würzburg: Echter, 1986), 294–97. 24  Siehe B. Lang, „Hölle IV. Kirchengeschichtlich“, RGG 4 3 (2000): 1849–50; W. Sparn, „Hölle V. Dogmatisch“, ibid.: 1850–52. Eine ganz erstaunliche Leistung angesichts der Wirkungsgeschichte findet sich bei H.-M. Barth, Dogmatik. Evangelischer Glaube im Kontext der Weltreligionen (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 22002), 802, der die Rede von der Hölle völlig ins Positive wendet: „Die Tradition, von ‚Hölle‘ zu reden, die aufgrund von psychologischen oder seelsorgerlichen (!) Motiven in die christliche Theologie eingedrungen sein mag, hat durch die ‚Höllenfahrt Christi‘ einen positiven Stellenwert erhalten: ‚Hölle‘ ist das, was durch Jesus Christus überwunden ist und bleibt.“ 20 

152

Part Two: Reception History

auch durchaus erlaubt, alte Überzeugungen umzudeuten oder zu verbessern, insofern er oder sie klarmacht, dass man dabei von Matthäus oder von Jesus Abstand nimmt, das heißt, dass man sie faktisch kritisiert. Wie oft dies tatsächlich deutlich gesagt wird, sei dahingestellt. Gewöhnlichen Kirchenchristen und -Christinnen hilft die wohlgemeinte Wegdeutung der Höllenflammen wenig, weil sie die Bibel mit eigenen Augen lesen können und weil sie in gottesdienstlichen Lesungen die Drohungen sowieso hin und wieder zu hören bekommen.

3. Zur Wirkungsgeschichte Der Versuchung der Wegdeutung erliegt Luz nicht. Er weiß aus der von der Zunft offensichtlich gering geachteten Wirkungsgeschichte, dass „Angst vor dem Gericht zu den meisten Zeiten ein Teil des christlichen Glaubens“ war, eben weil Matthäus – zusammen mit der Johannes-Apokalypse – „wirkungsgeschichtlich erfolgreich gewesen“ ist. Denn „Matthäus scheut nicht davor zurück, den Gläubigen Angst vor dem Gericht zu machen“; er kann „mit dem Vernichtungsgericht 25 und mit den Qualen der Verdammten massiv drohen“. Von der Wirklichkeit der Höllenangst zeugen die mittelalterlichen Gerichtsgemälde, die die Qualen der Verdammten einprägsam darstellen. „Nimmt man ernst, was sie darstellen, so werden sie zum Alptraum“ (III, 552). Und warum sollte man das nicht ernst nehmen? Tausende haben diese Bilder und die dahinter stehenden Bibeltexte, ernstgenommen. Nach einer Überlieferung musste in einer finnischen Kirche ein Teil des Wandgemäldes, das das Jüngste Gericht darstellte, entfernt werden, weil manche Gemeindemitglieder, vor allem Frauen, beim Anblick dessen vor Furcht in Ohnmacht fielen. Man sollte den Alptraum vielmehr noch ernster zur Kenntnis nehmen!26 Hier sei das Bild nur andeutungsweise etwas ausgefüllt. Der Ideenhistoriker D. P. Walker fragt, warum die kirchliche Lehre von der Hölle bis zum 17. Jahrhundert fast unbehindert bestehen konnte, und findet die offensichtliche Antwort in ihrer sehr starken Bezeugung in der Schrift; in der Tat sei „the scriptural 25  Aber wieso Vernichtungsgericht? Die Verdammten werden doch nicht ausgelöscht, sondern ewig bestraft! 26  Luz widmet dem Alptraum eine Seite (im Kleindruck), wobei er drei Beispiele nennt: das Dies irae, die religiöse Autobiographie des Psychoanalytikers Tilmann Moser und einen Satz aus dem Heidelberger Katechismus. Das ist relativ wenig, und dem stehen zwei schriftstellerische Äußerungen (Goethe, L. Kolakowski) gegenüber, die sich vom matthäischen Bild distanzieren, so dass der trügerische Eindruck eines relativen Gleichgewichts zwischen Angst und gelassener Kritik entstehen kann. Zum Vergleich: der Selbstverfluchung des jüdischen Volkes in Matt. 27.25 widmet Luz dreieinhalb Seiten. Die Wirkungsgeschichte der Frage, wer mit den geringsten Brüdern gemeint ist, bekommt ganze acht Seiten, diejenige des Satzes von der Sünde wider den Geist drei.

Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik 153

authority for hell […] stronger perhaps than for any other fundamental doctrine“!27 In seiner Geschichte der Hölle schreibt der katholische Systematiker ­Herbert Vorgrimler, dass Matthäus 25.31–46 „für die künftigen christlichen Höllenvorstellungen von entscheidender Bedeutung“ war. „Die Gerichtsinszenierung, die Scheidung der Menschheit in Gute und Böse, der Urteilsspruch mit der Verweisung in das ewige Feuer: diese Elemente wirkten bei der Ausprägung christlicher Höllenvorstellungen viel nachhaltiger als die überaus starke Betonung der Barmherzigkeit“; im Zentrum der Aufmerksamkeit in der Wirkungsgeschichte stand das „ewige Feuer“.28 Matt. 25.46 diente z. B. dem Papst Gregor dem Großen als Schriftbeweis für die Ansicht, dass „die Qual der Bösen endlos sein wird“. „Wäre die dort ausgesprochene Drohung eine Täuschung, meint Gregor, dann auch die Verheißung.“29 Als eine Interpretation von Matt. 25 ist dies durchaus sinngemäß. Im Fahrwasser der scholastischen Theologie erzeugte die Seelsorge der Prediger, die mit Höllenanekdoten arbeitete, „weithin ein Klima der Angst und Einschüchterung“.30 Im 17. Jahrhundert begann die Hölle allmählich etwas von ihrer Wirkung einzubüßen, aber keineswegs in allen Kreisen. Im Puritanismus standen die Vorstellungen von der unverzeihbaren Sünde wider den Geist und der doppelten Prädestination im Zentrum. Zusammen mit dem Höllenglauben erzeugten sie eine im wahrsten Sinne des Wortes todesgefährliche Atmosphäre: manche aufrichtigen Seelen sollen wegen der Höllenangst sich das Leben genommen haben.31 Im 18. Jahrhundert feierten der Höllenglaube und die Höllendrohung ihren Siegeszug in der Verkündigung des unübertroffenen Predigers Jonathan Edwards (1703–1758), der immer noch als einer der bedeutendsten Theologen und Philosophen Amerikas gilt. Der Stellenwert der Hölle in seiner Verkündigung und Theologie spielt in theologiegeschichtlichen Darstellungen keine große Rolle.32 Deshalb müssen wir uns an einen skeptischen Kritiker wenden, der bemerkt, dass Edwards „steinhart an die neutestamentliche Höllenlehre glaubte, wobei er intelligent genug war, einzusehen, was sie bedeutet“33; „in seiner Sorge 27  D. P. Walker, The Decline of Hell: Seventeenth-Century Discussions of Eternal Torment (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964), 4.33. 28  H. Vorgrimler, Geschichte der Hölle (München: Fink Wilhelm, 1993), 16–17. 29  Ibid., 144. 30  Ibid., 208. 31  K. Armstrong, A History of God (London: Vintage Books, 1994), 326. 32  Z. B. in den RGG-Artikeln über Edwards von E. Wolf (3. Aufl., 2 [1986]: 309–10) und G. R. McDermott (4. Aufl. 2 [1999]: 1063–64) wird die Hölle gar nicht erwähnt. 33  I. Hedenius, Helvetesläran (Stockholm: Bonnier, 1972), 63. Hedenius bemerkt, dass Edwards weiter gehe als die Bibel; trotzdem sei er „völlig bibeltreu“ gewesen. Denn falls wir die Lehre von der Hölle als wahr anerkennen, müssen wir Szenen entgegensehen, in denen etwa Eltern beim jüngsten Gericht sich gefühllos zu ihren Kindern verhalten, die in die Hölle gehen (65). Hedenius meint sarkastisch: „Vielleicht darf man annehmen, dass Gott seine From-

154

Part Two: Reception History

für das wahre Wohl der Menschheit war er auch mutig genug, die Sache ohne Umbeugungen zu verkünden.“34 Das Ergebnis war eine Erweckung, während derer manche aus Schrecken wie wahnsinnig wurden und einige ganz den Verstand verloren. Die Hörer und Hörerinnen von Edwards werden folgendermaßen beschrieben: „[S]ie weinten, sie wurden blass, sie schrien laut. Einige wurden ohnmächtig, andere fielen in Krämpfe; einige litten seither an geschwächter Gesundheit, andere verloren den Verstand.“ „Natürlich predigte er auch über andere Themen, aber die Predigten, von denen er selbst sagt, sie seien bemerkenswert gesegnet gewesen und hätten seine Hörer wirklich erweckt, waren immer diejenigen, in denen er die Hölle darstellte …“35 Wenn wir uns vergegenwärtigen, dass es die entscheidende Voraussetzung seiner Ausführungen war, dass die große Mehrheit der bisher gestorbenen Menschen sich in der Hölle befindet und dass in jeder Generation die Geretteten eine Minderheit bilden (beides durchaus logische Folgerungen aus dem Matthäus­ evangelium!), können wir verstehen, mit welch zerschmetterndem Gewicht die Botschaft die jeweilige Gemeinde traf.36 „‚Wie viele‘, heißt es gegen Ende seiner berühmtesten Predigt, ‚werden sich dieser Rede in der Hölle erinnern!‘ Und es wäre ein Wunder, wenn sich nicht einige der hier Anwesenden erschreckend bald dort einfänden – bevor dieses Jahr zu Ende ist, ja, bevor der nächste Morgen anbricht!“37 Wenn wir von diesem Exkurs zum Bericht Vorgrimlers (in dem die Puritaner und Edwards fehlen) zurückkehren, erfahren wir, dass im 19. Jahrhundert die kirchliche (katholische) Seelsorge weithin immer noch „eine Pastoral der Angst“ betrieb.38 So verbreitet, um nur um ein Beispiel zu nennen, ein in Süddeutschland beliebtes Hausbuch zur privaten Meditation und zum Vorlesen im Familienkreis (von dem im Jahre 1858 schon die 21. Auflage erschien) ein „grausames men eine Persönlichkeitsänderung durchmachen lässt, so dass sie wie Er selbst werden, das heißt vollkommen in ihrer Gefühlskälte, wie Gott allein vollkommen ist“ (67–68). 34  Ibid., 63, vgl. ferner 63–65. 35  „… the sermons which he himself says were remarkably blessed, which truly awakened his hearers, were ever those in which he pictured ‚the kind of hell an infinite God would arrange who was infinitely enraged against a human being who had infinitely sinned in rejecting God’s infinite love‘“. F. M. Davenport, Primitive Traits in Religious Revivals: A Study in Mental and Social Evolution (New York: Macmillan, 1905; repr. 1972), 108. Den Hinweis auf dieses ältere Werk verdanke ich dem Buch von Hedenius. 36 Davenport, ibid., 111. Nachdem er eine lebendige Schilderung der Höllenqualen durch Edwards zitiert hat, stellt Davenport (113) fest: „The combination of such a personality and such a message upon the population of New England at that period was psychologically […] predestined to produce much mental and nervous disorder.“ Im Mai 1735, nach dem ersten Erweckungswinter in Northampton, entwickelte ein Mann, der in der Gemeinschaft in gutem Ruf stand, eine plötzliche Melancholie und schnitt sich den Hals auf. Edwards erzählt selbst, dass viele andere ernst versucht waren, diesem Beispiel zu folgen (129–30). 37  C. Schröder, Glaubenswahrnehmung und Selbsterkenntnis. Jonathan Edwards’ theologia experimentalis (FSÖT 81; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 38. 38 Vorgrimler, Geschichte, 272.

Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik 155

und einschüchterndes Gottesbild“. Daraus, dass „fast alle Menschen Weltkinder sind“, folgt zwangsläufig, dass fast alle auf die Hölle zugehen und ewig zu Grunde gehen (wiederum eine ganz vernünftige Folgerung aus dem Matthäus­ evangelium). Vorgrimler kommentiert: Der schreibende kirchliche „Pädagoge“ sucht mit der Schilderung des Gerichts und der Strafen den Eindruck zu erwecken, über Gottes Denken und Verhalten gegenüber ­Sündern bestens informiert zu sein. Damit wird die Autorität kirchlicher Verkündigung bestärkt und der Versuch gemacht, kirchlich konforme Gesinnung und Tat zu er­ zwingen.39

Wenn ein katholischer Theologe von Rang nicht umhin kann, die Lage so zu beschreiben, kann die Einschätzung der Auswirkung der Hölle durch einen Ideenhistoriker nicht überraschen: At least in the past, Christianity was „more apt to terrify than to console, to cheer, or to delight, or to feed with hope. Christianity’s influence on men’s actions has always been and still is that of a religion which threatens rather than one which promises […] It has encouraged the good […], and has served both society and morality more with fear than with hope […]“.40

Heute scheint die jenseitige Hölle in einer breiten Öffentlichkeit nicht mehr diskussionsfähig zu sein.41 Und doch zählt nach einer neueren deutschen Umfrage eine namhafte Minderheit der Kirchenmitglieder (vielleicht gar die Mehrheit der aktiven Kirchengänger) zu „Höllengläubigen“.42 Das Problem ist also immer noch virulent.43 Für die älteren Generationen war es brennend.44

39 

Ibid., 284. Camporesi, The Fear of Hell: Images of Damnation and Salvation in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991), 101, der G. Leopardi zitiert. 41 Vorgrimler, Hölle, 385; auch Luz, Matt. III, 553. 42  In einer 1992 in den alten Bundesländern durchgeführten Spiegel-Umfrage (100 befragte Erwachsene, Frage: Glauben Sie, dass es eine Hölle gibt, in der Menschen nach dem Tode bestraft werden?) sagten 24 % ja (im Jahre 1967 waren es 34%), und zwar 20 % der Protestanten und 34 % der Katholiken. Unter denjenigen Katholiken, die jeden Sonntag in die Kirche gehen, antworteten 58 % ja (Vorgrimler, Hölle, 402). Nach der 1999–2000 ausgeführten umfangreichen World Values 2000-Umfrage sollen im ganzen Europa 28% der Bevölkerung an eine postmortale Hölle glauben. Dabei sind die Unterschiede zwischen verschiedenen Ländern sehr beträchtlich: im katholischen Malta ist die Prozentzahl sogar 76, in Nord-Irland 61, aber in Finnland 25, in Deutschland 15 und in Schweden 8. 43 Vorgrimler, Hölle, 428ff: die Hölle lebe weiter bei Kindern und Jugendlichen; allerdings werden drohpädagogische Behauptungen nicht von Eltern oder religiösen Erziehern angegeben. Alle (!) Kinder bzw. Jugendliche brachten in einer von Vorgrimler arrangierten Schülerbefragung „die von ihnen ins Bild gebrachten Höllenvorstellungen mit Horror-Videos in Beziehung“ (440). 44  Während heute ungefähr jeder vierte Finne an die Höllenstrafen glaubt, war die entsprechende Prozentzahl nach einer Gallup-Umfrage vor fünfzig Jahren noch 54. 40  P.

156

Part Two: Reception History

4. Kritik an der Hölle 4.1. Kritik von außen Luz nennt aus neuerer Zeit das Buch Gottesvergiftung des Psychoanalytikers Tilmann Moser, der (aus persönlichen Erfahrungen heraus) sagt, dass der ständig präsente Richtergott den Menschen krank mache.45 Da habe Matthäus eine Verantwortung zu tragen. „Das Matthäus-Evangelium ist wie eine einzige Drohung vor dem ständig möglichen, doch unberechenbar im dunkeln gelassenen Tag deines Gerichts, wo für die Verworfenen das große Heulen und Zähneklappern ansetzen wird“, redet Moser den biblisch-kirchlichen Gott an.46 Viele von den Jüngeren können sich heute überhaupt nicht vorstellen, was du in mir und anderen angerichtet hast […] Aber ich weiss von Patienten, Freunden und Bekannten, dass du für Millionen noch immer die schlimmste Kinderkrankheit bist, die man sich denken kann […].47

Dieses Bild wird von der Belletristik bestätigt, etwa durch die sicherlich wirklichkeitsnahe Höllenpredigt des Pater Arnall im dritten Kapitel von James Joyces A Portrait of the Artist as Young Man. Ich führe noch einen Zeugen an, der in seiner Jugend von der Höllenangst betroffen war, aber seit seiner Studienzeit zu einem scharfen Kritiker der Kirche wurde: den Philosophieprofessor in Uppsala, Ingemar Hedenius (1908–1986). Er kannte sich gut in der Bibel und auch in Exegese und Theologie aus und nutzte seine Kenntnisse u. a. in einem schwedischen Buch über die „Höllenlehre“ (Helvetesläran, 1972), aus dem ich oben schon einmal zitiert habe. Er berichtet über seine Jugend: Es waren nicht die langweiligen Predigten seines Vaters, die ihm in den häuslichen Andachtsstunden Eindruck machten, sondern die gelesenen Bibeltexte, die eigenen Worte Jesu, die man bald auswendig konnte. „Wir kommen alle in die Hölle, meinte ich“ (der Junge dachte an Matt. 25 und an die Bettler in der Umgebung, denen seine Familie nichts gab).48 Hedenius meint, dass auch ein säkularisierter Mensch nicht unbedingt von religiös fundierten Ängsten der Kindheit loskomme. Er erzählt von einem Freund, der an periodisch wiederkehrenden Depressionen litt. Als er gesund war, glaubte er an Schopenhauers Philosophie. Aber als die Depression kam, meinte er, er sei von Gott verworfen und zur Hölle verurteilt – einem Gott und einer Hölle, an die er sonst nicht glaubte. […] Es gibt einen Schrecken vor der Hölle, der darauf beruht, dass sonst normale Personen Jesus ernst nehmen.49 45 

T. Moser, Gottesvergiftung (ST 533; Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1980), 19. Ibid., 96. 47  Ibid., 21–22. 48 Hedenius, Helvetesläran, 17–18. 49  Ibid., 12–13. 46 

Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik 157

Hedenius sagt, dass auch er selbst, ein Atheist, „in Stunden äußerster Niedergeschlagenheit“ und in gelegentlichen Alpträumen noch jenem Schatten des „gröbsten Aberglaubens“ begegnen kann.50 Hedenius greift mit Vehemenz die Grausamkeit der Höllenstrafe an, die in den meisten Fällen in gar keinem Verhältnis zum „Verbrechen“ steht. Es sei alles nur weiß und schwarz, es gebe nur Schafe und Böcke, nur ewige Wonne und ewigen Pein. Dieser Gott sei „absolut maßlos sowohl in seinem Wohlwollen […] als auch in seiner furchtbaren, bestialischen Grausamkeit“;51 „auch derjenige, der sich nicht besonders grob verfehlt hat, bekommt dieselbe Strafe wie die schlimmsten Übeltäter“; „alle Sünde, die überhaupt bestraft wird, hat ewige Pein zur Folge“ – eine „barbarische Idee“. Die Güte Gottes bestehe „darin, dass nicht alle, sondern nur die meisten verurteilt werden“.52 Die Seligen werden die Verfluchten sehen – und sind dadurch nicht bedrückt. Das alles erinnere an und weise dieselbe Mentalität auf wie die öffentlichen Hinrichtungen von einst.53 In der Auslegung von Matt. 25.31–46 folgt Hedenius der auch unter Exegeten und Exegetinnen üblichen „exklusiven“ Interpretation.54 Demnach sind die „geringsten Brüder“ des Menschensohnes die Christen oder gar die christlichen Apostel und Missionare; „[b]eurteilt werden die Nichtchristen/innen also danach, wie sie sich zu den Christen verhalten haben“.55 Hedenius meint, es handle sich um „eine enorme Verschärfung des üblichen Hasses von Sektierern gegen ihre Feinde“, indem man sogar denjenigen mit ewigen Strafen droht, die der Sekte gegenüber gleichgültig bleiben oder ihre Mitglieder nicht begünstigen. In der Tat gibt auch Luz zu, dass sich nach dieser (ganz gewöhnlichen) Deutung im Text „ein enger, fast sektiererischer Geist“ zu Wort meldet; er bemerkt, dass viele Exegeten gegen sie „harte theologische Kritik“ angemeldet haben, „auch wenn sie ihnen exegetisch unausweichlich zu sein schien“. Johannes Weiß etwa sprach von „unerträglichem christlichem Hochmut“.56 Hedenius zieht als Parallele Matt. 12.30 an („wer nicht für mich ist, der ist gegen mich“) – „ein Wort, das in nuce der sektiererischen Intoleranz in ihrer sinnlosesten Form Ausdruck“

50  Ibid., 18. Einige Zahlen aus World Values 2000 seien zum Vergleich herangezogen. Oft decken sich die Prozentzahlen der „Höllengläubigen“ mit denjenigen der aktiven Gemeindeglieder (etwa in Malta: 76/80). Aber gerade in mehr säkularisierten Ländern übersteigt die Zahl derer, die an die Hölle glauben beträchtlich diejenige derer, die aktive Gemeindeglieder sind: so sind die betreffenden Prozentzahlen etwa in Finnland 25 und 14, in Großbritannien 30 und 15 – und in Russland 26 und 7! 51 Hedenius, Helvetesläran, 191. 52  Ibid., 185. 53  Ibid., 46–59. 54  Ibid., 120–38. 55  So die Beschreibung bei Luz, Matt. III, 529, der selbst einen Teil dieser Deutung akzeptiert. 56  Ibid., 529–30 und die Zitate 530 Anm.  105 (neben J. Weiss spricht D. Brown von „the self-righteousness of a closed, particularist community“).

158

Part Two: Reception History

gebe.57 (Übrigens ein Wort, das man heute kaum zur Kenntnis nehmen kann, ohne an seine machtpolitische Ausbeutung durch den derzeitigen Präsidenten der USA, George W. Bush, zu denken…)

4.2. Kritik von innen Die von Moser und Hedenius vorgetragene Kritik kommt von außen (obwohl sie das zu Kritisierende sehr wohl innerhalb der Tradition gelernt und sich zunächst auch zu eigen gemacht haben). Sieht man vom herben Ton ab, kann man jedoch feststellen, dass es an ähnlich gearteter Kritik auch innerhalb der christlichen Tradition nicht gefehlt hat. Indirekte ethische Kritik hat es bei den Christen spätestens von Klemens von Alexandrien und Origenes an gegeben.58 Im Anschluss an philosophische Traditionen der Antike konnten sie die Strafen nur als pädagogisch-therapeutisch uns somit als zeitlich begrenzt verstehen. Gott räche sich nicht; das hieße ja Böses mit Bösem zu vergelten. Als Origenes die „Fortgeschrittenen“ adressierte, machte er klar, das Höllenfeuer sei eine Metapher. Die Pein sei geistiger Art, verursacht durch ein schlechtes Gewissen; die Strafe sei als Korrektiv gemeint und diente dem endgültigen Wohl der Bestraften. Es geht hier natürlich um das Gottesbild: Wieso sollte das Erbarmen Gottes zum Ende kommen, wenn ein Mensch stirbt? Das Endziel der Wege Gottes ist nach Origenes bekanntlich die apokatastasis, die Wiederherstellung von Allem. In diesen Zusammenhang gehören auch die katholische Lehre vom Fegefeuer, das aus der ewigen Strafe etwas vorübergehendes macht, und natürlich auch alle obengenannten Erweichungen des Gerichtsthemas in der heutigen Theologie. Manche christliche Theologen sind sogar explizit in ihrer Kritik. Vorgrimlers eher rhetorische Fragen verdienen in extenso zitiert zu werden: Ohne Zweifel hat Jesus, von dem das Christentum sich ableitet, in seiner werbenden Verkündigung Elemente der Höllendrohung […] mit eingesetzt. Dadurch entstehen in einer (noch immer) von den Humanitätsidealen der Aufklärung stark geprägten Menschheit gravierende Fragen an die christliche Religion: Welchen Rang hätte eine Liebe […], die durch Höllendrohungen erzwungen oder auch nur wesentlich mit motiviert wäre? Welchen Stellenwert hätte eine Sittlichkeit, die primär aus Furcht vor einer Höllenstrafe erzwungen wäre? […] Welches Niveau hätte eine Strafe, die mit den Gedanken von Vergeltung und Rache begründet wird, einschließlich der damit verwandten Gedanken von einer „Wiederherstellung der Ehre Gottes“? Welche Moralität wäre einem Gott zuzuschreiben, der Vergehen, und wären sie nicht so schwerwiegend, mit einer radikal unverhältnismäßigen Strafe ahnden würde?59

Eugen Drewermann wiederum klagt:

57 Hedenius,

Helvetesläran, 138. Hölle, 95–98. 59  Ibid., 443–44. 58 Vorgrimler,

Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik 159

Die Schuld der Theologie ist unabsehbar groß, dass sie die Angst der Gläubigen vor der Strafe der Hölle, ganz im Gefolge des Matthäusevangeliums, zum Erhalt kirchlicher Macht und Verfügungsgewalt jahrhundertelang bis zum Schamlosen ausgebeutet hat.60

4.3. Positiver Wert? Manchmal wird hervorgehoben, dass der Höllenglaube auch Gutes bewirkt habe, indem er den Entscheidungen im Leben Ernst verleihe.61 Es hat freilich den Anschein, dass die schützende Funktion des Höllenglaubens vor allem dem Schutz der bestehenden gesellschaftlichen Ordnungen gedient hat. D. P. Walker meint, die „abschreckende Wirkung“ der Hölle sei ihre „größte Stärke“ gewesen. 62 Das scheint noch im 19. Jahrhundert der Fall gewesen zu sein: Of all the articles of accepted Christian orthodoxy that troubled the consciences of Victorian churchmen, none caused more anxiety than the everlasting punishment. Yet the need of hell as a moral sanction […] meant that it could not simply be discarded.63

Was ich hierbei gerne aus der Wirkungsgeschichte lernen möchte, ist dies: Inwiefern hat der Ernst angesichts der Hölle auf das Leben solcher Menschen gewirkt, die in der Lage waren, wirklich große Entscheidungen zu treffen? In wie vielen Fällen haben sich Herrscher aus Furcht vor der Hölle von Kriegen oder von grausamen Aktionen abhalten lassen? Die Geschichte der Hölle entbehrt ja nicht einer gewissen Ironie: Am Anfang sollte die Aussicht eines strengen Gerichts wohl gerade die kleinen Leute ermutigen, die von den Mächtigen – wie vom syrischen König Antiochus Epiphanes – bedrückt wurden. Am Ende der Geschichte sollte die Umkehrung stehen: Die Unterdrücker würden eine ewige Strafe bekommen (vgl. Dan. 12.2). Aber die allmähliche „Demokratisierung“ des Gerichts brachte es mit sich, dass es zunehmend eine Quelle von Furcht und Schrecken gerade für diese kleinen Leute wurde.

4.4. Luz’ Versuch, Matthäus zu verteidigen Ulrich Luz unternimmt einen gemäßigten Versuch, Matthäus zu verteidigen. Er legt eine verdienstvolle Exegese von Matt. 25.31–46 vor, geht aber auf das Höl60  E. Drewermann, Das Matthäusevangelium. Bilder der Erfüllung, Teil 1 (Olten: Walter, 1992), 181 (Kursiv von mir). 61  So D. Brown, Discipleship and Imagination: Christian Tradition and Truth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 130–36. 62 Walker, Decline, 40, vgl. 262: noch im 17. Jahrhundert waren es nur „the slightly crazy chiliasts […] who publicly preached against the eternity of hell. The sane ones either spoke not at all, or anonymously, or posthumously, or dishonestly […] and probably many more disbelieved in eternal punishment, but none of them published against it in his lifetime and under his own name. The main reason for this caution or silence was certainly the general belief that society would collapse if the deterrent of eternal hell were removed.“ 63  G. Rowell, Hell and the Victorians (Oxford: Clarendon, 1974), vii (Kursiv von mir).

160

Part Two: Reception History

lenfeuer recht wenig ein. Luz entscheidet sich für den so genannten klassischen Interpretationstyp, wobei in der geschilderten Szene auch die christliche Gemeinde vor Gericht steht und nicht nur die Nationen; das ist durchaus möglich. Aber auch bei dieser Deutung bleibt es dabei, dass als Kriterium des Gerichts die Taten an christlichen Missionaren (also nicht an allen Bedürftigen!) gelten, und so ist der oben (Anm.  56) genannte „enge, sektiererische Geist“ aus dem Text kaum zu entfernen. 64 Luz nimmt Matthäus in den Schutz gegen Angriffe wie denjenigen von Drewermann: „Zur kirchlichen Selbstverabsolutierung führt die matthäische Gerichtsbotschaft gerade nicht, denn sie stellt die Gemeinde zusammen mit allen anderen Menschen unter das Gericht des Menschensohns“ (III, 553). Das ist richtig – doch die Verunsicherung der Gemeindemitglieder bleibt bestehen. Luz notiert, dass die Nähe der Parusie im Matthäusevangelium „merkwürdig ambivalent“ erscheint: einerseits ist sie ein Trost und Grund der Freude, „andererseits kann Matthäus mit […] den Qualen der Verdammten massiv drohen und seinen Leser/innen Angst machen“ (552). Dabei verfängt die Betonung der „Solidarität mit Aussenstehenden“ durch Luz (554) eben nicht. Luz stellt fest, dass alle einst vor dem Weltrichter stehen werden und gleichermaßen auf seine Großzügigkeit angewiesen seien – aber wieso soll die Szene von Großzügigkeit gegen die Verdammten zeugen? Man könnte besser von Rache sprechen: bei der exklusiven Deutung von der Rache der schlecht behandelten Christen; aber auch bei der universalen Deutung von der Rache des souveränen verletzten Königs, dessen Repräsentanten nicht gut angenommen wurden. 65 Die zweite Pointe in der Verteidigung des Matthäus durch Luz zielt darauf ab, dass die matthäische Gerichtsbotschaft nicht nur vom individualisierenden Blickpunkt aus gelesen werden dürfe, weil es ja um die Durchsetzung der Macht 64  Dagegen meinen die Vertreter des „universalen“ Deutungstyps, dass die geringsten Brüder des Menschensohnes alle notleidenden Menschen der Erde, auch Nichtchrist/innen seien; s. die Beschreibung bei Luz, Matt. III, 521–26. Diese Interpretation ist neu – sie ist erst im frühen 19. Jahrhundert wichtig geworden. Eine differenzierte Variante der universalen Deutung legt neuerdings P. Luomanen, Entering the Kingdom of Heaven: A Study on the Structure of Matthew’s View of Salvation (WUNT 2:101; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 179–93, bes. 189–90 vor: die vormatthäische Grundform der Geschichte stamme aus einer frühen Missionssituation und sei nach der exklusiven Interpretation zu verstehen. Der Evangelist habe sie jedoch in einem universalistischen Sinne ausgelegt, was sowohl aus seiner Komposition (die stark warnenden Kapitel 24–25 zielen offensichtlich auf ein Gericht, das auch der Gemeinde gilt) als auch aus seiner sonstigen Betonung der Feindesliebe (bes. 5.43–48) hervorgehe. Dann wäre der „sektiererische Geist“ nicht dem Matthäus, sondern der missionierenden Gemeinde vor ihm zur Last zu legen. Das besondere Problem beim Evangelisten selbst wäre dann „nur“ die Grausamkeit der radikal unverhältnismäßigen Bestrafung der Versäumnisse der zu Richtenden. 65  Vgl. A. E. Bernstein, The Formation of Hell: Death and retribution in the Ancient and Early Christian Worlds (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993), 263: „[…] any wrong against the innocent is an affront to Christ. Correction of that wrong is no longer punishment but vengeance.“

Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik 161

Gottes geht. „So betrachtet, bedeutet das Gericht eine Hoffnung für die Glaubenden“ (554). Mag sein, aber das mindert keinesfalls die Grausamkeit der Szene. Und auch die Verunsicherung bleibt: Wieso kann man wissen, dass man der kleinen Schar der Wachenden gehört, für die allein Hoffnung besteht und die sich gar nicht mit der Gemeinde deckt? Wieso kann man wissen, dass man die geringsten Brüder nicht doch übergangen hat? Gibt doch die vorausgehende Parabel von den zehn jungen Frauen (Matt. 25.1–13) zu verstehen, dass sogar die Hälfte der Gemeindemitglieder (fünf Frauen im Gleichnis) von der „Hochzeit“ ausgeschlossen werden können. Auch wenn man die Figuren nicht buchstäblich nimmt, ist die einprägsame Szene Furcht erregend. Drittens, betont Luz, dass für Matthäus gerade Jesus der Weltrichter ist; weil die Gemeinde ihn kennt, brauche sie sich vor ihm nicht zu fürchten. Aber falls Jesus sagt (wie in Matt. 7.23): „ich kenne euch nicht, weg von mir!“ – was dann? Für Luz wiegt die matthäische Jesusgeschichte, wo Jesus der „Gott-mit-Uns“ (Immanuel) ist, schwerer als die Drohungen. Das wird von Leser zu Leser verschieden ausfallen (wie wir etwa bei Moser sahen). Auch Luz kann am Ende nicht umhin, von der matthäischen Jesusgeschichte her kritische Fragen an die matthäischen Gerichtsdrohungen zu stellen. Manche Texte des Matthäusevangeliums zeigen „sogar ein Übergewicht der Drohung und der Höllenqualen“ über das Heil. „Deshalb ist seine Wirkungsgeschichte auch eine Geschichte von Angst und Verunsicherung“ (555). Hier entdeckt Luz einen Widerspruch zu Jesus, „der zwar vom Gericht auch redete, aber eben nur ‚auch‘“. Luz möchte wenigstens Jesus entlasten; Matthäus sei ihm nicht ganz gerecht geworden. Ob es jedoch hilft, Matthäus von Jesus aus (mild) zu kritisieren (555–56)? Da habe ich meine Zweifel. Im Blick auf die Wirkungsgeschichte hilft das nicht, weil dort natürlich kein Unterschied zwischen echten und sekundären Stoffen gemacht wurde und auch nicht gemacht werden konnte. Gerade deshalb ist die Hölle in der Wirkungsgeschichte wichtig geworden, weil man glaubte, dass Jesus so oft darauf hingewiesen habe. Ein scharfsinniger Spötter wie Mark Twain konnte deshalb Jesus als den „Erfinder der Hölle“ brandmarken und ihm den „palm for malignity“ gewähren. 66 Aber können wir überhaupt darauf bestehen, dass Jesus vom Gericht „eben nur ‚auch‘“ sprach? Auch Luz setzt voraus, dass manche Sprüche über die Hölle echt jesuanisch sind. 67 66  Die spöttischen Bemerkungen von Mark Twain (Letters from the Earth [ed. B. DeVoto; New York & Evanston: Fawcett Publications, 1962], 45) sind leider nicht aus der Luft gegriffen: „It is believed by everybody that while he [the Deity] was in heaven he was stern, hard, resentful, jealous, and cruel; but when he came down to earth and assumed the name Jesus Christ, he became the opposite of what he was before: that is to say, he became sweet and gentle […] Whereas it was as Jesus Christ that he devised hell and proclaimed it! Which is to say, that as the meek and gentle Savior he was a thousand billion times crueler than ever he was in the Old Testament […].“ 67  Luz hält z. B. Matt. 5.29–30 für ein echtes Jesuswort (Matt. I, 348).

162

Part Two: Reception History

In Bezug auf Lk. 12.8–9 par – ein Text, in welchem (der historische!) Jesus das Los seiner Hörer beim Gericht davon abhängig macht, wie sie sich zu ihm verhalten haben68 – bespricht Luz die neutestamentlichen Wurzeln des christlichen Antijudaismus: Es genügt auch nicht, sich gegen Randaussagen im Neuen Testament auf sein Zentrum, die Christologie, zu berufen, denn die Christologie selbst hat eine antijüdische Rückseite: Indem Jesus selbst als Christus zur absoluten Größe wird, ist das Übel schon da […] Wie verhält sich bei ihm seine Botschaft von Gottes grenzenloser Liebe zu seiner Gerichtsbotschaft? Darf er den Menschen, die er im Namen Gottes grenzenlos liebt, als Gottes Bote mit einem so ungeheuren Anspruch für sich selbst begegnen, wie er es tut, einen Anspruch, der sie im Grunde genommen vergewaltigen muss, weil er die absolute Liebe im Ablehnungsfall in eine absolute Drohung verwandelt? Liegt die Wurzel des Übels also bereits darin, dass Jesus sich selbst verabsolutierte?69

Das Übel ist in diesem Aufsatz der Antijudaismus, aber es passt alles ebenso gut zur Höllendrohung und zur darauf folgenden Jahrtausende währenden Reihe von Alpträumen. Luz gesteht zu, seine Überlegungen wollten zeigen, dass bei Matthäus das Geschenk der Gnade durch den Gerichtsgedanken nicht entwertet worden sei: Sie waren ein Versuch eines durch manche Matthäus-Texte auch beunruhigten und irritierten Exegeten, ‚seinen‘ Texten gegenüber solange wie möglich solidarisch zu bleiben und sie gegenüber heutigen Einwänden und Fragen so weitgehend wie möglich zu verteidigen. Dabei muss klar bleiben, dass nicht nur diese Einwände und Fragen, sondern auch mein eigener Matthäus verteidigender Versuch […] ein moderner Versuch ist. (556–57).

Gerade das ist aber die Frage: warum sollte der Exeget eigentlich die zu diskutierenden Texte als „seine“ identifizieren und sie sogar „solange wie möglich“ verteidigen? Gerade dadurch ist ethisch bedingte Kritik neuerdings merklich gehemmt worden. Ich möchte die Ausführungen von Luz mit denjenigen des jüdischen Forschers Montefiore konfrontieren (was Luz auch selbst in manchen Zusammenhängen gerne tut, etwa bei 27.24–25 oder auch bei 5.43–48). Montefiore legt in aller Kürze ungefähr dieselbe Deutung (vom „klassischen“ Typ) wie Luz vor, kritisiert aber wesentlich schärfer die grausame Seite des Textes. Freilich nicht nur. Er gibt auch seiner Bewunderung beredten Ausdruck: Dieser Passus sei „einer der Edelsten im ganzen Evangelium“. Doch er setzt fort: How close lie good and evil within the thought of one and the same man! For the same editorial hand which penned the glorious verse 40, penned the horrible words that follow. The eternal fire is as firmly believed in as the beauty of charity […] We cannot help wondering that the same man whose religion was high enough to rise to the level of 68 

Matt. 10.32–33 par Lk. 12.8–9 seien echt (Luz, Matt. II, 124). U. Luz, „Der Antijudaismus im Matthäusevangelium als historisches und theologisches Problem“, EvTh 53 (1993): 310–27, 327 (Kursiv von mir). 69 

Chapter 8: Matthäus und die Hölle: Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik 163

verse 40 could also have believed, without the smallest compunction or regret, that the good God would send any of his creatures to everlasting fire.70

Einerseits geht es um eine „splendid doctrine“. „No purer account […] of Christian philanthropy was ever penned […] The doctrine had doubtless immense effects upon civilization and morality […]“. Andererseits gilt aber: „The terrible doctrine of eternal punishment, ‚perhaps the most frightful idea that has ever Corroded human character‘ […], is here emphatically asserted, and solemnly put into the mouth of Jesus.“71 Vielleicht sollte man gerade diese Ambivalenz des Matthäusevangeliums unterstreichen. Im Ansatz findet sich das alles bei Luz; ich möchte nur die gefährliche dunkle Seite noch schärfer herausstellen. Zugespitzt gesagt: Im Hinblick auf die Wirkungsgeschichte könnte es sein, dass das Matthäusevangelium sowohl eines der segensreichsten als auch eines der verhängnisvollsten Bücher der Menschheit gewesen ist! Dabei denke ich natürlich nicht nur an die Hölle, sondern auch an den Antijudaismus. Wird Matt. 25.31– 46 als Predigttext benutzt, würde ich (unter Anwendung der Worte von Luz in seiner Diskussion der Sünde wider den Geist) empfehlen, teilweise „gegen den Text im Dienste einer Aufarbeitung seiner Folgen“ zu predigen.

5. Fazit Ein Gottesbild, wie die Höllendrohungen es voraussetzen, ist nicht vertretbar – weder vom neutestamentlichen Liebesgedanken (grenzenlose Liebe!) noch von allgemein-menschlichen Gesichtspunkten her. Die Hölle muss verneint werden – aber nicht durch Verschweigen oder durch Erweichung der biblischen Aussagen (so allzu oft die Theologie!), sondern durch offene Kritik. Vestigia terrent. Der Autorität des Matthäusevangeliums und auch derjenigen Jesu in dieser Sache muss widersprochen werden, und zwar von Theologen – wie es Gelehrte wie Vorgrimler oder Drewermann auch gemacht haben. Mit der Hölle muss öffentlich aufgeräumt werden. Dies entspricht der Forderung, die Luz (IV, 289) an die Interpreten der matthäischen Passionsgeschichte richtet, wo die verhängnisvolle Selbstverfluchung des jüdischen Volkes (Matt. 27.24–25) vorkommt: „Nicht Verschweigen des Textes, sondern kritisches und öffentliches Aufarbeiten ist angesagt!“ Sachkritik geschehe „nie so, dass man Texte stillschweigend umdeutet, sondern so, dass man die Eigenaussage eines Textes und die eigene Kritik daran offen benennt.“72 70 

C. G. Montefiore, The Synoptic Gospels (London: Macmillan, 1909), 752–53. Ibid., 754. 72 Luz, Matt. IV, 290. Vgl. S.  472 zum Verhältnis zum Judentum: „[…] (wir) kommen an diesem Punkt ohne einen expliziten Widerspruch zur Jesusgeschichte des Matthäus nicht aus.“ Bei den Höllendrohungen geht es um unser Verhältnis zur ganzen Menschheit! Ähnlich 71 

164

Part Two: Reception History

Eine positive Aufarbeitung des Problems aus einer Innenperspektive könnte vielleicht damit einsetzen, dass man in Sachen „Gericht“ bewusst dem Johannesevangelium und dem Paulus den Vorzug gibt. Im vierten Evangelium wird die Hölle nicht erwähnt, und Paulus scheint – sieht man vom vermutlich pseudepigraphischen 2. Thessalonicherbrief (2. Thess. 1.9) ab – einfach das Zunichte-Werden der Nicht-Glaubenden vorauszusetzen.73 Aus der Abschaffung der ewigen Feuerhölle muss nicht unbedingt die Abschaffung des Gerichtsgedankens überhaupt folgen. Ein postmortales Gericht könnte immer noch in ethischer Hinsicht wünschenswert sein – nur nicht auf schwarz-weißer Grundlage noch mit maßlosen oder gar ewigen Strafen, es sei denn, der Gott der Bibel bzw. der Kirche wäre wirklich ein kosmischer Sadist. Ob man an ein solches Gericht im Rahmen eines heutigen Weltbildes noch glauben kann – und ob man auf die Hölle verzichten kann, ohne dabei auch den Himmel zu verlieren – sind Fragen, die jenseits einer nur ethisch bedingten Kritik des Matthäusevangeliums und seiner Wirkungen liegen.

Luz, Matt. III, 352 zu Matt. 23: „Eine schlimme Vergangenheit bewältigt man nicht, indem man sie verschweigt!“ 73  Siehe Bernstein, Formation, 208–24.

Chapter 9

Matthew in Bibliodrama 1. The Setting ‘Shalom.’ Matthew greeted the audience and looked with curiosity from beneath his black robe at the woman with microphone. She had just invited him to the stage and continued: ‘I now have the unique chance to ask you, Matthew, some questions. So where is your congregation, and in which time do we live now?’ ‘Well’, said Matthew, ‘welcome to this congregation in Antioch, the third-largest city in the empire. Half a century has passed since our Lord was crucified. These are hard times because of what happened in the holy city of Jerusalem not so long ago. The super-power destroyed the city and this has made our life difficult as well.’ ‘How so?’ – ‘We are a small group. Over there, across the street, is the synagogue which we regrettably had to leave – or we were actually smoked out. The times are difficult now that relations between Israel and the Gentiles have worsened. The nominal Israel does not want to understand our flexible attitude to the Gentiles ...’ I am playing the role of Matthew in a bibliodrama1 (henceforth: BD) session planned by Aino-Kaarina Mäkisalo and myself.2 Aino-Kaarina is interviewing me. She is a theologian and an artist, with a focus on poetry, theatre, and dance. An educator for adults in the Parish Union of Helsinki, she has specialized in BD for some fifteen years. For a decade now we have once a year jointly conducted a two-day workshop for the employees of this union. This is a special occasion in September 2004. A nationwide conference on BD is taking place in the auditorium of the Institute for Advanced Training of the Lutheran church. Of the forty-some participants some are practising bib1  ‘Bibliodrama’ is a common designation for a number of interactive approaches to the Bible in group work. It can be defined as an attempt to create a connection between the biblical tradition and the experience of the participants. See, e.g., G. M. Martin, Sachbuch Bibliodrama: Praxis und Theorie (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001). For a comprehensive bibliography until 2002 see H.-J. Rosenstock & R. Rosenstock, Bibliodrama Bibliographie: Personen – Themen – Bibeltexte (Bibliodrama Kontexte 2; Schenefeld: EB-Verlag, 2003). 2  My thanks are due to Minna Salmi, who recorded the play and produced a transcript of the tape. The account that follows depends on her report.

166

Part Two: Reception History

liodramatists, others are trainees, some may be present out of curiosity. The theme is ‘The Matthaean Jesus’ and the text chosen Matt. 11.25–30.

2. Exegesis and Bibliodrama Aino-Kaarina and I have a special mission. We are to demonstrate a method which we have developed over the years in trying to integrate critical exegetical insights within the drama itself. As far as I know, this is something new.3 In BD the exegetical stuff is usually presented, if at all, in discussions, mostly after the event.4 Earlier, when my role was that of an exegetical consultant,5 we, too, used to deal with these issues in discussions, or I would give ‘mini-lectures’, a method I was not too happy with. Gradually my role developed towards that of a co-director. At some point in the process the evangelist became a role character – spontaneously, almost by chance. I recall one case: the group was playing the scene in which Jesus brusquely turns away his family who think he is gone mad (Mark 3.21, 31–35). I got the idea of putting myself in the shoes of ‘Luke’ watching the scene. I walked around the stage, murmuring that something was not right, and afterwards directed, in the role of Luke, a different ‘recording’ in which Jesus’ relationship to his family is much more positive – as it is in Luke 8.19–21. ‘Luke’s’ intervention made sense to the group as a more efficient didactic move than a lecture on synoptic comparison would have been. Since then, I have tried in planning workshops to include part of the background information within the drama itself, if possible by making visible the role of the evangelist through what might be called ‘applied redaction criticism’. It goes without saying that this is only one way among a vast number of possibilities to do BD; it is also only one method among many in Aino-Kaarina’s rich repertoire. I present it here as one modest option for those engaged in the art to consider. On the other hand, I hope that those not well versed with BD (probably most of my colleagues in Biblical studies) could get the feeling that this is a field in which an exegete can engage without sacrificing his or her scholarly in3  The Jewish bibliodramatist Peter Pitzele does use the ‘redactor’ (of texts in the Hebrew Bible) as a character in the drama, inviting participants to ask him why he has omitted words and sentences, added punctuations, etc. Pitzele suggests in passing that one could likewise interview the evangelists ‘about why certain things are said and other left unsaid’. Scripture Windows: Toward a Practice of Bibliodrama (Los Angeles: Alef Design Group, 1998), 68. Ours is, however, a more thoroughgoing effort to secure the evangelist(s) a place in the drama. 4  Cf., e.g., T. Schramm, ‘Bibliodrama und Exegese’, in A. Kiehn et al. (Hrsg.), Bibliodrama (Stuttgart: Kreuz, 1987), 116–35, esp. p.  130–31. However, in the accounts of BD workshops in this foundational book no reports on such discussions are found. 5  I have no training in psychodrama, sociodrama or any other interactive skills expected of those who direct a BD.

Chapter 9: Matthew in Bibliodrama

167

tegrity. In the eyes of many, BD and historical-critical scholarship may seem strange bedfellows. In fact, a crucial factor that led to the birth of BD in the first place was dissatisfaction with this scholarship, whose methods were felt to be too past-oriented and detached. A result is that exegetical-historical points of view tend to be relegated to a marginal position, if they are not completely ignored. On the other hand the prevailing situation is felt to be unsatisfactory and the relation between exegesis and BD a problem which cries for a solution. 6 I hope that our experiment goes some way towards solving it. If the relation between exegesis and BD seems strained in Germany, the situation is different in Finland, due to the clever strategy of the Finnish pioneers. Twenty years ago they made an effort to win over (seduce, if you like) biblical scholars in key positions to cooperate from the start. I may have been the first victim, but quite a few other members of the staff and doctoral students in the Biblical Department at the University of Helsinki have had some experience, and the first doctoral thesis on the topic in the field of exegesis is in preparation. This story was presented to our audience before our demonstration. Before putting on the robe of Matthew, I had also explained what we were going to do: we would include the author of the gospel as a character in the drama and base the setting as much as possible on what can be read out of the gospel of Matthew. Afterwards we would analyse our performance, paying some attention also to the relation between fact and fiction. I also informed the participants that, due to the time limit, the focus would be on verse 30.

3. ‘Matthew’ Introduces Himself and His Congregation Back, then, to ‘Antioch’! Aino-Kaarina goes on asking questions: ‘What sort of people belong to your congregation, Matthew? Would you like to tell about your literary work?’ From the audience comes a third question: ‘Matthew, how did you become a member of this congregation?’ Matthew starts with a description of different groups in his church. On the ‘right’ wing are the ‘conservatives’ who hold that not a letter will pass from the law, on the ‘left’ wing the ‘Paulines’ who maintain that some commandments can be ignored. Matthew himself stands closer to the conservatives. Somewhere in the middle are the ‘childlike’ who are not concerned about theological niceties. Matthew then tells how he became a member: ‘There were in our synagogue some who believed that Jesus was our promised Messiah. I was suspicious of them. But then some preachers came from the south, who told us about Lord Jesus and his teaching. Their witness convinced me. I became a scribe trained 6 

Cf. Martin, Sachbuch, 113.

168

Part Two: Reception History

for the kingdom of Heaven: I understood that God had given us the Messiah who teaches us the right way to interpret the law. He brings us into the kingdom, if we fulfill this law and live in such a way that we can stand being judged according to our deeds. Most members of the synagogue remained blind to this insight and grew hostile towards us. Eventually we were forced to leave our spiritual home and form a community of our own. It’s a sad story.’ Matthew turns to describe his literary work of which he is evidently proud: ‘Those preachers brought with them leaflets, a collection of words of the Lord. We still read them in our meetings on the Lord’s Day. But we now have here a circle of scholars who search new light out of Scripture, and we felt that we need something more. Even though the time is short, it might still be helpful to get a full picture of the message of our Lord. We also have another text, Mark’s account of Jesus, which we constantly read, although it gives too little information of the teachings of the Lord. Out of these materials I decided to compose, with the help of my fellow scholars, a manual which convincingly presents what the Lord speaks to us today.’

4. A Meeting in ‘Antioch’ It is time for the participants to choose roles in a sociodrama. We have decided to use ‘role cohorts’ within which the participants can create their specific roles. The cohorts include the three groups of congregation members just listed plus visitors from the synagogue ‘across the street’. Aino-Kaarina asks everybody to choose a group that seems attractive and to take a role in it. It turns out that the groups formed are more or less of equal size. Everybody is asked to tell to his or her group who he or she now is (as a role character) and how this role is connected to that particular group. The scene to be played is the meeting of an imaginary Bible study circle in Matthew’s congregation. Every cohort is asked to choose two persons to represent them. Chairs are placed on the stage for them. The others are advised to watch the meeting from their seats, staying in their roles. They are encouraged to intervene with comments. The representatives of the groups introduce themselves. They include among others a Greek merchant (a Pauline); Jonathan and Rachel, visitors from the synagogue, and Johanna of the childlike, whose family has told her that as an infant she had been in Jesus’ arms. I continue to play the role of Matthew. Matthew welcomes the guests from the synagogue: ‘I am glad that you wanted to come to learn how you can be freed from the heavy yoke imposed on you by those who sit on the throne of Moses.’ The visitors ask each other whether they should leave at once, but decide to stay.

Chapter 9: Matthew in Bibliodrama

169

Matthew distributes a hand-out with three texts (available to the wider audience as well): Luke 10.21–22, Sir. 51.1, 23–27 and Matt. 11.25–30. The first text, he reminds the congregation, is familiar to them from the leaflets once brought by the wandering preachers; the second one was recently discovered in the meeting of the scholars. In the familiar text Jesus says, ‘I thank you, Father’. ‘The scholars pondered what the scriptures might say about this praise. Someone found this passage, where another Jesus, the son of Sira, likewise gives thanks to God, and Wisdom invites the unlearned under her easy yoke, where they receive instruction and find a great rest. Discussing this text we realised that this Wisdom is not what it may look like at first sight: it is not God’s law as interpreted by the scribes of the synagogue. For their law is a heavy yoke which does not bring rest, it is an intolerable burden. We understood that Ben Sira had understood something of what Jesus was to do. It is Jesus who calls the unlearned and offers us an easy yoke and a great rest, isn’t it?’ Jonathan from the synagogue tries to get the floor, but Matthew goes on to tell that the scholars thought that Jesus’ praise of the Father deserves to be expanded in light of the passage from Ben Sira. The new text, a draft composed for the new manual (Matt. 11.25–30), is read aloud. At last, Jonathan has the chance to speak. ‘I do have great respect for your erudition which I remember from the time when you still used to come to the synagogue...’ Matthew: ‘When I was still allowed to come!’ Jonathan: ‘... and I see others here as well who have, to my astonishment, ceased to attend the synagogue, where we have the right teaching. I’m even more astonished to find out that you are writing something new, although we have the Torah and the prophets. With what right do you dare to compose new texts?’ Matthew: ‘Lord Jesus taught as one having authority and not as your scribes. – But now I would like to hear from the congregation: What does the easy yoke of our Lord mean to you?’ Rachel, also from the synagogue, intervenes: ‘Matthew, you are twisting texts! Surely you remember what it says in the Psalms: your law is my joy. It is repeated there many times. The law is not a heavy burden.’ Matthew: ‘True, Jesus did not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it. But a fulfilled law looks different from one that is not fulfilled.’ A conservative congregation member: ‘Dear Rachel and Jonathan, you are on the right track. But Jesus is a greater teacher than Moses, and he teaches us how the law becomes an easy yoke.’ Jonathan asks, who has the right to interpret the law; isn’t this a struggle about power after all? Matthew counters that in the congregation all are just brothers, the whitewashed tombs are found on the other side the street. There is a stir among the audience.

170

Part Two: Reception History

Rachel asks the Christians to consider the future, for the sake of the children and the youth. ‘Prophets like this Jesus have come and gone. But since the temple has been destroyed, there must be something that lasts. We must give our children the sense that they are sons and daughters of Abraham.’ One of the Paulines: ‘I think that Jewish debates have nothing whatsoever to do with faith in Jesus. They have to do just with your laws and customs.’ A member of the synagogue from the audience: ‘We are taking responsibility for the whole society.’ There is loud noise and simultaneous talking. Johanna (one of the childlike): ‘I don’t understand anything of this discussion, but I remember being told that near Jesus everybody was smiling and it felt good. I think the most important thing is to uphold such freedom. This text looks very good: “I will give you rest.” Isn’t that the greatest wisdom?’ A synagogue member from the audience: ‘You are taking the law away from the people, saying that God only reveals it to some. But it is written that the law is always available. It’s not in heaven or beyond the sea, it need not be specifically revealed. God says that it is in our heart. Our yoke is easy, it can be part of the person, it is with us every day.’ Matthew: ‘Our yoke is easy, for love is the kernel of the law. Whoever loves has fulfilled the law. Whoever does to his neighbours as he would have them do to him, has fulfilled the law and the prophets. I don’t think there will be much disagreement on this. We might even reach mutual understanding, were it not for those bad leaders who burden you with loads too heavy for themselves to carry.’ Rachel: ‘Dear Matthew, are we talking about an easy yoke or an easygoing message? You talk so much nonsense about love. After all, we are the chosen people.’ Matthew: ‘That’s what you were! The election has been taken away from you and given to a people who bear right fruit. We have not been called to an easy road, but to bear good fruit. A tree that bears bad fruit is cut down.’ A synagogue member: ‘We must avoid fanatical enthusiasm. The Romans will come again, if this business goes on.’ Matthew: ‘I’m sorry to say but you asked yourselves the blood of Jesus to come upon you and your children. If God used the Romans to carry out this ...’ Johanna (desperately): ‘Jesus took us in his arms ...’ There is stir among the audience. Another member of the Pauline group: ‘Don’t you remember, Jesus rose from the dead! It was a new beginning, what is old is forgotten.’ As the meeting tends to turn into chaos, Aino-Kaarina asks the participants, staying in their roles, to tell how they feel. The Paulines say they are upset. The text was good, though, as it speaks of rest. What really counts is faith in Jesus. The conservatives express their trust in Matthew and say that there would be no

Chapter 9: Matthew in Bibliodrama

171

problem if others thought like them. The childlike find watching the birds in the sky and lilies in the field a relief in the midst of the burdens of life. The visitors from the synagogue express their gratitude for the law they have learned from their mothers. It is also stated that, ‘even if it’s sad, we evidently did the right thing in deciding that you don’t have a place in the synagogue any more’. Matthew ponders whether it was a good idea to invite visitors, but must admit that, on the face of it, it might seem as if they had a point. He concludes by stating that ‘we don’t offer cheap grace. We have to go through a narrow gate and to bear good fruit and if we don’t, we face eternal fire. Perhaps I’m too severe, these wounds are still so fresh. Perhaps these synagogue people belong after all to those to whom our Father wants to reveal the words of truth.’

5. Discussion The meeting is over. All are asked to leave their roles and to share in small groups what is uppermost in their minds. Then an empty chair is placed in the front for Jesus. Anybody can now take a stand behind the chair and comment on the meeting in the role of Jesus. Four Jesuses appear. Evidently they want to put the debates in perspective by quoting the gospels (two quotations coming from our very text): ‘You are worried and distracted by many things.’ ‘Yes, Father, such was your gracious will.’ (Laughter; the audience recognises the irony.) ‘I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold.’ ‘I am gentle and humble in heart.’ A discussion follows. Questions arise, most of them still addressed to Matthew. I am going to answer as myself, which I show by putting off the robe of Matthew. Question One: Matthew, did you really intend your text to be accepted by the congregation? That lot cannot possibly agree on anything! Question Two: Doesn’t the future of your congregation rest on a pretty shaky ground? Question Three: For whom did you write and why? Question Four: I want to challenge you, Matthew: you claim that the yoke is easy, but you actually demand greater perfection. Isn’t this quite a trick? Question Five: The Pharisees tried seriously to act out their faith. Were they so terrible? Before trying to answer these perceptive questions I comment on the set-up. The location in Antioch is based on a common hypothesis; yet it is only an ed-

172

Part Two: Reception History

ucated guess.7 The location did not have much significance for the drama; the point was to locate the events somewhere in the real world of the time. I note that the point was to focus just on the gospel of Matthew. As ‘Matthew’ I tried to use as much ‘Matthean’ diction as possible: phrases and sentences from the gospel. I also tried to be true to the theological emphases of the gospel as I (along with average scholarship) see them. In light of the overall picture of the gospel it seems natural to interpret the ‘yoke’ and ‘burden’ of Jesus in an intended contrast to 23.4, as ‘Matthew’ did in the drama. 8 If you feel that Matthew used too harsh language, read chapter 23! (It was a surprise to some participants that Jesus – known as the gentle friend of sinners – could be so harsh.) I further point out that the assumption that there were in this congregation different groups is based on indications in the gospel. The evidence is collected in the hand-out given to the participants.9 I come to the questions. Our setting was fictitious; I certainly do not believe that the real Matthew would have subjected his work to approval by the flock. On the other hand, the circle of scholars around him was not a fiction: scribal work has left its traces in the gospel, as its constant references to Scripture (most strikingly in the ‘formula quotations’10) show. The reference to Sir 51 belongs to the grey area between fact and fiction. I don’t claim that precisely this text was used by Matthew, though there are thematic and verbal connections, but Matthew does follow Jewish wisdom traditions akin to Ben Sira; the place of God’s personified Wisdom is taken in his gospel by Jesus.11 The formula quotations 7  Cf. U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, Bd.  1 (EKK I/1; Düsseldorf & Zürich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2002), 100–103. 8  U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, Bd.  2 (EKK I/2; Zürich: Benziger, 1990), 219: Matthew provides his tradition with an anti-Pharisaic stamp. Many bibliodramatists think of the texts as timeless and archetypical. In this vein, one could be content in a drama on our text to focus on ‘rest’, ‘humility’ and ‘childlikeness’ in general spiritual and psychological terms. In our BD the emphasis is different, since the historical context of the gospel is allowed to crucially colour the setting. It is in light of the context of the gospel as a whole that the polemical overtones of our passage can be caught. 9  Conservatives: Matt. 5.18–19. A ‘Pauline’ group seems to be criticized in Matt. 5.19 (cf. below, 174 n.  21), though it is not certain that those who relax commandments are members of Matthew’s congregation. But whether or not the attitude to concrete commandments of the law was a problem in this community, it was a burning issue in his environment, the emerging church at large. To single out a group of the ‘childlike’ is not self-evident; on the level of Matthew’s redaction, the ‘babes’ of 11.25 may well consist of the congregation as a whole, as distinct from the Pharisees and non-Christian scribes (cf. Luz, Matthäus 2, 207). On the other hand, the author of the gospel clearly belongs to the guild of scribes; grass-root members must have felt that, compared to them, this man is ‘wise and understanding’. 10  Matt. 1.23, 2.15 etc. Cf. Luz, Matthäus 1, 83–84: the formula quotations in particular hint at the existence of Christian scribes who worked with Q, Mark, other traditions about Jesus, and Scripture. 11  Cf. Luz, Matthäus 2, 200: verses 28–30 can be a quotation from a Jewish sapiental writing, or else a Christian composition; ibid., 217: the verses have a Wisdom background, the closest analogies being Sir. 51.23–29 and 24.19–22.

Chapter 9: Matthew in Bibliodrama

173

show that Christian scribes have ransacked the Old Testament, finding references to Jesus all over the place. The synagogue members in the drama were fully entitled to ask, with what right Matthew appropriated texts that spoke of their law and their wisdom.12 Question Five: yes, no doubt the Pharisees were better than their reputation. The more we live with Jews – ‘Rachel’ had actually lived in a Jewish environment, bringing authentic knowledge into her role – or study Jewish writings, the better we can understand Judaism on its own terms. Then the law does not appear as the burden as which it has been presented in the Lutheran tradition, but as a gift which brings joy. Unfortunately, the Gospel of Matthew bears quite some responsibility for the bad press which the Pharisees have in our tradition.13 This is a sad piece of effective-history with which we ought to come to grips, and BD might help us a bit. Question Two is more of a comment and makes me feel a little guilty: did I draw too gross a caricature of Matthew who surely tried sincerely to strike a balance between old and new? Did I exaggerate his embitterment towards his old home base? I am left hesitating. But I agree with the challenge to Matthew in Question Four: how easy is the yoke of Jesus really? As I tried to emphasise in the drama, it takes quite an effort to live as a disciple in the Matthaean way.14 The visitors might well have asked, whose yoke really is heavy and whose yoke easy.15 Someone adds that Jesus is portrayed as meek and humble, but he does not look like that at all, when he confronts the Jewish leaders in Matt. 23. No, he does not. Question Three: Matthew probably wrote for the Jesus-believers of his time. I explain how ‘Matthew’ in the drama tried to put flesh on the bones of the synoptic Two-Source-Theory: a text from Q, once brought by wandering preachers16 , was complemented with material peculiar to Matthew (Matt. 11.28–30)17 which is related to Jewish Wisdom traditions. I further underline that one of 12 Luz, Matthäus 1, 198 hints at the ethical and theological problem that the Christian claim on the Old Testament has, in history, become a fatal weapon against Jews who have understandably refused to read their book from a Christian perspective. 13  Cf. U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus, Bd.  3 (EKK I/3; Zürich: Benziger, 1997), 346–52 on the effective history of Matt. 23. The woes against the Pharisees in Matt. 23 distort historical reality and stand in harsh contradiction to Jesus’ demand of loving the enemy (352). 14  Cf. Luz, Matthäus 2, 217. 15  For the easy yoke of Jesus see Matt. 22.34–40; 7.12; 12.7; 9.13; contrast the heavy yoke of the Pharisees and scribes in 23.4. Luz, Matthäus 2, 219–20 is justified in raising the question, why is the law a heavy burden, when it is interpreted and imposed by the Pharisees, but an easy yoke when its observance is required by Jesus? For Jesus does not proclaim a more lenient law in this gospel; his message is full of ‘imperatives’. See Matt. 5.20; 5.21–22; 5.29–30 and 18.8–9; 7.21–23; 10.28; 13.49–50; 22.13–14; 25.41, 46. 16  Cf. Luz, Matthäus 1, 89–90 on the close connection between Matthew and the bearers of Q. 17  Cf. Luz, Matthäus 2, 198–99: Matthew probably added verses 28–30 to the Q text. (At this point he is not following his Markan Vorlage.)

174

Part Two: Reception History

Matthew’s motives was evidently to come to grips with the difficult situation in which his group now found itself with regard to the synagogue; he is engaged in polemical ‘grief work’, making sense of the calamity that has happened. To be sure, scholars disagree on the precise nature of the plight: had the group already left the synagogue, or were they still part of it, in the middle of a process that would lead to separation?18 We had to choose one of these alternatives as the setting of our drama, and we opted for a situation in which the separation has happened. Personally I find this the more likely alternative,19 for in the gospel the synagogue is viewed through the eyes of an outsider. I refer the audience to the hand-out which gives a list of such passages.20 I go on to ask, how much of the situation in our church and society we may have projected into the drama. The tension with the synagogue came strongly to the fore, accompanied by an internal tension in the congregation between the conservatives and the less conservative groups. Evidently the polarised situation in the Finnish church (there are stark contrasts vis-a-vis the ordination of women or the attitude to sexual minorities) coloured our performance. In a longer workshop we as directors would definitely have arranged also ‘applied’ scenes to be performed about present-day situations more or less analogous to that found in Matthew. In a longer workshop more attention could also have been paid to the tension between the conservatives and the Paulines. Matt. 5.19 may not refer to Paul himself, but this verse would hit the apostle as one who did break more than just ‘one of the least’ commandments of the law.21 Many of the participants are Lutheran ministers. Do they feel the tension, when each Sunday they are expected to preach with a Pauline-Lutheran accentuation on faith alone, and yet the texts on which they preach – often Matthaean texts – tend to stress doing. In Matthew, grace is not understood in a Pauline manner, but as a power that helps a Christian to do the all-important will of God. I hint at this issue, but the time is out. The demonstration is over.

6. An Earlier Meeting in ‘Antioch’ We ventured this experiment with the large group, because we had a year before tried a similar method in a smaller group, in a longer workshop. Instead of a detailed description of that workshop I will mention just a few aspects of our experience. The workshop involved a particular challenge: we had to reckon 18 

See on the options Luz, Matthäus 1, 94–99. In agreement with Luz, ibid., 96–97. 20  The references to ‘their’ synagogues (4.23 etc.) are striking. I had to point out that the official Finnish translation blots out this feature. 21  On Matt. 5.19 and Paul(ine Christianity) cf. Luz, Matthäus 1, 317 note 85. 19 

Chapter 9: Matthew in Bibliodrama

175

with strong emotional tensions, for our text was Jesus’ account of the Last Judgment in Matt. 25.31–46. There was the danger that profoundly painful experiences of rejection might be actualized. It could not be the purpose of a two-day workshop to lead people too deep into processes that might call for professional therapeutic treatment. During the preparation the idea came up that we could use as a set-up the congregation in Antioch, which would discuss a draft by Matthew (Matt. 25.31–46) – the very device we would use later in connection with Matt 11. This was to be a methodological experiment, but choosing the medium of a sociodrama would also protect the group from delving too deep into personal mental processes. Along with the groups already familiar to the reader of this article, participants could choose to be ‘wandering preachers’ (cf. Matt. 10.40–42) or ‘little ones’ (cf. Matt. 18.6–10 and ‘the least brothers’ in 25.31–46). Visitors from across the street were also included, though the traumatic relation to the synagogue is not so palpable in this text. As we had more time, we were able to include exegetical discussions between the performances; one topic that had to be discussed was the identity of the ‘least brothers’. Who are they in the context of the gospel? 22 It was my intention only to present the options, not to push the group into a certain direction; but it turned out that many felt the presentation of the exegetical evidence as a recommendation for taking the least brothers to be wandering Christian preachers. The meeting was a colourful event; the greatest tension developed between Matthew and the synagogue he had left behind. In a two-day workshop it was also possible to pay more than passing attention to effective-history. An important aspect of this is the (possible) personal history of the participants with the text. We take it to be a very important part of BD that the participants get a chance to come to grips with this history. People often have an ambivalent, even traumatic relationship to the Bible, or some biblical texts, and a critical BD can provide a possibility to sort this out.23 One 22  See on the options Luz, Matthäus 3, 521–30. Most modern leaders may think of all poor and suffering people in the world, yet this ’universalist’ interpretation is of recent origin. The traditional interpretation in the church was very different: the least brothers are Christians who get into trouble while carrying out their mission (cf. Matt. 10.40–42). Arguments can be found for both readings; in a drama one need not – and cannot – make a clear choice. 23  Such a critical dimension is prominent in the bibliodrama work of S. Laeuchli; cf., e.g., his Das Spiel vor dem dunklen Gott: ‘Mimesis’. Ein Beitrag zur Entwicklung des Bibliodramas (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1987). Curiously, in a recent article Luz attributes to me the view that the term ‘effective history’ should be reserved only for the good effects of biblical texts: U. Luz, ‘The Contribution of Reception History to a Theology of the New Testament’, in C. Rowland & C. Tuckett (eds.), The Nature of New Testament Theology (FS R. Morgan; Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), 123–34, esp. p.  132. In the article he refers to I actually claim the opposite; see H. Räisänen, ‘The “Effective History” of the Bible: A Challenge to Biblical Scholarship?’, in id., Challenges to Biblical Interpretation: Collected Essays 1991– 2001 (BINS 59; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 263–82, esp. p.  271–72.

176

Part Two: Reception History

can think of anti-Jewish texts, 24 texts that speak of the unforgivable sin, 25 and other texts that threaten with eternal punishment. The eternal fire has made a powerful impact, not least through church paintings, on people in different times, still in our generation.26 It turned out that several participants had experiences of having been intimidated with hell in childhood and youth. There were several discussions of this in the group. But since we had some experience of elucidating effective-history by bringing characters from church history into the drama 27 – I had preached anti-Jewish sermons as John Chrysostomus and as Luther in a workshop on John and the Jews – I decided to concretize the issue of threatening with hell also by bringing in an actual person. My choice was Ingemar Hedenius (d. 1986), a professor of philosophy in Uppsala, who in 1972 had published a book on the doctrine of hell.28 A sharp critic of the church, he had been affected by fear of hell in his youth when listening to the reading of the Bible at home. We shall all get into hell, thought the boy, thinking of the least brothers in Matthew 25 and of the beggars of the neighbourhood to whom his pious family gave nothing. Claiming that even a secular person is not free from religious fears of the childhood, Hedenius mentions a friend who, when overwhelmed by depression, thought he was rejected by God (in whom he normally did not believe) and condemned to hell (in which, of course, he normally did not believe either). Hedenius mounts an attack on the cruelty of the idea of eternal punishment and recommends to clergy that they openly abandon the idea. In the course of our drama, ‘Hedenius’ finally defiantly threw a Bible on the floor. Many experienced this symbolic gesture as kathartic. A mere report on Hedenius’ thoughts would not have had the same effect. The workshop on Matt. 25 also included actualising scenes on the ‘least brothers’. One group prepared a scene on them in today’s society, another in today’s church. At various points one had the possibility to be a ‘goat’, a ‘sheep’, one of the least brothers, or the ‘Son of Man on the throne of his glory’. It was one of the highlights when participants mounted the throne and told what they saw. We heard the statement, made quietly in a humble spirit, that some kind of judgment is badly needed, when one thinks of the evil and violence in our world 24 

Cf. Luz, Matthäus 1, 94–99 and Matthäus 3, 388–401. Cf. Luz, Matthäus 2, 267–68. 26  Cf. Luz, Matthäus 3, 352; H. Räisänen, ‘Matthäus und die Hölle’. 27  On the use of figures from the history of interpretation in BD cf. also Pitzele, Scripture Windows, 11. 28  I. Hedenius, Helvetesläran (Stockholm: Bonnier, 1972). Cf. Räisänen, ‘Matthäus und die Hölle’. For a sympathetic assessment of Hedenius’ book as a ‘theological’ contribution (when ‘theology’ is not understood in a narrow sense) see now M. Martinson, ‘Teologi, filosofi och bibeltolkning: Postkristna perspektiv från Nietzsche, Hedenius och Badiou’, in L. Hartman et al. (eds.), Vad, hur och varför? Reflektioner om bibelvetenskap (FS I. Ljung; Uppsala: Elanders Gotab Stockholm, 2006), 191–202, esp. p.  195–98. 25 

Chapter 9: Matthew in Bibliodrama

177

towards ‘the least’. We were especially moved in hearing how someone saw that every sheep is also a goat, and every goat is also one of the least brothers. This report and its footnotes should have made clear that a BD director intending to work on a Matthaean text cannot think of a better guide than Ulrich Luz’s four-volume commentary. Uli has convincingly demonstrated that one can very well combine a historical interest with a concern for the effective-history and present use of the texts. It is my conviction that the developing art of BD does well to follow his lead.

Chapter 10

Are Christians Better People? On the Contrast between ‘Us’ and ‘Them’ in Early Christian Rhetoric 1. Introduction Does religion foster moral, pro-social, altruistic behaviour? Is there a necessary connection between morality and religion, so that in the absence of the latter even the former is missing or is defective? It is, of course, problematic to search for answers to such questions in ancient sources. No matter how you define religion, it will be hard to find in antiquity persons with no religious connection at all, at least in any significant numbers. Groups then branded as atheist – Epicureans, Jews or Christians – would obviously not qualify as such today. We cannot juxtapose religious and non-religious ancient persons in order to assess their convictions, let alone their behaviour. What we may be able to do is to assess the contribution of particular religions, or rather the contribution of practitioners of particular religious traditions, to altruism. I shall consider some Christian texts from the first century CE from this point of view. Methodological problems are not lacking. The texts give us glimpses of the views of leading representatives of the religion, not of those of grassroots adherents. Moreover, in general we only have access to discourses on morality. It would be hard to verify general statements concerning actual altruism (or egoism) in real life, even though some steps in this direction might be possible. With these limitations in mind I offer some tentative observations on early Christian discourse that may have a bearing on our topic.1

2. The Contrast between Us and Them Is there a necessary connection between morality and religion? In other words, is religion the source, or the most important source, of pro-social behaviour? Intriguingly, some prominent Christian texts claim precisely the opposite: religion can destroy morality. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans makes the point with

1  Cf.

H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010), 144–49, 284–85, 288–89.

180

Part Two: Reception History

crushing harshness. Drawing on Hellenistic Jewish traditions,2 the apostle presents an utterly dark picture of the ‘idolaters’ and their errors. Suppressing the truth by their wickedness (Rom. 1.18) they have ‘exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images resembling a mortal human being or birds or four-footed animals or reptiles’ (v. 23). The author makes no attempt to understand cults in which images are used as foci for veneration, let alone to empathise with their adherents.3 On the contrary, he declares that they – in practice, the vast majority of his fellow humans – are victims of ‘degrading passions’, evidenced by unnatural intercourse between women and ‘shameless acts’ committed by men with men (vv. 26–27). These people are ‘filled with every kind of wickedness’ (v. 29). ‘Evil, greed and depravity’ introduce a list of some twenty vices (vv. 29–31): they are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit and malice. They are gossips, slanderers, God-haters, insolent, arrogant and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey their parents; they have no understanding, no fidelity, no love, no mercy.

According to this text, then, religion does not foster morality. On the contrary, morality is destroyed by religion. Not by all religion, of course – but by religious traditions other than the author’s own. I shall return to Romans 1 later; here I note that the rhetoric of this chapter is not an isolated case. Paul and other early Christian authors often contrast the morality of Christ-believers with other people’s lack of it. I take it that the passage Romans 7.7–25 also belongs here: the story of an ‘I’ who finds himself in a sad plight – a corrupt ‘fleshly’ person ‘sold under sin’ (verse 14). The interpretation of this passage has been controversial since patristic times. Yet, especially in the light of the adjacent chapters 6 and 8,4 it is plau2  An especially close parallel is Wisd. 14.22–31, so much so that Paul’s dependence on this document has often been suggested. As in Paul, the invention of idols is seen as the root of immorality (14.12), concretized in a long list of vices. See especially verses 24–26: ‘they no longer keep either their lives or their marriages pure, but they either treacherously kill one another, or grieve one another by adultery, and all is a raging riot of blood and murder, theft and deceit, corruption, faithlessness, tumult, perjury, confusion over what is good, forgetfulness of favours, defiling of souls, sexual perversion, disorder in marriages, adultery, and debauchery.’ On the ‘cultural antagonism’ of the book of Wisdom see J. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora from Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE – 117 CE) (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 181–91. 3  ‘Paul clearly assumes that the only appropriate attitude for the creature towards the Creator is one of worship and gratitude’ (J. D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998], 91) – as if those who used images did not practise worship. 4  In Rom. 6, the slavery under sin clearly belong to the past of the Christ-believers: ‘you were slaves of sin’ (v. 20), but now ‘you have been freed from sin and enslaved to God’ (v. 22). Romans 7.5 likewise states in the past tense that ‘while we were living in the flesh, our sinful passions . . . were at work in our members to bear fruit for death,’ whereas we are now ‘dead to that which held us captive’ (v. 6). Chapter 8 for its part makes a sharp distinction between ‘us, who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit,’ and ‘those who live according to the flesh’ (vv. 4–8).

Chapter 10: Are Christians Better People?

181

sible to take it as a depiction of the situation of a person placed outside the sphere of salvation in Christ. The ‘I’ is definitely not a Christian and was seldom regarded as one, until Augustine brought about something like a volte-face in the interpretation of the passage.5 By using the rhetorical ‘I,’ Paul probably includes himself among those who, before encountering Christ, lived under the power of sin – which does not mean that he would have felt sin as a heavy burden upon his neck. Paul contemplates the plight of non-Christians from the vista of his life in Christ. Sin is, in Romans 7, a ‘law’ (an order, a state of things) that lurks in the person’s members: in one’s ‘body of death’ (v. 24). In principle, one’s ‘inmost self’ or ‘inward man’ takes delight in the law of God (vv. 22–23). Yet the indwelling sin prevents one from doing what one would like to do so that one is under the compulsion to do what is bad: ‘I do not understand my own actions. For I do not what I want, but I do the very thing I hate’ (v.  15; cf. v.  19). Paul is taking up the notion, well-known in Greco-Roman tradition, of a moral conflict within humans: one often (but not always!) does what is wrong, even though one knows what is right. He then radicalizes this everyday observation to the extreme, so that a completely wretched picture of the non-Christian ‘I’ ensues. In the next section (Rom. 8.5–11), the picture of the non-Christian is even darker. There is nothing left to correspond to his ‘delight in the law of God’ as far as his ‘inward man’ is concerned (so 7.22); no ‘mind’ with positive intentions is singled out as an antipode to the ‘flesh’, as in chapter 7. This time the focus is on mainstream Jews who rely on the Torah, the God-given foundation of their religious practice. (At this stage, the Christ-believers had not yet left Judaism, so the contrast is actually one between rival versions of the same religious tradition.) An absolutely black-and-white contrast is set forth between those who are ‘in Christ’ and walk according to the Spirit and those who do not. The latter set their minds on ‘the flesh’ – a way of thinking that is hostile to God and does not and cannot submit to God’s law: Those who live according to the flesh have their minds set on what the flesh desires; but those who live in accordance with the Spirit have their minds set on what the Spirit desires. The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace. The mind governed by the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law, nor can it do so. Those who are in the realm of the flesh cannot please God. You, however, are not in the realm of the flesh but are in the realm of the Spirit, if indeed the Spirit of God lives in you.

5  See the summary of the discussion in R. Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 441–45. The ‘I’ is still taken as a Christian, for example, by T. Laato, Paul and Judaism: An Anthropological Approach (South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism 115; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), 109–45; cf. also J. D. G. Dunn, Romans 1–8 (WBC 38 A; Dallas: Word Books, 1988), 411–12.

182

Part Two: Reception History

If it is the case that ‘how one views other human beings’ is one of the elements which ‘play a crucial role in motivating altruism’, then the view of other humans found in such passages in Romans is hardly a very promising starting-point. Paul here crystallizes in somewhat abstract terms a contrast that he had earlier, in his Letter to the Galatians, vividly described as a contrast between the ‘works of the flesh’ and the ‘fruit of the Spirit’. The works of the flesh include ‘fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry and sorcery; enmities, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy; drunkenness, carousing, and the like’; those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God (Gal. 5.19–21). The fruit of the Spirit, by contrast, is an accumulation of altruistic qualities: ‘love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control’; for ‘those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires’ (Gal. 5.22–24). To take up phrases from the Introduction to Christianity and the Roots of Morality, Paul claims indeed that life in Christ does take forms that are ‘qualitatively unique in their surroundings’, so that the language of being ‘in Christ’ does not just add ‘a metaphorical, theological dimension to ordinary morality’. He does imply that Christians have been granted ‘a special competence for moral behaviour’ in that they possess God’s spirit. Paul may even think that this special competence has a material basis in the bodies of the Christ-believers: Troels Engberg-Pedersen has in a recent book forcefully argued that pneuma (spirit) is, for Paul, a physical element that is literally ‘poured’ into believers at baptism.6 We may note in passing that in setting forth his contrast Paul is in good company. The great Philo of Alexandria praises converts to Judaism in his treatise on Virtues (182): Those who come over to this worship become at once prudent, temperate, modest, gentle, merciful, humane, venerable, just, magnanimous, lovers of truth, superior to all considerations of money and pleasure.

By contrast, ‘one may see’ that Jewish apostates are ‘intemperate, shameless, unjust, disreputable, weak-minded, quarrelsome’, and so on; a long list of vices follows. What Paul claims for Christ-believers is here claimed for non-Christian Jews; what Paul says about non-Christians is paralleled by Philo’s denigration of the apostates. In both cases a clear boundary is established between the in-group and those outside. Other Christ-believers, too, often labelled all those who did not accept their message as wicked sinners, cut off from God. In the Gospels, ‘this generation’ which rejects the messengers of Jesus is branded as ‘evil’, ‘adulterous’ and ‘sinful’ (Luke 11.29 par.; Mark 8.38 par.; Matt. 16.4). Christ-believers also claimed 6  T. Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 72 and elsewhere.

Chapter 10: Are Christians Better People?

183

that there was a vast difference between their present life and their own past – between their post-conversion and pre-conversion existence. Here are three examples from the Pauline school, from letters somewhat later written by others in Paul’s name: Put to death, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: fornication, impurity, lust, evil desire, and greed ... You used to walk in these ways, in the life you once lived. But now you must get rid of all such things – anger, wrath, malice, slander, and abusive language from your mouth. (Col. 3.5–8). You must no longer live as the Gentiles do, in the futility of their minds. They are darkened in their understanding and separated from the life of God because of their ignorance and hardness of heart. Having lost all sensitivity, they have given themselves over to licentiousness, greedy to practise every kind of impurity. (Eph. 4.17–19). At one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived, slaves to various passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, despicable, hating one another. (Tit. 3.3).

The pseudonymous First Letter of Peter, sent to Christ-believers in Asia Minor toward the end of the first century, assumes a situation, in which the Christians are maligned by their neighbours as evildoers. Surprisingly enough, they have acquired the reputation of being murderers, thieves, criminals, and mischief makers (1 Pet. 4.15). In the same vein, some Gentile authors of the time stated that ‘hatred for humankind’ was a general reason for pagan distrust of Christians.7 Christians had withdrawn from their previous social contacts, and this had created suspicion and misunderstanding. The author of First Peter hopes that through the honourable conduct of the Christians the neighbours may eventually rethink and glorify God (1 Pet. 2.12; cf. 3.16). However, his attempt at peaceful coexistence is compromised by his lumping together the pagans as evildoers who live ‘in licentiousness, lust, drunkenness, revels, carousing, and detestable idolatry’, and are ‘surprised that you no longer join them in the same excesses of dissipation, and so they blaspheme’ (1 Pet. 4.3–4). So it happens that both sides attribute similar vices to each other: it is the other one who is ‘full of hatred’. A particularly gross caricature of pagan life is found in the Book of Revelation, especially Rev. 9.20–21. In his forecast of future events, the seer reports that those who are not killed by the plagues described earlier in the book do not repent of their idolatry or ‘of their murders or their sorceries or their fornication or their thefts.’ In another chapter they are classed together with ‘dogs, sorcerers, fornicators, murderers, everyone who loves and practices falsehood’ (Rev. 22.15; cf. 21.8). These people are identical with ‘the dwellers on the earth’ – an expression used throughout as a disparaging phrase by the author, meaning all non-Christians of the world.8 When Christ returns to ‘tread the winepress of 7 Suetonius,

Nero 16.2; Claudius 25.3; Pliny, Epistle 10.96; Tacitus, Annals 15.4. This fact militates against the claim of E. Schüssler Fiorenza (Revelation: Vision of a Just World [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991], 119–120; 79–80) that Revelation’s ‘outcries for judgment 8 

184

Part Two: Reception History

the fury of the wrath of God’, he will therefore wipe out most of humanity; the flesh of ‘both small and great’ will be offered to the birds of the sky as ‘the great supper of God’ (Rev. 19.11–18). While I do not doubt the report that there is ‘some evidence that religious people are somewhat more charitable’ than others, I would definitely not count the Book of Revelation among this evidence. Even among New Testament authors there are religious people whose charitableness leaves something to be desired. Once more: if ‘how one views other people’ plays a crucial role in motivating altruism, in light of such religious teachings as those mentioned above, the prognosis for altruism in general and for inter-group cooperation in particular may not seem too good.

3. Deconstructing the Contrast Many Christian commentators have taken Paul’s tirades in Romans 1 at face value and have spoken of actual gross immorality in the pagan world. The chapter has been regarded as ‘a report of contemporary conditions’ on the basis of ‘personal observation’.9 Scholars have spoken of ‘the manifest decadence of the pagan world’10 or of ‘the grossest form of superstition and immorality’.11 It has been claimed that ‘at every turn the traveller in the Graeco-Roman world met with frank idolatry and its moral accompaniments’; this is what Paul saw – and described with ‘sober realism’.12 But this is too credulous,13 and some Christian commentators frankly admit that ‘Paul is unfair’14 and even that the passage is

and justice’ ‘rise up not only on behalf of Christians but also on behalf of the whole earth’, the ultimate goal of the work being ‘the liberation of all humanity’ from Rome’s oppressive power. 9  F. V. Filson, quoted in E. P. Sanders, Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 124. 10  C. K. Barrett, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans (BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1973), 37. 11  C. H. Dodd, The Epistle of Paul to the Romans (MNTC; London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1947), 25. 12 Dodd, ibid. According to J. A. Fitzmyer (Romans [AB 33; New York: Doubleday, 1993], 270), too, Paul ‘describes a de facto situation,’ even though he is ‘not saying that every individual pagan before Christ’s coming was a moral failure.’ 13  Cf. R. Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians (New York: Knopf, 1989), 345–46: ‘it is quite untrue that pagans lived in unfettered sexuality before Christianity came’ (although Christians did create a different code in this area). Even in the pagan Greek world, sexuality was ‘governed by the profound restraints of honour and shame’. 14  U. Luz, ‘Das Neue Testament’, in R. Smend and U. Luz, Gesetz (Kohlhammer Taschenbücher 1015; Stuttgart & Berlin: Kohlhammer, 1981), 58–139, esp. p.  97.

Chapter 10: Are Christians Better People?

185

‘one of the most violent and hate-filled in Scripture’.15 In today’s idiom, it might well qualify as ‘hate speech’. The contrast Paul sets forth in Rom. 1 begins to deconstruct, when we take a closer look at what follows. In Rom. 2.17–24 Paul turns to attack Jews to whom he attributes stealing, adultery, and sacrilege. Both attacks, that on Gentiles and that on the Jews, are part of Paul’s argumentative strategy. It aims at the conclusion that the whole world is hopelessly ‘under sin’, a cosmic power that relentlessly keeps humans enslaved; therefore, all humanity needs Christ as its redeemer (Rom. 3.9). The charges Paul makes to ‘prove’ the hopeless plight of humanity are exaggerated to the extreme. (Note that in his indictment of the Jews he does not speak, say, of impure motives that lie hidden behind the most decent outward behaviour, as modern Christian sensitivities might lead one to expect, but of gross concrete acts.) The conclusion suggests itself that the passage was not written to give an objective ... description of Jews and Gentiles. Paul knows what conclusion he wants to draw, and it is the conclusion which is important to him, since universal sinfulness is necessary if Christ is to be the universal savior. Paul did not come to his view of sin and salvation by beginning with an analysis of the human plight.16

Rather, Paul has resorted to factional polemics. He uses caricaturing accounts of ‘them’ as stepping-stones on the road to the conclusion that he knows in advance. Paul’s theological argument runs into difficulties in Rom. 2.6–16, a passage with a forceful emphasis on judgment according to deeds. The passage reveals the artificial nature of the polemical account of the Gentiles in the previous section. It contains statements that stand in stark contrast to the notion of the wretched plight of non-Christian humanity under the irresistible power of sin: God will repay each person according to what they have done ... There will be anguish and distress for everyone who does evil, the Jew first and also the Greek, but glory and honour and peace for everyone who does good, the Jew first and also the Greek.

This chapter holds out the definite possibility of acting properly in God’s eyes. Paul states that anyone, Greek or Jew, can ‘do good’. ‘It was presumably his awareness of a high degree of shared ethos and moral sense among people of good will which allowed him to talk of final judgement simply in terms of “good” rewarded and “evil” punished.’17 Pagans may even obey God’s will ‘by nature’, for what God’s law demands is ‘written on their hearts’: ‘When Gentiles, who do not possess the law, do by nature what the law requires, these, though not having the law, are a law to themselves’ (Rom. 2.14–15, cf. 2.26–27).18 15 G. Shaw, The Cost of Authority: Manipulation and Freedom in the New Testament (London: SCM, 1983), 143. 16 Sanders, Paul, 125. 17 Dunn, Theology, 665. 18  Paul here avails himself of the Stoic theory of natural law; see, for example, Niko Hut-

186

Part Two: Reception History

When Paul is not reflecting on the plight of humans from the perspective of his Christ-centred theological conviction, he finds it quite natural that some non-Christians can fulfil the demands of God’s law. Such ‘anthropological slips’ suggest that Paul’s intuitive view of humanity may differ from his theological interpretation of the human condition. ‘At the level of common sense he believe[s] that in the eyes of an impartial God there are similarly moral people among Jews, Gentiles and Christians.’19 This intuitive view yields, however, to Paul’s forced theological analysis, which requires that everyone outside Christ must be a corrupt sinner, imprisoned by evil powers. When he is not arguing for his all-important theological conclusion, Paul shows a greater sense of nuances in his picture of the Gentile world. The apostle can even summarize the ideals of a Christian life in terms of popular Greek philosophy. In Phil. 4.8 he states that Christians are to contemplate whatever is true, honourable, just, pure, pleasing, commendable, excellent, worthy of praise ... None of these words is specifically Christian.20 ‘Paul here sanctifies, as it were, the generally accepted virtues of pagan morality’, recognizing that there was a genuine capacity for moral discernment in the pagan society around him and that the things which were counted honourable by good men everywhere were in fact worthy of honour, worthy to be cultivated by a Christian believer. 21

In fact, much of Paul’s ethical teaching draws on traditional (Jewish and Gentile) wisdom.22 The contents of Christian morality as presented by him are largely traditional. The difference lies in the success which he claims for the life in Christ: while others fail, Christ-believers succeed in fulfilling God’s demands.23 But what are we to make of this success, when Paul’s own writings show that he is actually painfully aware that the moral life of his converts often falls short tunen, ‘Greco-Roman Philosophy and Paul’s Teaching on Law’, in L. Aejmelaeus & A. Mustakallio (eds.), The Nordic Paul: Finnish Approaches to Pauline Theology (LNTS 374; London: T&T Clark, 2008), 74–89, esp. p.  81–82. Naturally many theories have been developed to deny that these verses really speak of Gentiles fulfilling the requirements of the law (for example, Paul is referring to Gentile Christians: Jewett, Romans, 213–14. For a refutation of such attempts to reconcile these statements with Paul’s main concern, see H. Räisänen, Paul and the Law (WUNT 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 21987), 103–6; K. Kuula, The Law, the Covenant and God’s Plan. Vol. 2: Paul’s Treatment of the Law in Romans (PFES 85; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 93–94. 19 Kuula, ibid., 137. 20  ‘The virtues are Hellenistic, not ‘biblical’: J. Reumann, Philippians (AB 33 B; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), 639. ‘Paul presents favorably virtues hailed in the Greco-Roman world’, assuming a certain consensus in the ethical judgment (ibid., 638). 21  F. W. Beare, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Philippians (BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1959), 148. 22  Correctly pointed out e.g. by Dunn, Theology, 665. ‘It would be a peculiarly crass arrogance for Christians to believe that they had been given a unique moral sense...’ (ibid., 664). 23  Rom. 8.4, 9–11; 13.8–10; cf. Gal. 5.14–16.

Chapter 10: Are Christians Better People?

187

of his standards? In his correspondence a gap opens between theory and reality. As several passages24 show, the Spirit did not guide the Christians automatically (as it were) to holy life. Paul himself implies that even a Christ-believer may fall short of the ideal of the life in the Spirit and must be urged to live up to his or her calling: ‘If we live by the Spirit, let us also be guided by the Spirit’ (Gal. 5.25). In 1 Corinthians, Paul even criticizes the self-styled pneumatics in Corinth by verbally denying them the status of ‘spiritual people’ (1 Cor. 3.1–4). They are still ‘fleshly’ and should correct their conduct, so that Paul can treat them as adults rather than as spiritual infants.25 In Romans, a letter sent from Corinth, Paul states with joyous assurance that sin will not reign over Christians (Rom. 6.14). Yet precisely the story of the Corinthian congregation puts this optimism in a dubious light. Paul had after all been informed of such sexual transgressions as were, in his words, ‘not found even among pagans’ (!) but were tolerated by the congregation (1 Cor. 5.1–5: a case of what Paul considers incest). Paul seems to reckon with the possibility that ‘a brother’ can be ‘sexually immoral or greedy, or [be] an idolater, reviler, drunkard, or robber’ (1 Cor. 5.9–13). Some members apparently visit prostitutes (1 Cor. 6.12–20); grievances within the congregation are taken to worldly courts (1 Cor. 6.1–11). In a later letter (2 Cor. 12.20–21), Paul still expresses his fear that he may find among the Corinthian Christians ‘jealousy, anger, selfishness, slander, gossip, conceit, and disorder’ – that is, precisely such vices as he had in Galatians listed as ‘works of the flesh’. In this light, the eulogy in Rom. 8 that paints a wonderful picture of life in the Spirit (in contrast to life in the flesh) turns out to be part of group polemics that serves to support an exclusive view of salvation (only Christ saves). It idealizes those who believe in Paul’s gospel and denigrates those who reject it. It thus serves to strengthen the identity of the in-group – of those who have followed Paul in abandoning full adherence to Jewish practice (whether as born Jews or as Gentile converts tempted to undergo circumcision). Paul assures that their decision was the right one; it has allowed them even to become – without their own merit, of course – better people than they would have been, had they kept (or adopted) full loyalty to the Torah. But Paul compares Christian life at its best (if not an ideal picture of it) with Jewish life at its worst (if not a pure caricature), thus using different standards for ‘us’ and ‘them’, respectively. The same 24 

For example, 1 Thess. 4.3–8; Gal. 5.13–15; and 1 Cor. 5.1–6.20. In this connection, Paul even seems to divide the believers in two classes: those with and those without the spirit (1 Cor. 2.10–3.4). He is here engaged in polemics against a group of members in the congregation: ‘Even though they are Spirit people, he could not address them as such because both their thinking and behavior are contrary to the Spirit. … even though they do have the Spirit, they are acting like “mere human beings”!’ (G. D. Fee, God’s Empowering Presence: The Holy Spirit in the Letters of Paul [Peabody: Hendrickson, 1994], 96–97). But despite his branding the Corinthians as fleshly, Paul states a little later that God’s spirit dwells in them after all (1 Cor. 3.16). 25 

188

Part Two: Reception History

method was increasingly used by subsequent authors to create a firm boundary between ‘orthodox’ and ‘heretical’ Christians.26 Paul and other Christian authors were not alone in strengthening their identity by way of abusive contrasts. Ancient rhetoric was able to offer them ‘a rich treasury of invective’.27 In a survey of the conventions of ancient polemic, Luke T. Johnson shows that similar rhetoric was used by religious leaders and philosophers of all schools. Among philosophers, certain things are conventionally said of all opponents. ... their corrupt lives showed how bad their doctrine was ... Certain standard categories of vice were automatically attributed to any opponents. They were all lovers of pleasure, lovers of money, and lovers of glory. 28 The slander was not affected by facts. ... The purpose of the polemic is not so much the rebuttal of the opponents as the edification of one’s own school. Polemic was primarily for internal consumption. 29

In the exchanges between Jews and Gentiles in the Diaspora, ‘the language was rough both ways’, and ‘the Qumran rule of thumb is that you cannot say enough bad things about outsiders’.30 The weight of the Christians’ contrastive rhetoric may thus be somewhat lessened, when seen in its social context. As the internal tensions in Paul’s production also suggest, the rhetoric probably does not always represent his ‘true’ sentiments – though I think that it does represent the true sentiments of someone like the author of Revelation. The problem is that since this black-and-white rhetoric is prominent in the New Testament, Christianity remains profoundly affected by it, independently of what its original context and intention may have been. The question is raised with all seriousness, whether this kind of rhetoric is not prone to hinder true altruism. The contrast-oriented discourse is hardly likely to promote altruistic behaviour towards the outsider (insiders are a different matter). What I have presented here is not the whole story about early Christian attitudes to ‘us’ and ‘them’. Some other writings, especially those cherished in communities more interested in Jesus traditions, seem to have left a different legacy. 26  Cf. F. Wisse, ‘The Use of Early Christian Literature as Evidence for Inner Diversity and Conflict’, in C. W. Hedrick & R. Hodgson (eds.), Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism, and Early Christianity (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1986), 177–90, 185 (with reference to second-century intra-Christian polemics): ‘it was not considered possible for a false believer to speak the truth and live a genuinely moral life.’ 27  W. A. Meeks, The Origins of Christian Morality: The First Two Centuries (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), 119, adding that soon enough the Christians, too, ‘developed a fluent vocabulary of stigmatizing both outsiders and deviant members’. 28  L. T. Johnson, ‘The New Testament’s Anti-Jewish Slander and the Conventions of Ancient Polemic’, JBL 108 (1989): 419–41, esp. p.  432. 29  Ibid., 433. 30  Ibid.,436, 439. The examples quoted include 1 QS 4.9–14; 2.4–10.

Chapter 10: Are Christians Better People?

189

One thinks here of the injunction to love one’s enemies (Matt. 5.43–48, Luke 6.27–28), of the Golden Rule (Matt. 7.12, Luke 6.31), of the great scene of the last judgment, where one’s attitude to Jesus’ ‘least brothers’ is set forth as the crucial criterion (Matt. 25.31–46) or of the examples stories about the Good Samaritan (Luke 10.25–37) and the Rich Man and Lazarus (Luke 16.19–31). To be sure, even these texts raise problems. Who are the least brothers in the Matthean judgment scene? A case can be made that they are Christian missionaries (cf. Matt. 10.40–42) rather than all the needy people in the world. The Matthaean Jesus exhorts people to love their enemies – but if Matthew’s Gospel is any guide, this love does not reach to one’s ideological opponents, to such ‘breed of vipers’ as the Pharisees and scribes (Matt. 23.33).31 To work through all relevant material from the point of view of the relation between religion and altruism would be a very exacting task. From somewhat later times we do have accounts of altruistic actions by many Christians even toward outsiders, especially during the disastrous epidemics in the second and third centuries. Rodney Stark has rightly called attention to these actions.32 Such efforts would have to loom large in any attempt to paint a full picture of early Christian attitudes to ‘us’ and ‘them’, a picture that would presumably be full of tensions, a varied mixture of light and shadows.

4. Excursion: On Christianity and Stoicism For the moment, however, we are concerned with moral discourse. I wish to call attention, however briefly, to a comparative issue that has very much to do with altruism. It is often held that Christianity taught universal humanity, while the ethical scope of Stoicism was restricted to an exclusive circle of the elect. This common view has been tentatively questioned by Troels Engberg-Pedersen 33 and vigorously (and, I think, successfully) challenged by Runar Thorsteinsson. In a recent book on Roman Christianity and Roman Stoicism Thorsteinsson turns the usual contrast upside down: 31 

Cf. C. G. Montefiore, The Synoptic Gospels (London: Macmillan, 1909), 521. R. Stark, The Rise of Christianity: How the Obscure, Marginal Jesus Movement Became the Dominant Religious Force in the Western World in a Few Centuries (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1997). 33  T. Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 265–69. He summarizes (276–77): ‘the life of shared love within the group works as the basis for another kind of relationship towards outsiders, one which does good and avoids the bad, but not as if the wall between inside and outside had been broken down – or even just perforated’; 288: ‘the Pauline idea of directedness towards other people is in fact also somewhat restricted. For it is only a directedness towards others as Christ people [...] in Stoicism one even finds traces of the idea of directedness towards other people even though they may not be wise, but because being human they at least have the potential for being so. One might claim, therefore, that in Stoicism there is a wider concern for others as people than in Paul.’ (Emphasis original.) 32 

190

Part Two: Reception History

contrary to common opinion, there can be no doubt that the Stoic texts [treated by Thorsteinsson] teach such [unqualified] universal humanity, while the Christian texts [Romans; 1 Peter] do not. The latter reserve the application of their primary virtue [love] for fellow believers, and thus set an important condition in terms of religious adherence. This condition, in turn, reveals a fundamental distinction between ‘us’ and ‘them’ in Christian moral teaching. Such a condition is not found in Roman Stoic ethics, for which unconditional universal humanity is absolutely basic.34 [The Stoics] are ‘the first ethical theorists clearly to commit themselves to the thesis that morality requires impartiality to all others from the moral point of view’. For them, this is nothing but a natural consequence of the process of social oikeiosis in which the distinction between self-interest and altruism is vanquished.35

The term oikeiosis, or ‘appropriation’, means this: ‘human beings are born with an inclination to preserve and take care of that which “belongs” to themselves.’ This ‘instinctive inclination’ aims also at one’s concern for humanity as a whole. The theory holds that human beings are naturally ‘programmed’ to show affection for other people as well as themselves. It lies in their very nature to be friendly and philanthropic, and to live in organized societies.36 Stoic theory is decidedly universalistic in scope and makes no differentiation between particular groups of people.37 Still, let us not forget that even Stoics could give themselves to slander. An Epictetus can state that Platonists have their intellects deadened as well as their sense of shame, and the doctrines of Epicureans are ‘bad, subversive of the state, destructive of the family, not even fit for women.’38 The other side of Thorsteinsson’s conclusion is that, in the Christian texts studied by him, love is an in-group term. In Rom. 12 the word agape ‘is used within the context of in-group relations’ (Rom. 12.3–13). In Rom. 12 and 13 Paul is ‘quite positive in his comments on the outside world, on Roman authorities, and on Roman society at large’, and yet he does make ‘a distinction between Christ-believers and others in terms of moral obligations.’ The message is not that the Christ-believers should love the outside world. What they should do is to ‘try to avoid unnecessary conflict with the outside world’ (Rom. 12.14– 21).39 The same is true of First Peter. The author admonishes his readers (1 Pet. 2.17): ‘Honour everyone. Love the family of believers. [Them only!] Fear God. Honour the emperor.’ The Christ-believers are to love one another (1 Pet. 1.22) and to ‘honour everyone’, including the emperor, i.e., ‘treat everyone with proper honour’ (1 Pet. 2.17). 34  R. M. Thorsteinsson, Roman Christianity and Roman Stoicism: A Comparative Study of Ancient Morality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 209. 35 Thorsteinsson, ibid., 191 (quoting Julia Annas). 36  Ibid., 31. 37  Ibid.,192. 38  Johnson, ‘Anti-Jewish Slander’, 432. 39 Thorsteinsson, Roman Christianity, 193.

Chapter 10: Are Christians Better People?

191

On a theoretical level, then, Stoicism may seem to provide a more promising starting-point for inter-group cooperation than does Pauline (or ‘Petrine’) Christianity. But it has to be kept in mind that we have been dealing with discourses on morality, not with real-life situations.

5. Conclusion Self-evidently, there is a connection between Christianity and morality. Early Christian authors put great weight on the moral life of their addressees. Christian faith is expected to produce pro-social, altruistic moral life. To what extent the altruism is expected to extend beyond the limits of the inside group is, however, not always clear, and at least the Revelation of John seems to adopt an expressly negative attitude to outsiders. Moreover, it is not clear that there is a necessary connection between religion and morality in the sense that religious faith would be a conditio sine qua non for altruistic life, even though some early Christian authors suggest that this is the case. To some extent their contrastive, polemical rhetoric seems to work in the opposite direction, rendering pro-social behaviour in inter-group communication more difficult. The relation between Christianity and morality remains ambiguous, religion being capable of producing both altruistic and less altruistic fruit.

Chapter 11

Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side 1. Introduction Throughout their seminal work, Judith Kovacs and Christopher Rowland paint a very attractive picture of Revelation in light of its reception history – one that a present-day reader can easily appreciate. They characterize Revelation as ‘the Bible’s prime visionary text’ whose message is ‘as inspirational as it is illuminating’,1 and their evaluative postscript hails it as ‘the foundation text for “the principle of Hope”’. Those in particular who have experienced situations of tribulation can find in Revelation ‘a source of insight into situations of oppression and evil and also of a new hope for the working out of God’s gracious purposes for the whole world’.2 Clearly this is an important aspect of the reception history of Revelation. It is impossible to belittle the experiences of terror of oppressed people for whom Revelation has provided, and can provide, consolation and hope. Nevertheless, some scholars assess the book in light of its effective-history in a rather different way. I find it important to call attention also to such reflections. I want to focus especially on a book by two American scholars concerned with the military history of their country: Captain America and the Crusade against Evil, by Robert Jewett and John Shelton Lawrence,3 who in turn draw on the now classic work on ‘the idea of America’s millennial role’ by Ernest Lee Tuveson.4 One may debate whether the role of Revelation is here at times exaggerated, or the character of the book too one-sidedly interpreted, but surely the case of these scholars deserves to be seriously considered.

1  J. Kovacs & C. Rowland, Revelation (Blackwell Bible Commentaries; Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 246. 2  Ibid., 250. 3  R. Jewett & J. S. Lawrence, Captain America and the Crusade against Evil: The Dilemma of Zealous Nationalism, (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003). This volume updates an earlier book by Jewett: R. Jewett, The Captain America Complex: The Dilemma of Zealous Nationalism (Santa Fe: Bear & Co, 1984). For the political themes in question see further J. S. Lawrence & R. Jewett, The Myth of the American Superhero (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), a work that won an award of the American Culture Association as the ‘Best Book of 2002’. 4  E. L. Tuveson, Redeemer Nation: The Idea of America’s Millennial Role (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968).

194

Part Two: Reception History

It is claimed, also by others, that Revelation brings some of the problematic features in the biblical tradition to a head: it presents God and Christ as warriors, and it draws a black-and-white contrast between God’s people and the rest of the world.5 As the book now stands at the end of the Christian canon, it appears to be its crowning culmination,6 rendering supreme force to these not-sohappy features. In the evaluation of Frederic Baumgartner, ‘The God in Revelation [...] is not a merciful God but an avenger, one who does not blink at the enormous misery, carnage, and terror of the last days.’7 This apocalyptic view spills over directly into the lives of some readers: ‘since God is our model and he solves his problems through violence, so can we’. 8 Ironically, ‘Jesus the atoning sacrificial Lamb of God […] would return to wipe out most of humanity’, thereby becoming ‘God’s murderous apocalyptic accomplice, who would violently judge and crush enemies and evildoers at the end of history’.9 Jewett and Lawrence find it tragic that Jesus’ message ‘came to be placed in a collection of writings that obscured its essential thrust’, being ‘interpreted by posterity in the light of Deuteronomy10 , of Daniel,11 and, worst of all, the Book of Revelation’.12 5  Kovacs and Rowland do recognize this aspect, but they seem to suggest that it is in ‘many of the actualizations of the Apocalypse’, rather than in the book itself, that ‘opponents are demonized’. In their assessment it is only ‘very occasionally’ the case that ‘imaginations are stirred to imitate the violence the book describes’. They also seem to hold that Revelation’s ‘catalogue of disaster and destruction’, ‘its cries for vengeance, and its terrible gloating over the fall of Babylon’ which seem ‘so contrary to the spirit of Jesus’ is only ‘apparently’ sanctioned by God (Revelation, 248). It is only very occasionally that Kovacs and Rowland take up ‘harmful’ interpretations in their account of the reception history. This ‘positive’ way of reading Revelation is challenged by the current of interpretation represented by Jewett and company. 6  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 53. 7  F. J. Baumgartner, Longing for the End: A History of Millennialism in Western Civilization (New York: Palgrave, 1999), 29. Cf. M. Desjardins, Peace, Violence and the New Testament (The Biblical Seminar 46; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 84–85; further ibid., 90: ‘The God of the New Testament is not a “nice God”. In addition to his role as father and comforter, he is depicted as warrior, judge, vindicator and avenger […] the New Testament texts speak of non-retaliation and love of enemies when it comes to human conduct, but this is understood in the context of divine violence and vengeance.’ 8 Desjardins, Peace, 91; he points out that such world view ‘is not particularly helpful in promoting a lasting peace, if such a peace presupposes the equal worth of each individual and the intention to build a better world’. 9  J. Nelson-Pallmeyer, Is Religion Killing Us? Violence in the Bible and the Quran (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2003), 68–69, citing Rev. 14.9–10. 10  On the violent ethos of Deuteronomy, in which ‘ethnic cleansing is the way to ensure cultic purity’, see, e.g., J. J. Collins, ‘The Zeal of Phinehas: The Bible and the Legitimation of Violence’, JBL 122 (2003): 3–21, esp. p.  7–12 (quotation: p.  7). 11  Jewett & Lawrence admit that the author of Daniel has reservations regarding the violent policy of the Maccabees, but hold out against him that he ‘agreed with the zealous nationalists that the enemy was beastly and ought to be annihilated’ and ‘envisioned a permanent period of world domination’ by the saints (Captain America, 51). 12  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 53. But Rowland surely has a point when he ‘hazards the guess’ that other New Testament passages may have provoked more violence in the

Chapter 11: Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side

195

A key text for the effective historical trajectory under discussion is Rev. 19.11–21. There the rider on a white horse brings righteousness and embodies it by making war (v. 11). He is the ‘Word of God’, ‘clothed in a robe dipped with blood’ (v. 13), followed by the armies of heaven (v. 14). The scene is violent indeed: ‘From his mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations, and he will rule them with a rod of iron; he will tread the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God the Almighty’ (v. 15). An angel calls all birds to ‘the great supper of God’ ‘to eat the flesh of kings [...] the flesh of all, both free and slave, both small and great’ (vv. 17–18). After the beast and the false prophet have been thrown alive into the lake of fire (v. 20), ‘the rest were killed by the sword [...] that came from his mouth ...’ (v. 21). This massacre serves to introduce the millennium. Kovacs and Rowland dwell on the patristic exegesis which understands the scene as a symbolic depiction of the incarnation and sacrifice of Christ, thus rendering the violent imagery harmless.13 From modern historical criticism which (no doubt correctly) thinks instead of Christ’s second coming, they take up the suggestion that the white robe is ‘dipped in blood before the final battle has taken place’, which is interpreted as a sign that the triumph of the ‘conquering’ messiah ‘comes through suffering and death’.14 The passage is based on traditional depictions on the victorious coming of the warrior Messiah;15 the prophetic image of treading the winepress of God’s wrath in particular suggests a blood-bath. It may well be the case, though, that the author of Revelation differs here from his tradition: he may think of Christ’s own death, when he mentions the robe dipped with blood.16 But the opposite can also be argued: that it is not a question of Christ’s own blood (although the blood is found on his clothes before the battle begins), because the author leans last two millennia, e.g. Luke 3.14 (acceptance of the occupation of a soldier without questions), Luke 22.38 (the two swords) and especially Rom. 13 (‘Apocalypse and Violence: The Evidence from the Reception History of the Book of Revelation’, http://research.yale.edu/ ycias/database/files/MESV6–1.pdf). Cf. C. Rowland, ‘The Interdisciplinary Colloquium on the Book of Revelation and Effective History’, in W. J. Lyons & J. Okland, The Way the World Ends? The Apocalypse of John in Culture and Ideology (The Bible in the Modern World 19; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2009), 289–304, esp. p.  300: ‘I do not believe that the Apocalypse is more problematic than any other book in the Bible, and its effects have been no worse than say Paul’s doctrine of election or the anti-Judaism with which the New Testament is replete (and in which the Apocalypse is less complicit).’ 13  Kovacs & Rowland, Revelation, 196. 14  Ibid., 197, emphasis added. 15  See D. E. Aune, Revelation 17–22 (WBC 52c; Nashville: Word Books, 1998), 1048–50, 1057. 16  Aune, ibid., 1069, finds here an allusion to Christ’s redemptive death, assuming that the author reinterprets the traditional conception of the divine warrior. R. H. Charles, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Revelation of Saint John. Vol. 2 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1920), 133, points out that when Christ’s own death is in view, the author speaks of the lamb slaughtered (as in 19.6).

196

Part Two: Reception History

closely on the passage Isa. 63.1–6.17 Be that as it may, even if the author had the death of Christ (also) in mind, the violence of the text cannot be explained away.18 The rod of iron, the winepress of wrath and, not least, the invitation to the birds to eat the flesh of all and sundry, make it abundantly clear that a horrible event is in view: ‘The Word of God is the Slayer...’19

2. Battle Hymn of the Republic Although Kovacs and Rowland also briefly call attention to such ‘historical actualizations of the rider’ in which he leads the flesh-and-blood armies of the saints to slay Christ’s enemies, their examples are mainly selected from post-Reformation England.20 However, this line of interpretation continued to flourish and became even more potent in the New World, in America, where many from these ‘armies’ had settled after the English Civil Wars. Jewett and Lawrence point out that the (American) reader will recognize Rev. 19.15 as the inspiration for The Battle Hymn of the Republic, composed by Julia Ward Howe during an early phase of the American civil war in 1862.21 This poem, flooded with biblical reminiscences, ‘has become perhaps the most popular hymn of wars and moral crusade of the English-speaking peoples’;22 in particular it can be described as a musical monument to the civil religion of the United States. It ‘has been performed to express the mission of the United States in terms of foreign conquest and domestic reform’.23 Recently, on 14 September, 2001, it was the musical selection on the Day of Prayer and Remembrance for the victims of the 17  Cf. H. Kraft, Die Offenbarung des Johannes (HNT 16a; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1974), 249: the author simply shows in advance that Christ is the winner in this battle. Also Charles appeals to the use of Isa. 63 which means that the blood ‘cannot be his own blood’; Charles’s solution is that it is the blood ‘of the Parthian kings and their armies, already destroyed by the Word of God’ (Revelation II, 133). Ernst Lohmeyer, Die Offenbarung des Johannes (HNT 16; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1953), 157, is content with noting that the robe dipped with blood already before the battle is just one of several incoherent images in the text. 18 Kraft, Offenbarung, 253. 19 Charles, Revelation II, 133. 20  Kovacs & Rowland, Revelation, 198. 21  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 53; cf. A. W. Wainwright, Mysterious Apocalypse: Interpreting the Book of Revelation (Nashville: Abingdon, 1993), 181. Tuveson, Redeemer Nation, 197–202, gives a full interpretation of the hymn from this perspective. 22 Tuveson, ibid.,198. The song quickly became national since the opposite side in the civil war, the slave-holding Confederates, also believed that they fought in God’s cause. Popular among conservative Americans, the song also appeals to such ‘leftist’ folk singers as Joan Baez and Judy Collins. Even Martin Luther King, Jr, repeatedly alluded to the ‘Battle Hymn’ in his speeches (D. A. Bosworth, ‘“The Battle Hymn of the Republic”: The Kingdom of God in American Politics’ [a paper read at the SBL Annual Meeting in Washington, DC, November 18, 2006] – my thanks are due to Professor Bosworth for putting this paper at my disposal). 23  Bosworth, ‘Battle Hymn’.

Chapter 11: Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side

197

9/11 attacks at the National Cathedral in Washington. The music echoed President George W. Bush’s declaration that America’s responsibility to history was clear: ‘To answer these attacks and rid the world of evil.’24 Here follows the hymn in full. (1) Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. (2) I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on. (3) I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel: As you deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on. (4) He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat: Oh, be swift my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. (5) In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die25 to make men free, While God is marching on.

The hymn draws heavily on the biblical image of God as a warrior, but it stands out from that long Christian tradition which uses martial language metaphorically (e.g., the hymn ‘Onwards, Christian soldiers’), for its language is definitely not metaphorical.26 Tuveson points out that the author belonged to a group of ‘advanced thinkers’ not at all attuned to ‘the old grim ideas of a cosmic war of good and evil’; on the face of it, then, she would have been an unlikely person to compose such a poem. The fact that she nevertheless became ‘the poet of the American apocalyptic faith […] shows how deeply such ideas must have penetrated the national mind’. What happened, Tuveson continues, ‘seems to have been that, as she brooded over this darkest moment of American history and 24  H. O. Maier, ‘The President’s Revelation: The Apocalypse, American Providence, and the War on Terror’, Word and World 25 (2005): 294–307 – my thanks are due to Professor Maier for making this article available to me (as I have it in electronic form, I am not able to give page numbers). 25  Bosworth, ‘Battle Hymn’, informs us of a text variant ‘Let us live [rather than “die”] to make men free’, introduced in a 1960 recording performed by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The recording won a Grammy Award; since then, ‘live’ has been an accepted variant. 26  Observed by Bosworth, ‘Battle Hymn’.

198

Part Two: Reception History

whatever it might mean’, after visiting an encampment of the northern army (cf. stanzas two and three), ‘childhood teachings rose out of deep memory, and the images of the Apocalypse presented themselves’.27 Her experience may be taken as typical: ‘When urgent and baffling questions about the right course for the nation have arisen, the apocalyptic view of its history has come to the front …’28 The influence of Revelation is most clearly seen in the first stanza with its references to the trampling of the vintage (Rev. 14.19 is an even closer model here than chapter 19) 29 and to the sword of the Lord. Tuveson sees in the ‘coming of the glory of the Lord’ the ‘wonder and the terror of the beginning of the transition to the millennium’. The biblical phrase ‘mine eyes have seen’ suggests that ‘the greatest event in the history of mankind is beginning’. Most clearly, the second line with the trampling of the wine press sets the Civil War ‘in the sequence of predicted events’.30 The armies now fighting are ‘powers symbolized in the Revelation’.31 ‘The soldiers in the Grand Army are actors in a drama, about which many of them had long been told. How great the destiny, to be the generation called upon to perform this crowning work!’32 God is ‘sifting out the hearts of men’ (fourth stanza, cf. Rev. 2.23) ‘as the judgment preparatory for the Great Day of the Lord, when the millennial state will be inaugurated; how important it is “to answer Him”, to share in that supreme blessing!’33 Arthur Wainwright, who mentions the Battle Hymn in his work on the reception history of Revelation, seems to assess the hymn and its connection with Revelation quite positively. He states that its ‘electrifying feature’ is ‘its exhortation to join the fight for the liberation of slaves’.34 Consequently, Wainwright adduces the poem in his chapter on ‘The Transformation of Society’ which ends on an optimistic note: Revelation’s ‘diagnosis of the ills of society and its dreams of the future have stirred the imaginations of social reformers. They have been inspired by its affirmation of God’s control of history, its confidence in God’s ultimate victory, and its readiness to take a stand against the injustice of the ruling power.’35

27  Tuveson adds: ‘with their Protestant meanings’, referring to ‘millennial’ interpretations current in Protestantism since the 17th century (Redeemer Nation, 198–99, emphasis added). 28  Ibid., 199. 29  The manuscript version is even closer to the language of Revelation than the published one, as it has ‘wine press’ instead of ‘vintage’ (Tuveson, Redeemer Nation, 200). 30 Tuveson, ibid.,199. 31  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 62. 32 Tuveson, Redeemer Nation, 202; cf. J. H. Moorhead, ‘Apocalypticism in Mainstream Protestantism, 1800 to the Present’, in S. J. Stein (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism. Vol. 3 (New York: Continuum, 2000), 72–107, esp. p.  85. 33 Tuveson, Redeemer Nation, 202. 34 Wainwright, Apocalypse, 181. 35 Wainwright, Apocalypse, 177–87 (187).

Chapter 11: Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side

199

The assessment of the hymn by Jewett and Lawrence is more sombre: ‘This ideology steeled the North for the long, bloody, and frustrating war’,36 and ‘the North was not alone in developing a martial ideology with millennial overtones’. In the South too there was the conviction that one need not fear the battle, for ‘the God of Israel will be on the side of his children’.37 Some popular preachers asserted that God might use the Southern troops to inaugurate the millennium on earth.38 Thus ‘the stage was set for a war whose ferocity and duration challenged the illusions of both sides…’39 Now it is clear that the author of Revelation himself regards passive endurance as the only proper attitude on the part of the saints. They are not to take up arms, God and Christ will do the martial work for them. Therefore one could say that those who interpret Revelation in the vein of the Battle Hymn are misinterpreting it. But, apart from the insight that ‘what people believe the Bible means is as interesting and important as what it originally meant’,40 in the light of the Deuteronomic tradition of holy wars (and the Deuteronomic history is a significant part of the Christian Bible) the step from a passive stance to active participation, to enter the arena in order ‘to nudge history toward its appointed cataclysm’,41 was a short one to take.42 This was one way of reading Revelation in a broader ‘pan-biblical’ perspective. Tuveson provides a sophisticated explanation for this shift from endurance to fighting within the compass of the effective history of Revelation. According to him, the shift is due to the rejection of Augustine’s spiritual interpretation of the millennium in some Protestant circles. In the late sixteenth century some began to think that perhaps, after all, there would be a period in which Christ would literally rule with the saints on this earth. In the seventeenth century the conception took a new turn: ‘Perhaps the millennium was to be an earthly utopia, an age at the end of all history, in which, not Christ in person, but Christians and Christian principles would really be triumphant.’ War would cease, poverty would be largely eliminated, and knowledge would increase immensely.43 Read in the light of such expectation, the Book of Revelation took on a new meaning. The course of history was seen as a series of struggles, in which the Prince of Darkness is progressively defeated. Tuveson points out that, unlike previous prophets, John the visionary 36 

Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 63; cf. 69, 91. Thus a New Orleans newspaper in 1855 (Jewett & Lawrence, ibid., 63). 38  Moorhead, ‘Apocalypticism’, 86. 39  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 64. 40  Kovacs & Rowland, Revelation, xiii. 41  Moorhead, ‘Apocalypticism’, 103. 42  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 54: ‘… with the attitudes engendered towards enemies and the precedent of the Deuteronomic tradition, it was a short step from passive to active zeal when the saints felt themselves called to participate in the final battle of Yahweh.’ 43 Tuveson, Redeemer Nation, ix–x. 37 

200

Part Two: Reception History

does not depict a long and dreary sequence of unrelieved calamities, increasing in intensity until, at the very end, the Messiah appears [...] The vivid descriptions of the sufferings and bloody conflicts are arranged in series, each leading up to a hymn of triumph and rejoicing. There is the sense of a rising movement, each victory being on a higher level than the one before. Thus […] the movement of the Revelation is in its way progressive […] history is something like the invasion of an enemy nation, in which the conquering army progresses inexorably …Satan ‘is now really the defender, and his territory is shrinking’.44

This whole drama was unfolding according to a predetermined plan. The plan prescribed that great battles still lay ahead before the millennium could be achieved. It did not take much exaggeration to conclude that history exists to accomplish prophecies. The next logical step was to assume that ends justify means. ‘As the apocalyptic way of thinking becomes divorced from the underlying theology, the movement of history through wars, slaughters, implacable conflict, comes to appear simply as the iron law of nature.’45 Now, ‘in such a pattern of history it was inevitable that God would have to operate through certain nations. The old conception of a “chosen people”, called to fight the battles of the Lord, was revived.’46 The Deuteronomic tradition came to be combined with the visions of Revelation, with far-reaching consequences. There came a need to find a new chosen nation. If ‘redemption is historical as well as individual, if evil is to be finally and decisively bound through great conflicts, God must operate through cohesive bodies of men; there must be children of light and children of darkness geographically…’47 The view, so prominent in Revelation, that the course of history is predetermined, has led to ‘foolhardy optimism’ on the part of those who thought that God is on their side. ‘No matter how destructive the battles become, it is the saints who will prevail both in this world and in the next.’48 In his speeches, President George W. Bush regularly invokes divine guidance in setting aside America as the power to wage and win the decisive war. ‘The road of Providence is uneven and unpredictable’, he concluded a speech in February 2005, ‘yet we know where it leads: It leads to freedom’.49

44 

Ibid., 7. Ibid., 50–51. 46  Ibid., ix–x. 47  Ibid., 139. 48  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 54. 49  Maier, ‘President’s Revelation’. In his speeches Mr. Bush regularly asserts that America has a divine mission to spread freedom around the world, following a long tradition of politics and foreign policy that has its origins in postmillennial readings of the Book of the Revelation. 45 

Chapter 11: Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side

201

3. Revelation’s Use of Stereotypes Another disastrous legacy of Revelation, according to its critics, is its operating with stark stereotypes. The black-and-white mentality is present (almost) everywhere in the New Testament, but Revelation brings it to a head, and there are implications in ‘relegating most of humanity to the category of “outsider”’.50 The saints are faultless: ‘in their mouth no lie was found; they are blameless’ (Rev. 14.5). By contrast, the other side is ‘utterly lacking in human qualities’.51 Even after the six trumpet plagues, ‘the rest of humankind’ who were still alive ‘did not repent of the works of their hands or give up worshiping demons and idols […] And they did not repent of their murders or their sorceries or their fornication or their thefts’ (Rev. 9.20–21).52 This description seems to apply even to all the oppressed of the world who do not belong to the small Christian groups – or to be more precise, to the seer’s particular group.53 ‘Since they are irredeemable, their destruction is the single aim of God and his saints […] That the entire world may be destroyed in this slaughter is a delightful prospect for the saints (Rev. 16:19–21).’54 This dualist division of humanity seems ‘destructive and dehumanizing’: ‘One’s enemies, including large numbers of unknown people with whom one supposes oneself to be in disagreement, are given a simple label, associated with demonic beings, and thus denied their full humanity.’55 Jewett and Lawrence claim: ‘That the enemy is not human and therefore deserves annihilation has been one of the most frequently repeated legacies of Daniel and Revelation.’56 This attitude came to expression in both world wars. An important preacher proclaimed that God had summoned the Americans to the crusade of World War I, ‘a Holy War’ ‘in the profoundest and truest sense’; it is Christ who ‘calls us to grapple in deadly strife with this unholy and blasphemous power’.57 Former President Theodore Roosevelt likewise proclaimed in 1917 that ‘if ever there was a holy war, it is this war’.58 An advertisement in an 50 Desjardins,

Peace, 101. Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 197. 52  These verses are not commented on in Kovacs & Rowland, Revelation. 53  It is becoming clear that the author’s anger is, to a remarkable degree, even in the bulk of the book (chapters 4–22) aimed at fellow Christians who had adopted a more conciliatory attitude to the surrounding culture. See, e.g., P. B. Duff, Who Rides the Beast? Prophetic Rivalry and the Rhetoric of Crisis in the Churches of the Apocalypse (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 54  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 197. 55  A. Yarbro Collins, Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984), 170; cf. 172: ‘Revelation works against the values of humanization and love insofar as the achievement of personal dignity involves the degradation of others.’ 56  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 221. 57  Ibid.,73. 58  Ibid. For a British analogy see the reflections of R. H. Charles in his ‘critical exegetical’ (!) commentary immediately after the war. The year of the publication of the commentary (1920) is, he claims, ‘the fittest year in which it could see the light – that is, the year that has 51 

202

Part Two: Reception History

American magazine pictured some American troops in World War II praying with their chaplain ‘that the people back home will understand that here in this green hell the enemy is not a man but devil’.59 The stereotypes are obvious: ‘the enemy is demonic, and the saints are perfectly pure, no matter what they may do in the battle’.60 This categorization of ‘nations and actions as wholly bad or wholly good’61 nurtures a ‘crusading logic’ which can today be studied both in the statements of President Bush and his staff and also in those of their Islamist adversaries. ‘Each side conceives of its opponents as members of a malevolent conspiracy, originating from the realm of absolute evil, and thus sees any compromise as immoral.’62 Bush has stated on the war on terrorism that the enemy ‘recognize no barrier of morality. They have no conscience. The terrorists cannot be reasoned with.’63 Jewett and Lawrence point out that ‘the mythic perspective’ has ‘eliminated the possibility of compromise and coexistence’. 64 From its own Qur’anic premises the other side comes to corresponding conclusions about its enemy. Back to the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Jewett and Lawrence comment that ‘this martial God who leads the Northern troops into battle’ is ‘none other than the loving Christ seen through the lens of the Book of Revelation’, and they continue: The contradictory redemptive images of the peaceful suffering servant65 and the marching Lord of battle are joined in the final stanza. The redemptive task of the Northern soldiers is neatly shifted from annihilating the enemy to altruistically setting people free. The unselfish mission of the suffering, dying servant is incorporated into that of the

witnessed the overthrow of the greatest conspiracy of might against right that has occurred in the history of the world, and at the same time the greatest fulfilment of the prophecy of the Apocalypse. But even though the powers of darkness have been vanquished in the open field, there remains a still more grievous strife to wage [...] all governments should model their policies by the same Christian norm [...] the warfare against sin and darkness must go on...’ (Revelation, I, xv). 59  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 221. 60  Ibid., 222. 61 Tuveson, Redeemer Nation, 133. 62  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 24. 63  Quoted in Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 235. Cf. Maier, ‘President’s Revelation’: It is no accident that Bush’s millennial rhetoric portrays the world in accordance with Revelation’s dualism: America is ‘a nation filled with courageous, kind-hearted, tolerant, innocent, God-fearing and God-pleasing people, a nation on its knees in prayer, a city shining on a hill. These are in contrast to the evildoers, whom the President repeatedly represents, as indeed the Apocalypse itself does, as dwelling in caves and darkness (Rev. 6.15–17) hiding from the light, without any religion or conscience, absent of all humanity and mercy.’ 64  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 54. 65  To be sure, Jewett’s and Lawrence’s picture of Jesus, reduced to that of a loving and suffering servant, seems a little too idealistic. To some extent this may be true of their whole trajectory of ‘prophetic realism’ in the Bible which they set against the harmful tradition of ‘zealous nationalism’.

Chapter 11: Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side

203

warrior. The soldier dies – not killing others, but suffering for others. This sets the stage for the next 140 years of altruistic, martial zeal in America.66

Jewett and Lawrence connect the ideology of The Battle Hymn with a tradition of ‘cool zeal’ which they trace back to the Bible. Cool zeal is passive; ‘it prefers to let others dispatch the victim and is concerned that the saint not be defiled in the regrettable course of battle’. Daniel and Revelation provide biblical inspiration for this attitude. ‘The author of Daniel suggests that the saint must keep himself aloof from the battle, pure and blameless while other agencies wipe out the evil-doers […] Evil derives from the behavior of certain persons who must be destroyed before God’s kingdom can be restored.’ In Revelation, likewise, ‘the saints keep their robes white by allowing divine agencies to massacre the wicked. They repose in contemplation of the wicked burning in angelic sulfur pits. Their Roman persecutors and religious rivals will be destroyed, they are assured – but not by their own saintly hands.’67 If Jewett and Lawrence are right (I am more hesitant on this point than on the previous ones) one can find this concept of cool zeal in a subtle move in The Battle Hymn. Here the Lord himself is seen executing judgment through the agency of his Northern marching legions. But in order to fit into Revelation’s fastidious tradition, the hymn sidesteps the fact that Union soldiers actually kill their enemies. If death comes to the Union soldier, he is ‘transfigured’ by his Christ-like unselfishness; if death comes to the Confederate soldier, he has been cut down by the ‘terrible, swift sword’ of God. Thus a traditional battle-song theme – the joy of killing the enemy – is completely sublimated in cool zeal. It is as if the Lord alone pulls the triggers while the soldiers serve as faithful and guiltless channels of remote-controlled wrath.68

Jewett and Lawrence find in these Bible-based ‘conventions of cool zeal’ the explanation for ‘several curious aspects of the American character’, such as ‘the compatibility of the widespread pacifist sentiment with warlike behavior’. ‘A pacifist public with a penchant for total war’, seemingly a contradiction in terms, remains ostensibly free from base motives (such as hatred or avarice), for it allows ‘the violent process of presumably divine retribution take its course’. Such a public ‘could rapidly shift from a predominantly pacifist sentiment to martial crusade’ in World Wars I and II; it could ‘regret and condemn the Vietnam War and yet tolerate the most intensive bombing in history for the sake of peace’. 69 66  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 62–63. On p.  72 they quote President Woodrow Wilson’s demand that the United States enter World War I as ‘a crusade for millennial goals’, for the sake of democracy and world peace, claiming that ‘it was the Book of Revelation’s spirit that animated the whole’ (cf. 256). 67  Jewett & Lawrence, Captain America, 176–77. 68  Ibid.,177. 69  Ibid.

204

Part Two: Reception History

All this does not mean, of course, that the Book of Revelation should be seen as directly responsible for American militarism. Tuveson writes that millennialist ideas probably did not inspire the greatest decisions of our [American] history simply by their own power. The expansion of the nation, the Civil War, the entry into the Second World War – all would have happened in the course of things. But millennialist ideas did influence national expectations about their outcome and results.70 The Bible-based expectation of terror and desolation preceding the consummation ‘created what might be called a psychological readiness for the Civil War and the First World War’.71 The great wars of our history have all to a considerable extent been regarded as Armageddon – which surely was near. After the war had been won, and evil conquered, a permanent era of peace and prosperity would begin […] Americans are inclined to expect each crisis to be final, to think each must be solved by a permanently decisive conflict. Nothing could be more characteristic of an apocalyptic attitude.72

And nowhere is this apocalyptic attitude more clearly expressed than in the Book of Revelation.

4. Conclusion No account of the effective history of biblical texts can avoid being selective – in fact, extremely selective. The amount of material is vast; it is difficult to decide what to include and what to omit and any decision can always be challenged. Scholars can do no more than highlight some aspects that seem important or representative to them, inviting others to add other features to the picture. Kovacs and Rowland have done a great job in providing us with a wealth of illuminating material. Their selection emphasizes the inspiring and encouraging effects of Revelation. However, the reception history has also a dark side which should not be underestimated. Ulrich Luz, the author of pioneering work on the influence of the Gospel of Matthew, underlines in a programmatic article that it is the task of reception history to present both ‘good and bad receptions’. ‘Biblical texts effected love and hatred, peace and wars, segregation and tolerance …’ There are ‘texts that deserve criticism’ in light of the fruits they have produced; along with the woes of Matt. 23 and the insulting words of 2 Pet. 2.22, Luz refers to ‘texts full of God-produced cruelties like in the Apocalypse’.73 I think that even the small amount of material discussed in this essay confirms his point. It does seem 70 Tuveson,

Redeemer Nation, 213. ibid.,78, commenting on an article in a Presbyterian journal in 1853. 72 Tuveson, ibid., 214. 73  U. Luz, ‘The Contribution of Reception History to a Theology of the New Testament’, in C. Rowland & C. Tuckett (eds.), The Nature of New Testament Theology: Essays in Honour of Robert Morgan (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2006), 123–34, 132. 71 Tuveson,

Chapter 11: Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side

205

that ‘imaginations are stirred to imitate the violence the book describes’ more often than only ‘very occasionally’.74 Like so many other biblical writings Revelation, too, appears to be an ambiguous book which has both the potential of enhancing life and of destroying it. It depends on the interpreter which side he or she chooses to emphasize.

74 

Kovacs & Rowland, Revelation, 248; cf. above 194 n.  5.

Chapter 12

Marcion as a Reader of Paul 1. Introduction Around the year 140 CE, 1 a wealthy merchant sailed to Rome. He joined the local church and donated a large sum of money to it. He was warmly welcomed. Gradually, however, the newcomer began to cause growing concern to fellow believers. Eventually, he took a momentous step by inviting the leaders of the Roman church to discuss his interpretation of the faith. This led to a scandal and to the expulsion of the self-made reformer, whose money was returned, in the year 144. The dissenter did not give in, but founded a church of his own. For a long time this was a success – a formidable rival to the emerging Catholic church. It was only suppressed through a lengthy process after the Constantinian turn when the mainstream church joined forces with the state to destroy the ‘heretics’. This remarkable person was Marcion of Sinope, a Greek port on the Black Sea.2 Reliable information of his life is sparse. According to one tradition, his father was the bishop of Sinope.3 While this is not impossible, scholars are in1 

R. J. Hoffmann, Marcion: On the Restitution of Christianity. An Essay on the Development of Radical Paulinist Theology in the Second Century (AAR, Academy Series, 46; Chico: Scholars Press, 1984), dates Marcion’s activity much earlier, but his attempt has been generally rejected; for a severe critique of his overall view, see G. May, ‘Ein neues Markionbild?’, ThRu 51 (1986): 404–12. Still, Hoffmann’s analysis of Marcion’s thought (not least of his relation to Paul) contains many valuable insights. 2  The most important study of Marcion remains the comprehensive work by A. von Harnack, Marcion: Das Evangelium vom fremden Gott. Eine Monographie zur Geschichte der Grundlegung der katholischen Kirche; Neue Studien zu Marcion (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1996, first edition, 1921; the enlarged second edition of 1924 was reprinted in 1996). Page numbers marked with an asterisk (*) refer to the appendices where the source material is collected . Harnack presents most of the available source material, gleaned from a number of patristic sources. Subsequent research has provided corrections on individual points (cf. B. Aland, ‘Marcion (ca. 85–160)/Marcioniten’, TRE 22 [1992]: 89–101, on pp.  89–90, 98), and Harnack’s impressive overall picture has not gone unchallenged (see G. May & K. Greschat [Hrsg.], Marcion und seine kirchengeschichtliche Wirkung / Marcion and His Impact on Church History [Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002]; G. May, Markion: Gesammelte Aufsätze [Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2005], 13–18). It is agreed that Harnack was right in emphasizing (more than anyone else had done) Marcion’s historical significance, but it is also becoming clear that he drew too modern a picture, presenting Marcion as a precursor of Luther – and of Harnack himself. 3  The tradition further claims that Marcion was expelled from the congregation by his own

208

Part Two: Reception History

creasingly inclined to reject as unreliable all reports on Marcion’s life prior to his arrival in Rome. We know even less about his later life; it is assumed that he was active for some fifteen years after the break in Rome. But we know enough about his church to get an idea of its importance. Marcion’s message found such a wide echo among Christians that, no later than a decade after his expulsion, Justin Martyr complained that his error had spread all over humankind. Half a century later, Tertullian likewise had to note that ‘Marcion’s heretical tradition has filled the whole world’. We are better informed about Marcion’s literary work – though only at second hand, through hostile sources. No genuine fragments of Marcion’s writings survive; we only have references to and attacks on his work by stern opponents. The earliest extant account comes from Irenaeus (ca. 180); the most comprehensive one is the massive refutation of Marcion’s and his adherents’ teaching in five books by Tertullian, completed in ca. 208 CE.4 Not surprisingly, Tertullian’s own argument in refuting the heretic gets the upper hand in the presentation; he does convey some key points of Marcion’s thought, but ‘only by means of painstaking individual analysis of [Tertullian’s] language and thoughts can the authentic Marcion material to some degree be filtered out’.5 Marcion drastically reduced the authoritative tradition of the church by rejecting the Scripture inherited from Judaism (in general in the Greek translation, the Septuagint), that had been its self-evident foundational document. Marcion submitted Scripture to rigorous moral and intellectual criticism, concluding that it could not stem from the true God, the Father of Jesus Christ; its originator must have been a lower God, who was also responsible for the creation of the world. This evaluation converged with that of some Christians known as Gnostics, whose interpretation of the faith was based on a version of Platonic philosophy. Marcion established a stark contrast between the two Gods, and a no lesser contrast between the law of the Creator and the gospel of the true God – a contrast that could also be expressed as a distinction between of law and grace. Marcion legitimated his attack on Scripture by a forceful appeal to Paul’s letters. He sharply distinguished Paul from other apostles (such as Peter), contrasting him, the one true envoy of the true God, with them, mere minions of the Creator. The only other early Christian writing on which Marcion put value was the gospel of Luke, which he mainly used, however, as support for his un-

father for having seduced a young girl. This is just a historicized allegory: Marcion corrupted the pure church through his teaching. 4  E. Evans (ed. and trans.), Tertullian: Adversus Marcionem, Books I–V, (Oxford Early Christian Texts; Oxford: Clarendon, 1972). 5  May, ‘Markion’, 23. Moreover, it is often unclear whether, at a given point, Tertullian is criticizing Marcion himself or certain Marcionites of his own time.

Chapter 12: Marcion as a Reader of Paul

209

derstanding of Paul’s theology;6 he seems to have interpreted Paul’s mention of ‘my gospel’7 (Rom. 2.16, cf. Gal. 1.6–9) as a reference to this book.8 Even these documents could not be used by Marcion quite in the shape in which he had received them; he had to purge them from alleged false additions, made by the false apostles. Marcion’s isolating of these particular works from the stream of early Christian writings came to act as a stimulus to the establishing of a specifically Christian (as distinguished from a Jewish) canon of Scripture by the emerging ‘orthodox’ church; no New Testament was yet in existence in Marcion’s time (though most of the writings that were to form it were already in use).9 In addition to working out a revised edition of Paul’s letters and of a gospel, Marcion composed a work called Antitheses. In it he demonstrated in detail the contrast he had discovered between the message of Scripture and that of the Father of Jesus Christ. The two foci of Marcion’s work, then, were criticism of the Scripture and an interpretation of Paul’s letters. The former was legitimated by the latter. Whether the criticism of the Scripture was actually instigated by Paul’s letters is hard to say. That is, we can hardly know which came first: did Marcion first become aware of the problematic sides of Scripture by studying it as such? Some other readers, including many Gnostics, did come to criticize Scripture without taking Paul’s ideas as their starting-point,10 and according to Tertullian, the Antitheses were ‘designed to show the conflict and disagreement of the Gospel and the Law, so that from the diversity of principles between those two documents they [the Marcionites] may argue further for a diversity of gods’ (Against Marcion 1.19). Or was Marcion inspired to a critical reading of Scripture precisely because reading Paul had first convinced him of a decisive contrast between law and grace? Conceivably, various processes were at work simultaneously. In any case Tertullian, appealing to a letter written by Marcion himself (which, unfor6 Hoffmann, Marcion, 109, 112: ‘Marcion seems to have used his version of “Luke” only as evidence for the separation of the gospel and the law’; ‘the epistles [of Paul] serve as a criterion by which to measure the gospel.’ 7  Quotations from biblical texts are taken from the New Revised Standard Version. 8  In Paul, the word ‘gospel’ (euangelion) still refers to a message (‘good tidings’); Marcion shows acquaintance with the later usage of the term, by which certain books containing the message came to be called gospels. 9  Paul’s letters and Luke’s gospel were, for Marcion, both crucial and reliable documents of the primitive church, but this did not make them an inerrant Scripture in his eyes. Cf. Hoffmann, Marcion, 109: ‘it is highly doubtful that he was consciously interested in establishing a canon of scripture at all, since at no time does he appear to have attributed to his text of the gospel the high authority suggested, for example, by 2 Timothy 3.16. The editing out of offensive passages […] had improved the text, but such a procedure had not made the written text inerrant.’ It seems better to understand Marcion’s ‘canon’ ‘as having supplied not the structural principle but the theological stimulus for the creation of the orthodox canon’ (113). 10 The Valentinian teacher Ptolemy criticized Scripture in light of the Sermon on the Mount, a critique which led, not to a rejection of the former, but to distinguishing within it different levels of various value.

210

Part Two: Reception History

tunately, Tertullian does not quote), affirms that ‘his faith at first agreed with ours’ (Against Marcion 1.1). Marcion’s theological innovations resulted from a process that involved intense perusal both of Scripture and of Christian writings.

2. An Outline of Marcion’s Thought World11 Marcion was neither a philosopher nor a systematic theologian, but rather an expositor of texts. Basic to his thought world was a literal understanding of Scripture. Allegorical interpretation of scriptural passages was routinely practised in most Christian circles, as well as in many Jewish ones. For mainstream expositors, Scripture was mainly important as a collection of alleged predictions and promises about Jesus that were discovered through the use of allegorical and ‘typological’ devices. Allegorizing also helped to side-step the difficulties caused by many passages if taken literally; allegory may often be construed as implicit criticism of the text as it stands. Marcion insisted on a literal reading and was led to exercise explicit and harsh criticism of Scripture. His suspicion of allegory was ‘a mark of uniqueness in that age’.12 Marcion concluded that the God of Scripture could not be the Father of Jesus. The Scripture speaks of a Creator whose foremost quality is ‘righteousness’ (justice) according to the principle of retaliation: an eye for an eye.13 He is a harsh ruler with passion for war and a thirst for blood. According to the principle of retaliation, most people face judgment and perdition in the afterlife. But, claims Marcion, suddenly and unexpectedly (and thus in a way not anticipated by any prophecies14) an unknown God appeared on the earth, one who was pure goodness. He came in the form of his Son, Jesus Christ, ‘in the likeness of flesh’. Jesus could not be a real human being of flesh and blood,15 since the humans made by the Creator are imperfect. He taught people goodness, exhorting them to overcome the law of righteousness with love. The Creator stood for the law, the new God for the gospel. This new God did not judge anybody except ‘passively’, allowing the godless to remain in their error. Faith meant the acceptance of his offer of goodness. 11  For general accounts, see Harnack, Marcion; Hoffmann, Marcion; Aland, ‘Marcion’; H. Räisänen, ‘Marcion’, in A. Marjanen & P. Luomanen (eds.), A Companion to Second-Century Christian ‘Heretics’ (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 100–124. 12  E. C. Blackman, Marcion and his Influence (London: SPCK, 1948), 116. 13  He is not evil – not to be identified with Satan! 14 Hoffmann, Marcion, 103: ‘Christianity was not about fulfillment, but about salvation. As such, it was not based on history and prophecy, but on what in the theological idiom of another generation would be called the “otherness” of its proclamation.’ 15  Marcion inferred from Luke 8.21 and 11.27–28 that Jesus was not born of a woman. He was a being similar to the angels who had visited Abraham (cf. Gen. 18.1–22).

Chapter 12: Marcion as a Reader of Paul

211

The Creator did not recognize the new God, but had him crucified and sent to Hades. There, however, Christ continued his redemptive work. He bought free from the power of death people who had belonged to the Creator. A stunning reversal of destinies – one could think of it as a truly radical version of the doctrine of the justification of the ungodly16 – took place. The ungodly people of Scripture – Cain, the Sodomites, the Egyptians – believed and were redeemed. By contrast, Israel’s pious ancestors, from Noah and Abraham onward, were too closely bound up with their Creator to be able to accept Christ’s invitation.17 They imagined that the Creator was putting them to the test by tempting them with error, as he had done so many times before; so they did not respond to Jesus (Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.27.3). Marcion pointed out one contrast after another between the two Gods.18 The Creator is ‘a judge, fierce and warlike’. ‘Joshua conquered the holy land with violence and cruelty; but Christ prohibits all violence and preaches mercy and peace.’ The Creator says, ‘Love the one who loves you and hate your enemy’; Christ says, ‘Love your enemies.’ ‘The prophet of the creator [Joshua; cf. Josh. 10.12–14] stopped the sun so that it would not set before the people had revenged their enemies; the Lord says, “Do not let the sun go down on your anger”’ (Eph. 4.26). The prophet of the Creator (Moses) stretched out his arms toward God in order to kill many in war (Exod. 17.11–13); the Lord stretched out his hands (on the cross) to save people. The examples can be multiplied many times over. Marcion also criticized the Creator for acting in a self‑contradictory manner. He prohibits work on the Sabbath, but tells the Israelites to carry the ark around Jericho (to make the walls of the town collapse) even on a Sabbath. He forbids images, yet tells Moses to make a bronze serpent. He requires sacrifices and rejects them; he elects people and repents of his choices. He creates darkness and evil (Isa. 45.7), sends disasters – and repents of them. No doubt Marcion was one‑sided in his scathing criticisms. He took up dark sides, contradictions, and problems in Scripture, paying no attention to the large amount of material that reflects a more profound notion of God. Tertullian, though weak in many of his answers to the criticisms just mentioned, presents a wealth of material in which the Creator shows a concern for the poor and even demands love for one’s enemies (Against Marcion 4.14–16). Yet to Marcion goes the credit for not explaining away the moral problems of Scripture. He read it with common sense and exposed a problem that lay dormant at the roots of 16  Cf. Hoffmann, Marcion, 198: ‘Marcion expresses in his version of the descensus the pauline division of law and grace (cf. Rom 6.14) in its most radical form’; also Harnack, Marcion, 131. 17  Marcion concluded from the story of the rich man and Lazarus (Luke 16.19–31) that Abraham still dwelt in Hades (not in Heaven) during Jesus’s life-time. 18  Documentation in Harnack, Marcion, 272*–73*, 281*–82*.

212

Part Two: Reception History

Christianity (and of Judaism): the emerging new religion had adopted a Scripture whose contents partly contradicted its own teachings. For all his criticism of the contents of Scripture, Marcion regarded its text as reliable. Unlike the Christian documents at his disposal it was not corrupt; no secondary additions (as the Valentinian teacher Ptolemy and even some later Jewish Christians were to claim) had been made to it. Scripture was a trustworthy account of the past and even of the future of the Jews; they had reason to expect the Christ (who was not identical with Marcion’s Christ) promised to them in their Scripture. It is much debated whether or not Marcion was a Gnostic. This is, however, largely a question of definition. Gnosticism was not a monolith; recently doubts been expressed regarding the usefulness of the term altogether.19 Marcion’s notion of an inferior Creator, his negative view of the world and corporeality, and his criticism of the Scripture come close to views commonly considered Gnostic. Other views of his do not. Marcion acknowledged no divine spark in man; man was not akin to the Redeemer. Salvation did not consist in the return of the divine elements in humans to the Fullness, but in freedom from the Creator’s law. Faith was emphasized more than knowledge. Perhaps one can speak of ‘a brand of Paulinism already open to gnostic influence’.20

3. Marcion and Paul Marcion discovered in Paul’s letters two crucial contrasts: a church-political or ‘pragmatic’ antithesis21 between Paul and other early preachers, on the one hand, and, related to it, a theological contrast between basic religious principles on the other. The pragmatic antithesis rested on a reading of Paul’s assertions in the opening chapters of Galatians. It is likely that this epistle stood at the beginning of a collection of Paul’s letters that Marcion received from the tradition of the church, so that it was not unnatural for him to read its two first chapters as a kind of historical introduction to the letters. Paul had received the true gospel that was ‘not of human origin’ (Gal. 1.11); this made him the one true apostle and the sole normative source of Christian teaching. That there were true and false apostles was clear from Galatians (Gal. 1.6–9; 2.4): a similar contrast appears in 2 Corinthians (note 2 Cor. 11.13–15 in particular). Marcion made this distinction ‘programmatic for distinguishing the truth of the gospel from the 19  M. A. Williams, Rethinking ‘Gnosticism’: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996). 20  S. G. Wilson, Related Strangers: Jews and Christians, 70–170 c.e. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 214. 21 Hoffmann, Marcion, 104.

Chapter 12: Marcion as a Reader of Paul

213

false accretions of the pseudapostoloi [false apostles]’;22 the polemical passages in Paul led him to assume something like a conspiracy against God’s truth in the early church.23 There had been violent quarrels concerning Paul’s gospel; Paul and Peter had been involved in a vehement conflict and Paul had severely rebuked Peter for not walking consistently according to the truth of the gospel (Gal. 2.11–14). Marcion took that reproof to refer to a disagreement between the two apostles’ preaching about God. The reputed pillars of the church were thus responsible for the corruption of the gospel. The only true gospel, Marcion posited, was the one that Paul had received directly from Christ.24 The good God in his goodness had put an end to the law, and Paul, his envoy, wanted to revoke the law of the old God; the false apostles tried to impose it again. Marcion may have exaggerated the nature and scope of the conflict between Paul and other apostles, but he certainly drew attention to a critical point in early church history, one that ‘orthodox’ church fathers tried to explain away at any price.25 In a sense, he anticipated the insights of the nineteenth-century Tübingen school of F. C. Baur and others, who made the internal conflicts the cornerstone of their reconstruction of early church history.26 The theological contrast Marcion found in Paul’s writings rests on his assumption of two different Gods. Marcion found in a great number of Pauline passages and phrases polemical references to the lower God, the Creator. Often his reading seems quite willful. Thus, Marcion takes Paul’s critical question to allegedly self-righteous Jewish teachers in Rom. 2.21 (‘While you preach against stealing, do you steal?’) to refer to the Creator’s unacceptable way of acting in the Exodus story, when he commanded the Israelites to take the treasures of Egypt along with them when they left the country. Marcion arbitrarily assumes that the Creator, not Christ, is the subject of 1 Cor. 15.24 (a verse that refers to Christ’s return to the earth): ‘he hands over the kingdom to God the Father, after he has destroyed every ruler and every authority and power.’ Marcion takes this sentence to mean that the Creator destroys himself when Christ returns.27 He takes Paul’s mention of ‘the world’ (to whom the apostle has become ‘a spectacle’) in 1 Cor. 4.9 to refer to ‘the God of the world’. Eph. 2.15 states 22 Hoffmann,

Marcion, 105. Marcion, 35. 24  How Marcion conceived this happening remains unclear. Some of his pupils presuppose that Paul was given a book by the risen Christ; others think that Paul himself wrote the gospel. See Harnack, op. cit., 139, 345*. 25  For instance, it was denied that the Cephas whom Paul rebuked in the Antiochian incident (Gal. 2.11–14) was identical with Simon Peter, or asserted that Peter and Paul staged a show, pretending to oppose each other in order to teach the Antiochenes a lesson. It is interesting to note that perceiving the importance of this conflict (against apologetic interpretations of it) was a significant factor in Luther’s development as well: see May, Markion, 35, 39–40, with reference to a classic study by Karl Holl. 26  Cf. Harnack, Marcion, 207–8. 27  On his reading, the subject changes in verse 25: ‘For he [Christ] must reign until he has 23 Harnack,

214

Part Two: Reception History

somewhat clumsily that Christ has ‘abolished the law of commandments in ordinances’ (NRSV: ‘the law with its commandments and ordinances’); Marcion makes an (artificial) distinction between ‘commandments’ and ‘ordinances’, ascribing the former to the Creator and the latter to the true God: the Father of Christ has abolished the commandments of the Creator through his own ordinances. In Rom. 1.16–18 Paul first speaks of the gospel as ‘the power of God for salvation’ that reveals God’s righteousness (vv. 16–17), then mentions God’s wrath that is revealed ‘against all ungodliness and wickedness’ (v. 18). Marcion characteristically attributes the power for salvation to the true God and the wrath to the Creator, taking Paul to speak of two different Gods even here. In 2 Cor. 11.14 Marcion takes Paul’s mention of Satan to refer to the Creator. At other times, however, it appears as though Marcion, while going in a novel direction, has been able to take advantage of genuine ambiguities in Paul’s discourse.28 In 2 Cor. 4.4 Paul expresses himself in unusually dualistic terms, stating that ‘the God of this world’ (no doubt the devil) has blinded the minds of the unbelievers. Marcion exploits Paul’s ad hoc rhetoric by taking ‘God’ in a literal sense and making the sentence refer to the Creator.29 The statement in 1 Cor. 8.5 that ‘there are so-called Gods, even many Gods and Lords’ in heaven and on earth is taken at face value by Marcion, who reckons the Creator among these apparently lower Gods. Here, too, he presses an ambiguity in Paul’s text: in v.  4 Paul emphatically states that there is only one God and no idols exist; but in the very next sentence (v. 5) he concedes that there are other Gods (whom the Christians are to ignore).30 Gal. 3.13 states that Christ has ‘bought’ the believers free from the curse of the law. Marcion concludes that they had previously not belonged to the true God, for no one needs to buy what belongs to him in the first place. Here, too, Marcion avails himself of a (minor) deficiency in Paul’s discussion: the comparison of Christ’s work to ‘buying’ does become problematic if one starts looking put all his enemies under his feet.’ For Paul, of course, Christ is the subject of both verses 24 and 25. 28  For documentation see Harnack, Marcion, 306*–12*. 29  In attributing to the activity of the devil the blindness of those who (relying on Moses [2 Cor. 3]) reject the gospel, Paul contradicts his own treatise on divine hardening as the cause of Israel’s unbelief in Rom. 9–11. In Rom. 11.7–8 he claims that ‘God gave them [the non-elect part of Israel] a sluggish spirit, eyes that would not see and ears that would not hear.’ Interpreting Romans in light of the 2 Corinthians passage could lead someone with Marcionite spectacles to the conclusion that the God of Scripture, who blinded the eyes of humans according to Rom. 11, was identical with the God of this aeon who did the blinding according to 2 Cor. 4 – and the latter is clearly different from the Father of Jesus Christ. 30  O. Wischmeyer, ‘Paul’s Religion: A Review of the Problem’, in A. Christophersen et al. (eds.), Paul, Luke and the Graeco-Roman World: Essays in Honour of Alexander J. M. Wedderburn (JSNTSup 217; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 74–93, on p.  82, calls attention to ‘the lack of clarity, conscious or unconscious’, with which Paul speaks of the Gods in this passage; she takes this feature to display an ‘anxious and defensive’ attitude to Greek religion.

Chapter 12: Marcion as a Reader of Paul

215

for equivalents to the seller or to the price, details probably not reflected on by Paul. Discussing the nature of the biblical law in the famous chapter Romans 7, Paul introduces an ‘I’ who is ‘sold into slavery under sin’ (and under the law). This figure complains: ‘nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh’ (Rom. 7.18). Marcion turns this passage against the Creator, who is responsible for producing such wretched creatures. Note that even a modern scholar can state: ‘The human plight, without Christ, is so hopeless in this section that one wonders what happened to the doctrine that the creation was good. Those who see here a profound analysis of why the law is not an answer to the plight of humanity may miss the criticism of God the creator and giver of the law which can easily be derived from Rom. 7:10 and 7:14–25’31 – though, to be sure, Paul did not do so. Marcion here took the chance to seize on an extreme, uncharacteristic discourse of Paul’s32 and to draw a conclusion that seems logical enough, if the passage is isolated from Paul’s more characteristic statements on the human condition.33 Marcion supports his view that Jesus was not a real human being by appealing to Pauline texts. Rom. 8.3 states that God sent his Son ‘in the likeness (homoiôma) of sinful flesh’; Marcion infers that Jesus was only like humans, not really one of them. The same conclusion is drawn from Phil. 2.7: Christ took ‘the form of a slave’, being born ‘in human likeness (homoiôma)’ and ‘found in human form’. Marcion held that in comparison with natural human bodies, Christ’s body was a phantasma. Yet Christ was no ghost, just as the angels who visited Abraham were no ghosts but acted and ate like real humans. In Christ, God took a human appearance, putting himself in a position to feel, act, and even suffer like a human being – even though the appearance of a humanly begotten, fleshly body was deceptive, since the substance of the flesh was missing. Harnack notes that it is therefore wrong to claim (with Marcion’s opponents) that Christ had, according to Marcion, only seemingly suffered and died.34 The ‘docetism’ (the view that Christ was only seemingly human) of Marcion and others has been much deplored, but one may ask whether it is indeed certain that Paul actually assumed the full humanity of the pre-existent Son whom the Father sent to save humans. Some scholars conclude that the statements on 31 

E. P. Sanders, Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 75. ibid., 78, notes that the ‘extreme presentation of human inability’ in Rom. 7.14– 25 does not express a view that Paul consistently maintains elsewhere; it is ‘unique in the Pauline corpus’. 33  Luther and his followers drew different but equally one-sided conclusions from Rom. 7 by making this unique passage the centerpiece of Paul’s supposedly thoroughly pessimistic anthropology. 34 Harnack, Marcion, 125–26, reaches the paradoxical conclusion that Marcion’s Christ really suffered in the likeness of the human form that he had adopted – but that this likeness did not involve a ‘fleshly’ body. 32 Sanders,

216

Part Two: Reception History

Christ’s ‘likeness’ with humans bring about an internal contradiction in Paul’s thought, the presence of a ‘reservation, or misgiving, as to the full genuineness of the humanity of Jesus, which is essentially incompatible with [Paul’s] basic conception of its function or role in God’s saving act’.35 Paul introduced, ‘perhaps without intending to or even knowing that he was doing so, a hint of the flesh’s unreality’, apparently because he was not able to attribute anything like sin to Jesus.36 The possibility is left open that Jesus did not completely identify with sinful humans. On this point, Marcion seems not to have distanced himself very far from the apostle. The genuinely Pauline roots of Marcion’s doctrine are even clearer with regard to the issue of law and grace.37 Marcion derived the key to the contrast between the old order and the new from Galatians – the letter that probably stood first, in a leading position as it were, in the collection he used. If Marcion’s picture of Paul is one‑sided, this is no wonder, for Galatians is one-sided: ‘If the view of Paul that Marcion got from Galatians is exaggerated, distorted, or truncated, then so is any view that knows him only through this epistle – as is shown by the difficulty some of us have in bringing the views expressed in Galatians into line, for example, with those expressed in Romans.’38 In Romans, Paul is at pains to find more continuity between the law and his gospel (though even there a good deal of ambiguity remains). Even in modern scholarship, one’s overall picture of Paul depends on whether Galatians is read in light of Romans, or vice versa. In Galatians, Paul speaks about the Mosaic law in a negative tone. He even claims that observant Jews are under a curse, from which ‘Christ [has] redeemed us’ (Gal. 3.10–13), and goes on to suggest (obliquely) that the law may not even stem directly from God at all: it was ‘added because of transgressions’ and ‘ordained through angels by a mediator’ (3.19).39 In the next verses, Paul does make an attempt to find some positive purpose for the law (Scripture ‘has imprisoned 35  J. Knox, The Humanity and Divinity of Christ: A Study of Pattern in Christology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 33. 36  Ibid., 51. Cf. J. Weiss, Earliest Christianity: A History of the Period AD 30–150. Vol. 2 (New York: Harper, 1959 [1937]), 489–90: ‘It cannot be denied that, for Paul, the human body which Christ possessed upon earth means something like a disguise, appropriate to a rôle which he played here; he avoids, even purposely, the more direct and more powerful expression “he became man”, because he still does not dare to express the complete humanity of Christ […] He permitted himself […] to waver more or less in the balance between an actual humanity and a merely external assumption of a human body, as a result of which the inner being of the personality of Christ remains untouched by actual earthly humanity and sinfulness. In this Paul grazes the later heresy of “Docetism”.’ 37 May, Markion, 7–8, belittles the impact of the theology of Galatians on Marcion, stating that Paul’s significance consisted in his being the only witness to the pure gospel rather than in his theology; because of his ‘massive dogmatic prejudice’ Marcion could have discovered his doctrine even in other early Christian writings. This seems doubtful to me. 38 Wilson, Related Strangers, 214. 39  To be sure, this must be regarded as an ad hoc argument, not a constant conviction of

Chapter 12: Marcion as a Reader of Paul

217

all things under the power of sin, so that what was promised through faith in Jesus Christ might be given to those who believe’, v.  22; ‘the law was our disciplinarian until Christ came’, v.  24).40 Yet no further positive theology of the law is built on these verses in the following treatment.41 Soon enough, Paul equates the law with the ‘elements [NRSV: ‘elemental spirits’] of the world’ (Gal. 4.3–5), putting its observance in parallel to pagan idolatry (vv. 3–5, 9–10), and associating the holy rite of circumcision with castration (Gal. 5.11–12). He here ignores the history of Israel as God’s chosen people. In Gal. 4.21–31, Paul does draw an ‘historical’ line to the present, but it is a line of slavery: the Sinaitic covenant gives birth to slaves (4.24–25)! Not surprisingly, a Jewish scholar who reflects on Paul’s talk of ‘the curse of the law’ and the slavery of humans under it finds that Paul has ‘somewhat demonised the God of Israel’.42 Marcel Simon, an expert on Jewish-Christian relations, writes that if Paul had been ‘more rigorously logical’, he would perhaps have condemned the law outright; ‘he comes very near to doing so, as when, for example, he attempts to defend God from any compromising responsibility for the law by attributing its promulgation to angels, through the intervention of an intermediary’.43 Simon goes on to note that ‘we are not really very far here from Marcion’s radical solution. Marcion, who was very much a disciple of St. Paul, did no more than push the apostle’s thought to its logical conclusion.’44 Harnack even argued that Marcion’s radical step was smaller than the one taken by Paul: Paul had already, for all practical purposes, put an end to the Jewish God’s order of salvation; Marcion only needed to complete a line of thought that had remained unfinished.45 Paul: K. Kuula, The Law, the Covenant, and God’s Plan. Vol. 1: Paul’s Polemical Treatment of the Law in Galatians (PFES 72; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 1999), 96–133. 40  According to Harnack (Marcion, 46, 73*), Marcion omitted Gal. 3.15–25, since the passage speaks postitively of Abraham as the spiritual ancestor of the Christians. But the mention of Abraham is limited to verses 6–9, 14a, 15–18, and it is highly probable that only these pieces were removed by Marcion: U. Schmid, Marcion und sein Apostolos: Rekonstruktion und historische Einordnung der marcionitischen Paulusbriefausgabe (ANTF 25; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995), 310, 316–17; cf. Hoffmann, Marcion, 201. 41 Kuula, Law, 181. 42  J. Levenson, ‘Is There a Counterpart in the Hebrew Bible to New Testament Antisemitism?’, JES 22 (1985): 242–60, esp. p.  247. 43  M. Simon, Verus Israel: A Study of the Relations between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire (transl. H. McKeating; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 74; cf. 82. 44  Cf. J. W. Drane, Paul, Libertine or Legalist? A Study in the Theology of the Major Pauline Epistles (London: SPCK, 1975), 112–13: taken in isolation from his other epistles, Paul’s ‘statements on the Law in Galatians can with a great deal of justification be called blatantly Gnostic’. ‘The natural and logically necessary outcome’ of the statement in Gal. 3.19, ‘whatever may have been its original justification in the face of legalistic Judaizers, was the belief that the Law was the product not of the supreme God’; ‘it was but a short step from Paul’s statements to the assumption that the Law was the work of some evil angelic Demiurge.’ 45 Harnack, Marcion, 202–3. Harnack’s statement is connected with the notion, typical of his age, that Judaism was a legalistic religion composed primarily of externals. This view is

218

Part Two: Reception History

Although Paul struggled until the end of his life to maintain some continuity between his old and new faith, and although he always wanted to remain a Jew, he did state that Christ put an end to the law (Rom. 10.4) and liberated believers from its curse (Gal. 3.13), and that the Mosaic order had been set aside (2 Cor. 3.11, 13). Paul had gladly thrown away his Jewish privileges, listed in Phil. 3.4– 6, which he now regarded as rubbish (Phil. 3.8). He even asserted that righteousness based on (God’s) law is one’s ‘own’ righteousness and, as such, opposed to the righteousness that comes from God (v. 9). It was easy enough for Marcion to infer that the law did not come from the Father of Jesus Christ at all. Paul even established a close connection between the law and sin: the law can increase or even engender sin, and in fact this is its very purpose (Rom. 5.20; 7.7). Marcion seized on this: he seems to have asserted that the law is sin and that it misleads. Indeed, if the law did contribute to the increase of sin, and if this was its intention, what else can those scriptural statements be that connect the law with life and speak of the eternal character of its commandments, but false claims that lead people astray? Hard pressed between his sacred tradition and his new faith, Paul struggled with a problem of conflicting convictions. Alongside the negative statements, he also makes a series of positive statements on the law, claiming that it is holy, just and good (Rom. 7.12), and that he himself wants to uphold rather than overthrow it (Rom. 3.31).46 Marcion, on the other hand, a few generations later, coolly drew his own logical conclusion, seizing on the negative statements and bringing them to a head: an order that loses its validity can hardly have been divine to begin with (that is, not ordained by the true God). For God, of course, cannot change his mind. It should be noted here that the problem of discontinuity is handled rather roughly in certain other writings that became part of the New Testament. The epistle to the Hebrews states brusquely that the law of the ‘old covenant’ has been abolished – and that this law (which in this writing is crystallized as the cultic law concerning sacrifices) was ‘weak’ and ‘useless’ from the start (Heb. 7.12, 18–19). The author does not pause to ask why God should have given such a useless law in the first place. The step from here to Marcion is not long. The Gospel of John also leans towards Marcion’s views in that the Jews who appeal to Moses are lumped together as children of the devil (John 8.44), even though, as we shall see, Marcion’s anger is not directed at Jews personally. In John’s view, all ‘shepherds’ before Jesus were ‘thieves and robbers’ (John 10.8) – apparently even Moses.47 now dead and buried. But Harnack’s assessment of Paul’s relation to Judaism seems to be on the right track, even though it can no longer be deemed a compliment to Paul. 46  On Paul’s tensions see, for example, Sanders, Paul, the Law and the Jewish People; H. Räisänen, Paul and the Law (WUNT 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 21987). 47  On the similarities between the gospel of John and Marcion see J. Regul, Die antimar-

Chapter 12: Marcion as a Reader of Paul

219

4. Marcion’s Treatment of the Text of Paul’s Letters Marcion made dubious the whole tradition (oral and literary) of the church; therefore, he needed authentic documents from the earliest time. One wonders whether his radicalized Paulinism could have had the success it had, if Paul’s letters had not already had an acknowledged status in many parts of the church.48 And, indeed, it seems that a collection of ten letters, beginning with Galatians, existed prior to Marcion; he did not create it, nor was it he who elevated Galatians to a prominent position. The Pastoral Epistles and Hebrews were missing in this collection.49 In Paul’s letters, a good deal of continuity with the traditions of Israel is found alongside discontinuity. Marcion therefore assumed that the letters contained Judaizing additions made by the false apostles. In his mind, there was reason to think that a critical restoration of the texts was needed: as we have seen, he believed – on the basis of Galatians 1–2 – that a conspiracy against God’s truth had existed in the church. Why should the early battles not have left traces in the extant letters of Paul? It was Marcion’s task to purify them from such distortions. Marcion is thought to have omitted from the texts of Paul (and Luke) much that did not suit his views, but in fact rather little is known about the texts he produced.50 The main informants, Tertullian and Epiphanius, seldom quote Marcion’s text verbatim. Recent research is inclined to assume that Marcion handled the texts in a more conservative way than has generally been thought.51 He preserved a good deal of material that one might have expected him to omit. The passages that he certainly omitted were concerned with three themes: Abraham as the father of the believers (parts of Gal. 3 and Rom. 4); Israel and the promises given to it as the foundation of the church (sections in Rom. 9–11, though the extent of the omissions is very difficult to define); and Christ as the mediator of creation (Col. 1.15b–16). In addition, talk of judgment according to deeds (Rom. 2.3–11) was apparently deleted. Marcion seems to have noticed internal contradictions in the letters as they stand. In the interest of coherence, he suppressed the ambivalence of the apostle

cionitischen Evangelienprologe (Vetus Latina, Aus der Geschichte der lateinischen Bibel 6; Freiburg: Herder, 1969), 164–76. 48 Schmid, Marcion, even posits a broad ‘extremist Pauline’ movement that had produced the collection; he assumes that Marcion was only the most influential representative of this movement. 49  Ibid., 284–96. 50  Harnack still tried to reconstruct the wording of Marcion’s new Bible; recent scholarship has not followed him. 51  On his treatment of the letters see Schmid, Marcion. Cf. the summarizing judgment of May, Markion, 9: theologically based textual changes are not numerous.

220

Part Two: Reception History

toward the legacy of Israel,52 making Paul speak in a consistently radical manner (favouring discontinuity instead of continuity). Unlike a Porphyry, who discovered contradictions and ascribed them to Paul’s feverish mind,53 Marcion started from the conviction that the great apostle was consistent; the pieces that did not fit must have crept in later. Modern analogies are not lacking. John O’Neill starts his somewhat idiosyncratic analysis with the conviction that ‘Paul uses arguments, and expects them to hold’54 , but finds both Galatians and Romans to be full of obscurities and self-contradictions. He concludes: ‘If the choice lies between supposing that Paul was confused and contradictory and supposing that his text has been commented upon and enlarged, I have no hesitation in choosing the second’.55 He thus shares Marcion’s starting-point – and ends up by ascribing large parts of Galatians and Romans to later editors. Whatever he did or did not omit, Marcion seems not to have added anything worth mentioning to the texts. Some slight verbal changes made by him are known to exist, but they are hardly different from those variants with which the textual history of the New Testament abounds (all copyists changed to some extent the text they copied, partly involuntarily, partly with intention). The lack of additions testifies to the sincerity of Marcion’s intentions: he merely wanted to restore what he thought must have been the original uncorrupted wording.56 Such an aim is best served by limiting oneself to eliminating alleged additions; making additions of one’s own would undermine the credibility of the enterprise. Marcion never composed a new gospel, though a multitude of apocryphal gospels that gave free rein to fantasy appeared in his time. Nor did he compose new ‘Pauline’ letters – in contrast, say, to the author(s) of the Pastorals.

5. Some Effects Of course, Marcion’s concept of two Gods was unacceptable in a monotheistic context. But the theology of Paul implied the no less offensive idea that the one and only God had, despite his own repeated affirmations to the contrary, changed his mind. It was clear to Marcion that a true God could not display such instability. This was equally clear to Marcion’s critics, though they resorted to a very different solution. Marcion put forward a radical proposal, but he 52 

Cf. Hoffmann, Marcion, 152. See Räisänen, Paul, 2–3. 54  J. C. O’Neill, Paul’s Letter to the Romans (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1975), 63. 55  J. C. O’Neill, The Recovery of Paul’s Letter to the Galatians (London: SPCK, 1972), 86; cf. Räisänen, Paul, 6. 1 56  Cf. H. von Campenhausen, The Formation of the Christian Bible (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 161–62. 53 

Chapter 12: Marcion as a Reader of Paul

221

did not create the problem of continuity and discontinuity. It was inherent in the roots of Christianity, not least in the letters of Paul. While Marcion posited the existence of two different Gods, his critics resorted to reinterpreting Scripture from a Christian perspective. Moreover, the ‘orthodox’ denied any dichotomy between law and gospel in Paul’s teaching. What could not be denied was that that many specifically Jewish parts of the law had been abolished in the church (largely as a consequence of Paul’s mission). According to the ‘orthodox’, God had not changed his plans; changes had come because the Jews had misunderstood those plans. Justin Martyr characteristically explained that certain commands of Scripture (such as the dietary regulations) were given in order to discipline the Jews who, as an exceptionally sinful people, were in need of especially strict control (Dial. 19.6–20.1). The command of circumcision had a very special purpose: it was meant to assist the Romans in identifying Jews in order to punish them (Dial. 16.2). Marcion is often portrayed as an enemy of the Jews, sometimes even as the worst anti-Semite of antiquity.57 This view needs to be thoroughly revised.58 To be sure, Judaism was, for Marcion, an inferior religion. But unlike many ‘orthodox’ Church fathers, he did not blame the Jewish people for killing Jesus. At points, Marcion’s criticism of ‘orthodox’ views converged with that presented by Jews, so that Tertullian had reason to complain that the heretic had formed ‘an alliance with the Jewish error’. Actually’ Marcion’s ‘orthodox’ opponents seem more anti‑Jewish than Marcion, who was simply a catalyst who forced others to pose with new seriousness the question, triggered not least by reading Paul: If, as is agreed, parts of the law are to be abandoned, how can one take seriously the God who made such an inferior arrangement? Since the giver of the law cannot (by definition) be criticized, the blame, in the ‘orthodox’ interpretation, is transferred to the people who cling to this law. In contrast with such views, Marcion’s own criticism ‘focuses almost exclusively on the god and the scriptures of Judaism and says little of Jews as such’; it was among his ‘orthodox’ opponents that the focus shifted to the Jews themselves.59 While Catholic Christianity took the symbols and attacked the people, Marcion ‘attacked the symbols but left the people alone’. 60 Perhaps unexpectedly, with regard to 57  For examples see H. Räisänen, Marcion, Muhammad and the Mahatma: Exegetical Perspectives on the Encounter of Cultures and Faiths (London: SCM, 1997), 64. 58  Cf. Hoffmann, Marcion, 226–34; Wilson, Related Strangers, 220–21; Räisänen, ‘Marcion’, 116–19. 59  J. G. Gager, The Origins of Anti-Semitism: Attitudes Toward Judaism in Pagan and Christian Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 172. May, Markion, 4, points out that we know absolutely nothing about Marcion’s attitude to contemporary Judaism; his ‘anti-Judaism’ is of an exegetical-theoretical nature (all negative statements on Jews and their God are due to reading the Hebrew Bible) and is directed against the allegedly ‘Judaizing’ teaching of the church. 60 Wilson, Related Strangers, 221.

222

Part Two: Reception History

practical consequences, Marcion’s view may therefore be the less harmful of the two.

6. Conclusion As an interpreter of Paul, Marcion was selective and one-sided. He took an extreme position, believing that there was no connection between Judaism and Christianity. He picked one side of Paul’s ambivalent legacy and brought it to a head. The ‘orthodox’ cultivated the other side of this legacy – and were hardly less one-sided, as they put all stress on continuity. The Pastoral Epistles and the Acts of Apostles ignored Paul’s radical, negative statements on the law, seizing on his more positive statements, which they developed in unexpected directions;61 ‘orthodox’ Church fathers followed suit. Notwithstanding the amount of arbitrariness that Marcion’s interpretation undeniably contains, many of his insights deserve to be heard and pondered even today. 62

61  In the Pastorals the law is ‘good’, for it holds sinners and criminals in check (1 Tim. 1.8–9); J. L. Houlden (The Pastoral Epistles [Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1976], 53) sees here ‘a positive travesty’ of Paul’s teaching. In Acts, Paul becomes a pious Jew (Acts 24.14; 26.4–5), more conservative than the Jerusalem pillars ever were; it is Peter and James who make all the critical decisions needed for the Gentile mission to flourish (Acts 10–11; 15). See, e.g., J. Jervell, Luke and the People of God: A New Look at Luke–Acts (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1972), 185–99. 62  Cf. Räisänen, ‘Marcion’, 120–22.

Chapter 13

Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible My involvement in biblical studies has also awakened in me an interest in other holy books. Early on I had the opportunity to do some work on the Qur’an, a fascinating combination of things familiar and unfamiliar for a biblical scholar. I had a vague hunch that, in a somewhat similar way, the Book of Mormon might make exciting reading, but a contact with that book and its study came about quite accidentally. During a sabbatical in Tübingen, Germany, in the early 1980s, I came across a review of the volume Reflections on Mormonism: Judeo-Christian Parallels (1978), edited by Truman G. Madsen.1 I got hold of the book in the wonderful University of Tübingen library, started reading, and after a while found myself engaged in a modest investigation of my own of Joseph Smith’s legacy.2 In this article, I shall try to explain what it is that fascinates me in this legacy as a biblical scholar and as an outsider both to Mormonism and to the study of Mormonism. Reflections on Mormonism consists of papers given by top theologians of mainstream churches at a conference held at Brigham Young University. From an exegetical point of view, I found most fascinating the contribution of Krister Stendahl, a leading New Testament scholar who passed away in April 2008. In an article that anyone interested in our topic should read, he compares Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount in the Gospel of Matthew with its counterpart in the Book of Mormon.3 In 3 Nephi the risen Jesus preaches to the Nephites in America a sermon which is largely similar to Matthew 5–7. Stendahl applies to the 3 Nephi sermon the redaction-critical method developed in biblical studies: He compares it with the Sermon on the Mount in the King James Version (KJV)4 –

1  T. G. Madsen (ed.), Reflections on Mormonism: Judeo-Christian Parallels (Provo: BYU Religious Studies Center, 1978). 2  H. Räisänen, ‘Joseph Smith und die Bibel: Die Leistung des mormonischen Propheten in neuer Beleuchtung’, ThLZ 109 (1984): 81–92, and the chapter ‘A Bible-Believer Improves the Bible: Joseph Smith’s Contribution to Exegesis’ in my Marcion, Muhammad and the Mahatma: Exegetical Perspectives on the Encounter of Cultures and Faiths (London: SCM, 1997), 153–69. 3  ‘The Sermon on the Mount and Third Nephi’, in Madsen (ed.), Reflections, 139–54; reprinted in K. Stendahl, Meanings: The Bible as Document and as Guide (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 99–113. 4  Biblical passages are quoted from the KJV unless otherwise noted.

224

Part Two: Reception History

the translation of the Bible known to Joseph Smith and his environment – and points out new emphases found in the Book of Mormon account.

1. Matthew and 3 Nephi The Sermon on the Mount opens with a series of ‘beatitudes’: blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are they that mourn, etc. The 3 Nephi sermon does so, too, but it starts with ‘extra’ beatitudes not found in Matthew. In them, the significance of faith (and baptism) is stressed: ‘blessed are ye if ye shall believe in me and be baptised […] more blessed are they who believe in your words…’ (3 Nephi 12.1–2). In Matthew’s sermon, Jesus does not urge his listeners to have faith in him and his words. Another characteristic enlargement is the addition to Matt. 5.6 (3 Nephi 12.6). The Gospel of Matthew reads: ‘Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.’ 3 Nephi adds: they shall be filled ‘with the Holy Ghost’. Stendahl points out that amplifications of this kind are well known from the early history of the Bible. They are similar in form to changes made to the biblical texts in the Targums, the Aramaic translations of the Hebrew Bible. They are also comparable to the recasting of biblical material in what is called pseudepigrahic literature – works later written in the name of biblical characters but which did not become part of the Bible itself. An example is the books of Enoch. Stendahl writes: ‘The targumic tendencies are those of clarifying and actualizing translations, usually by expansion and more specific application to the need and situation of the community. The pseudepigraphic [...] tend to fill out the gaps in our knowledge […] The Book of Mormon stands within both of these traditions if considered as a phenomenon of religious texts.’5 In terms of content, the additions to the Sermon on the Mount in 3 Nephi could be labelled Christianizing or spiritualizing. To be more precise, the 3 Nephi sermon with its tendency to centre upon faith in Jesus gives Matthew’s sermon a Johannine stamp. On the whole, in Matthew Jesus presents a religio-ethical message about the kingdom of heaven which includes a reinterpretation of the Jewish Torah, whereas in the Gospel of John he himself stands at the centre of his own message. Elsewhere in 3 Nephi, too, the image of Jesus ‘is that of a Revealer, stressing faith “in me” rather than what is right according to God’s will’, Stendahl notes. 6 Indeed the sermon in question is followed in 3 Nephi by speeches which take up themes known from the Gospel of John (3 Nephi 15–16).7 5 

Stendahl, ‘Sermon’, 152. Ibid., 151. 7  D. J. Davies, An Introduction to Mormonism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 47. 6 

Chapter 13: Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible

225

A redaction-critical analysis of the Book of Mormon thus produces a major surprise to a conventional mainstream-Christian mind: It reveals that 3 Nephi is at central points “more Christian” than is the Sermon in Matthew – more Christian, that is, if the conventional doctrinal theology of the mainstream churches is taken as a criterion of what is ‘Christian’. Both in standard Christian proclamation and in the 3 Nephi sermon the person of Jesus acquires a salvific significance that it lacks in Matthew’s sermon – and largely in the gospel of Matthew as a whole, where the main function of Jesus seems to be ‘to make possible a life in obedience to God’.8 From a mainstream Christian point of view, there is nothing peculiar in the fact that the Sermon on the Mount is viewed through Johannine spectacles. On the contrary, the Book of Mormon is quite conventional at this point, for it has been typical of doctrinal Christian thought at large to interpret the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) from a Johannine (or Pauline) point of view. But whereas others have been content to explain the Sermon on the Mount from a christological view-point extraneous to the sermon itself, the Book of Mormon includes the explanations within the Sermon. As already mentioned, precedents for this way of handling biblical texts are found in the Targums and in the Pseudepigrapha – but not only there. We should go further and note that the alteration of earlier texts, often for theological reasons, is a common phenomenon even in the processes which led to the birth of biblical books themselves. Stendahl referred in passing to the retelling of the historical accounts of the books of Samuel and Kings in the books of Chronicles as ‘a kind of parallel to what is going on in the Book of Mormon’.9 The stories are retold in what may be called in a more pious key. One could also point to the astonishing freedom with which Paul interferes with the wording of his Bible (our ‘Old Testament’) when he quotes it; in more than half of the cases he makes changes that make the text better suit his argument.10 The spiritualising of Matt. 5.6 in the Book of Mormon actually continues a development which started within the New Testament itself. For it seems that the Gospel of Luke has preserved an earlier form of the saying, presumably from a lost collection of Jesus’ sayings which scholars call the Sayings Source or ‘Q’. Luke writes in his Sermon on the Plain, his counterpart to Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount: ‘Blessed are ye that hunger now: for ye shall be filled’ (Luke 6.21). Luke’s version of the saying speaks of actual hunger of the stomach; however, Matthew’s version includes a religious-ethical content since he speaks of 8  P. Luomanen, Entering the Kingdom of Heaven: A Study on the Structure of Matthew’s View of Salvation (WUNT 2:101; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 285. 9  Stendahl, ‘Sermon’, 145. 10  D.-A. Koch, Die Schrift als Zeuge des Evangeliums: Untersuchungen zur Verwendung und zum Verständnis der Schrift bei Paulus (BHTh 69; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1986), 186– 90.

226

Part Two: Reception History

hungering and thirsting ‘after righteousness’. (In Matthew, ‘righteousness’ refers to humans doing God’s will). The Book of Mormon moves even further in a ‘spiritual’ direction by promising: ‘ye shall be filled with the Holy Ghost’ (3 Nephi 12.6). Stendahl commented that ‘there is nothing wrong in that; it is our common Christian tradition and experience to widen and deepen the meaning of holy words’.11

2. Joseph’s Starting-Point Conventional Christian theology has blamed Joseph Smith for falsifying Jesus’ words to fit his own theology. This criticism is patently biased, for biblical writers themselves proceed in just the same way when using each other’s works, even in reinterpreting Jesus’ words. This process is at work in the synoptic Gospels where, as we saw, Matthew spiritualized a saying found in a different form in Luke; it happens on a much larger scale in the Gospel of John, where Jesus speaks in a manner quite different from his statements in the synoptics (both in terms of form and of content). But the reinterpretation of sacred tradition in new situations by biblical authors took place at a stage when the texts had not yet been canonized. The New Testament authors did not know that they were writing books or letters which that would one day be part of a holy scripture comparable to and even superior to their Bible (our ‘Old Testament’) in authority. When the writings of Matthew, Luke, or Paul had reached that status, they could, in principle, no longer be altered. The adjustment to new situations and sensibilities had to take place by way of interpreting the texts, in many cases by twisting their ‘natural’ meaning. I say ‘in principle’, for before the inventing of the printing press, when the texts were manually copied by scribes, the practice was different. It often happened that ‘where the scribe found the sacred text saying something unworthy of deity, he knew it was wrong and proceeded to correct it as well as he could’.12 A mediating position, as it were, between preserving the text and changing it, is taken by annotated Bibles such as the Geneva Bible13 from the sixteenth century or the Scofield Reference Bible14 from the early twentieth century; these translations are accompanied by a wealth of marginal notes that guide the reader and easily come to share the authority of the text proper in his or her mind. Joseph

11  12 

55.

Stendahl, ‘Sermon’, 154. E. C. Colwell, The Study of the Bible (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1964),

13  See C. Hill, The English Bible and the Seventeenth-Century Revolution (London: Allen Lane, 1994), 56–63. 14  J. Barr, Fundamentalism (London: SCM, 1977), 191.

Chapter 13: Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible

227

Smith stands in this tradition, but he treats the sacred texts in a more radical manner. In his fascinating book Mormons and the Bible, Philip Barlow describes the ‘Bible-impregnated atmosphere’ in which Mormonism was born: ‘Joseph Smith grew up in a Bible-drenched society, and he showed it […] He shared his era’s assumptions about the literality, historicity and inspiration of the Bible.’ But ‘he differed from his evangelical contemporaries in that he found the unaided Bible an inadequate religious compass’. Instead of turning to scholarly or ecclesiastical authority to address this lack, he ‘produced more scripture – scripture that at once challenged yet reinforced biblical authority, and that echoed biblical themes, interpreted biblical passages, shared biblical content, corrected biblical errors, filled biblical gaps…’15 One may call him a Bible-believer who wanted to improve the Bible.16 The Bible had been praised in the Protestant churches as the sole norm for Christian faith and life. In practice, this approach did not work too well. Many a reader could not help noting that the Bible was sometimes self-contradictory and could lend support to mutually exclusive practices and doctrines, and indeed the Protestant decision to give the Bible into the hands of lay readers in their own language soon caused split after split even within Protestantism itself. Moreover, the Bible contained some features that were theologically or ethically problematic. Joseph Smith stood up to defend the biblical message and the biblical God, perhaps against deist critics like Tom Paine, but probably just as much to silence the doubts arising in the minds of devout Bible-readers like himself. In good Protestant fashion, Joseph Smith thought that, in the Bible, God had provided humans with his infallible word. Since, however, there are undoubtedly mistakes and shortcomings in our Bible, Joseph inferred that at some point the book must have been corrupted in the hands of its transmitters. In its original form the Bible must have been blameless. In a similar way Muslims have claimed that Jews and Christians have corrupted the text of the books which they had received through their prophets and messengers, with the result that the Bible no longer fully conforms to the original message now restored by the Qur’an; some early Christians had blamed Jewish scribes for cutting out prophecies about Jesus from their Bible. Interestingly, a related idea occasionally surfaces even in modern evangelical fundamentalism. When no other way to eliminate a problem seems to exist, it is reluc15  P. L. Barlow, Mormons and the Bible: The Place of Latter-Day Saints in American Religion (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 11–12; see also R. L. Bushman, Joseph Smith: Rough Stone Rolling (New York: Knopf Doubleday, 2007), 84–108. 16  T. L. Givens, By the Hand of Mormon: The American Scripture that Launched a New World Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 191: ‘Apparently Joseph was not speaking entirely tongue in cheek when he wrote, in response to the question “wherein do you differ from other sects?”, that “we believe the Bible.”’

228

Part Two: Reception History

tantly admitted that the extant copies of the Bible do contain an error, but then the original manuscript (which is, of course, no longer available) must have been different.17 Some scholars insist that discussion of the original ‘autographs’ was commonplace in religious literature in Smith’s time.18 But Joseph Smith made the necessary textual changes openly. What the Bible ought to look like, according to him, is shown by the Book of Mormon, which repeats more or less freely large parts of the Bible, as well as Smith’s subsequent ‘translation’ of the Bible, sometimes called the ‘Inspired Version’ in the Community of Christ tradition and the Joseph Smith Translation (JST) in the Latter Day Saints (LDS) tradition.19

3. Joseph Smith’s ‘Translation’ of the Bible The relatively little-known JST is a most interesting document from the point of view of a biblical scholar. Smith was probably aware that others were trying to improve the Bible by modernizing its language, paraphrasing it, and paying attention to alternative readings in ancient manuscripts.20 He set out to do the same – but through revelation, or prophetic insight, not by way of meticulous study. In this project, he worked closely with Sidney Rigdon, a former Baptist minister, who was far better versed in the Bible and is assumed to have influenced him a great deal.21 Although the JST has not replaced the KJV in the LDS church, it is lavishly quoted in notes to the canonical text with a substantial appendix, ‘Excerpts Too Lengthy for Inclusion in Footnotes’ (pp.  797–813) in the current (1979) LDS edition. It is certainly an important and interesting source for someone who wants to get a picture of Joseph Smith as a ‘biblical critic’. His changes show how much there was in the Bible that caused difficulties for a simple believer. His point of departure is the inerrancy of God’s word: Revelation cannot be contradictory, not even in small details. Thus, when Joseph Smith notes contradictions, he eliminates them. Many of his actual devices are familiar from the arsenal of today’s evangelicalism.22 The difference is that, where evangelical 17 Barr,

Fundamentalism, 279–84. Mormons and the Bible, 54 n.  29. 19  The work was so named in 1936 by the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints who had first published it in 1867. R. J. Matthews, ‘A Plainer Translation’. Joseph Smith’s Translation of the Bible: A History and a Commentary (Provo: BYU Press, 1980), esp. p.  168–70. 20 Barlow, Mormons and the Bible, 47. 21 Davies, Introduction, 43. 22  I have not investigated the matter but can imagine that many of them may also have been known to and used by American preachers of the early nineteenth century. Had Joseph heard 18 Barlow,

Chapter 13: Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible

229

commentators resort to harmonizing exegesis or other kinds of expository acrobatics, the JST alters the text itself. I should perhaps mention at this point that my way of speaking of the JST as a work reflecting the thought of Joseph Smith conforms to the language used by Philip Barlow, a Mormon scholar. His approach differs strikingly from that of some earlier studies which try to describe, resorting to rather complicated hermeneutics, the JST as a real translation.23 By contrast, Barlow interprets the JST in redaction-critical terms as a product of Smith’s creative interpretation, based on his prophetic consciousness. Barlow rightly finds a close analogy to Smith’s ‘prophetic license’ in the work of biblical writers, especially Paul.24

3.1. Examples Robert Matthews presents a wealth of examples of Joseph Smith’s innovations in his magisterial study of the JST.25 I repeat some of his observations but discuss them from a somewhat different perspective; I also add examples not adduced by Matthews. How did Judas Iscariot die? The statement ‘he hanged himself’ (Matt. 27.5) is expanded in the JST (Matt. 27.6): ‘[…] hanged himself on a tree. And straightway he fell down, and his bowels gushed out, and he died.’ Thus the account is brought (more or less) into harmony with Acts 1.18 which says nothing about a suicide through hanging himself, but states that Judas ‘purchased a field [...] and falling headlong, he burst asunder in the midst, and all his bowels gushed out’. The same explanation is found in evangelical commentaries even today, as for instance: ‘If he hanged himself from a tree located on a high cliff, above a valley, and if then the rope broke and the traitor fell on rocky ground, the result could very well have been as pictured in the book of Acts.’26 The JST assures that the number of angels at Jesus’ tomb is the same in all Gospels by introducing the second angel (Luke 24.4; John 20.12) into Mark 16.3 and Matt. 28.2.27 However, Smith has more devices at his disposal than a modpreachers explain away contradictions between the gospels as he later did in the JST? Did Sidney Rigdon perhaps call his attention to such problems and their current solutions? 23  See especially Matthews, Plainer Translation, 233–53. 24 Barlow, Mormons and the Bible, 57–61, esp. p.  60–61. The reader will have noticed that I deal with the Book of Mormon in similar terms. I thereby side with those ‘particularly liberal Latter Day Saints’ referred to by Davies, Introduction, 64. Givens, By the Hand of Mormon, 174–84 is critical of such ‘innovative attempts’. See also Räisänen, Marcion, 167–69. 25 Matthews, Plainer Translation, 285–389. An invaluable tool for purposes of comparison is Joseph Smith’s ‘New Translation’ of the Bible, with Introduction by F. H. Edwards (Independence, Mo.: Herald House, 1970) which offers ‘a complete parallel column comparison of the Inspired Version of the Holy Scriptures and the King James Authorized Version’. 26  W. Hendriksen, New Testament Commentary: Exposition of the Gospel according to Matthew (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1982), 949–50; compare Matthews, Plainer Translation, 304. 27  See also Matthews, Plainer Translation, 305–6. By contrast, Joseph Smith does not at-

230

Part Two: Reception History

ern evangelical expositor. The latter must show that no extant version is wrong; when numbers differ, he must choose the highest one. When Matt. 8.28 mentions two healed demoniacs and Mark 5.2 just one, Mark too must be thinking of two, though he does not care to mention both.28 By contrast, the JST simply removes the second demoniac from Matt. 8.29–35 (numbering according to the JST); both Matthew and Mark now speak of one healed person. In a similar way, Smith has removed the ass from Matt. 21.2, 7 (Matt. 21.2, 5 JST) so that Jesus enters Jerusalem riding on only one animal, the colt, as in Mark 11.2, 7. This solution resolves the problem in the Greek text of Matt. 21 in which he makes his entry riding both on an ass and on a colt.29 The synoptic gospels mention that two thieves were crucified along with Jesus. But while Mark 15.32 and Matt. 27.44 tell us that both of them joined those who mocked Jesus for not being able to help himself, Luke 23.40–43 gives a different account. One joined the mockers, but the other blamed him, proclaimed Jesus’s innocence, and asked Jesus to remember him when coming into his kingdom. Joseph Smith introduces the penitent thief from Luke into Matthew’s account (Matt. 27.47–48 JST) and harmonizes Mark’s narrative with that of Luke by stating that ‘one of them who was crucified with him, reviled him’ (Mark 15.37 JST). Problems of this sort – and many of the solutions suggested – were well known to the Church fathers of the third and fourth centuries who were bothered by them since they threatened the faith of some. To remove the slightest chance of contradiction, Origen even suggested the possibility that there may have been four thieves crucified with Jesus, two mentioned by Matthew and Mark and the other two by Luke.30 The statement in Matt. 23.2 – ‘all therefore whatsoever they [the scribes and the Pharisees, v.  1] bid you observe, that observe and do’ – seems to contradict a number of other Gospel passages. Why should Jesus’s followers obey the ordinances of the often-chastised Pharisees? Joseph Smith makes an insertion that tempt to resolve the problem of the divergent accounts of the various women at the tomb which caused such perplexity to the Church fathers. H. Merkel, Die Widersprüche zwischen den Evangelien: Ihre polemische und apologetische Behandlung in der Alten Kirche bis zu Augustin (WUNT 13; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1971), 108, 141. 28  Ibid., 102–3; Origen had already proposed this solution. 29  This oddity is obviously a result of Matthew’s misunderstanding of Zech. 9.9, which he quotes in 21.5 (21.4, JST). Zechariah states that the king of ‘daughter Sion’ will come ‘sitting upon an ass, and a colt the foal of an ass’. Undoubtedly the original text of Zechariah has only one animal in view; the mention of the ‘colt’, in addition to the ‘ass’, is a typical feature of Hebrew poetry (parallelismus membrorum). Matthew has taken the ‘doubling’ of the ass literally; to make the fulfilment correspond completely to the prediction, he lets Jesus use both animals – however one may visualise this. It seems that Joseph Smith has understood the nature of the poetic parallelism, for he lets the mention of two animals stand in the quotation (Matt. 21.4 JST) while removing the ass from the narrative. 30  Merkel, Widersprüche, 107–8.

Chapter 13: Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible

231

removes the problem: ‘all, therefore, whatsoever they bid you observe, they will make you observe and do’. A more serious and notorious exegetical and theological problem is posed by the different statements on sinning Christians in 1 John. 1 John 2.1 states: ‘these things I write unto you, that ye sin not. And if any man sin, we have an advocate...’ Yet in 1 John 3.9 claims that ‘whosoever is born of God doth not commit sin; for his seed remaineth in him and he cannot sin.’ So can a Christian sin or not? Joseph Smith removes the contradiction. JST 1 John 2.1 reads: ‘if any man sin and repent...’ And rather than claiming that a Christian cannot sin, JST 3.9 states that ‘whosoever is born of God doth not continue in sin; for the Spirit of God remaineth in him ...’ The picture is now coherent and conforms to the traditional picture of Christian life. There is an intriguing difference between the Old Testament and the Gospel of John. John 1.19 claims that ‘no man hath seen God at any time’. But in the Old Testament Moses is allowed to see God’s ‘back parts’ (Ex. 33.23), and several other biblical persons reportedly saw God as well.31 The JST takes the Exodus account seriously and perhaps Joseph’s own vision of God and Jesus32 and enlarges the sentence in John’s Gospel: ‘no man hath seen God at any time except he hath borne record of the Son’.33 The use of the divine names in the Pentateuch (the five books of Moses) was one of the reasons that once led historical critics to formulate a famous source theory. In the Pentateuch, different narratives, which deal differently with God’s names, are woven together into a single story. As the story stands, the name Yahweh is first revealed in Ex. 6.3: God says that he has appeared to the patriarchs ‘by the name of God Almighty, but by my name JEHOVAH was I not known to them’. Nevertheless, the many narratives of Genesis, which precedes Exodus, show humans using the JEHOVAH/Yahweh. The JST cleverly solves the problem through a slight change in wording that turns the end of the verse into a rhetorical question: ‘I am the Lord God Almighty; the Lord JEHOVAH. And was not my name known unto them?’ 34 The imminent expectation of the end by the early Christians and even by Jesus himself has always been a problem for conservative exegesis. Here, too, Smith presents an interpretation which, in its intentions, agrees with evangelical exegesis. Once again the difference is that he does not resort to expository acrobatics but simply alters the difficult texts. In JST, 1 Thess. 4.15, Paul does not claim that ‘we’ are still alive when the Lord comes, but that ‘they who are alive 31  These include patriarchs and the seventy elders of Israel in Moses’s time. For a list, see Matthews, Plainer Translation, 302. 32 Barlow, Mormons and the Bible, 52. 33  Joseph Smith is very alert on this issue, for he has made similar corrections to 1 John 4.12 and 1 Tim. 6.15–16 as well. Matthews, Plainer Translation, 302. 34  Ibid., 309–10.

232

Part Two: Reception History

at the coming of the Lord, shall not prevent [i.e., precede] them who remain unto the coming of the Lord.’ KJV 1 Cor. 7.29 announces that ‘the time is short’, a chronological difficulty that the JST smooths over with: ’the time that remaineth is but short, that ye shall be sent forth unto the ministry’. Heb. 9.26 does not claim that Jesus had appeared ‘in the end of the world’ (KJV) but ‘in the meridian of time’ (JST). The KJV prophecy that ‘this generation shall not pass, till all these things be fulfilled’ (Matt. 24.34) is expanded as follows: ‘This generation in which these things shall be shown forth, shall not pass away, until all I have told you shall be fulfilled’ (Matt. 24.35 JST). Correspondingly, it is not ‘ye’ [the disciples listening to Jesus, v.  33 KJV] who shall ‘see all these things’, but ‘mine elect’ (v. 42 JST). This revision thus clarifies that Jesus knew the disciples would no longer be alive when the last things began to happen.35 Alterations are also made where the implication about God’s nature seems offensive. As the deists had made clear, God does not repent; if he did, he would hardly be God. But the flood story begins with the announcement: ‘It repented the LORD that he had made man on the earth’ (Gen. 6.6–7). JST Gen. 8.13, by contrast, has Noah repenting that the Lord had created man. The statement ‘it repenteth me that I have set up Saul to be king’ (1 Sam. 15.11 KJV) is replaced in the JST with: ‘I have set up Saul to be a king and he repenteth not.’ Nor does God do bad things. KJV 1 Sam. 16.14 claims that ‘an evil spirit from the LORD’ troubled Saul; in the JST, however, Saul is troubled by ‘an evil spirit which was not of the Lord’. In the JST God never hardens Pharaoh’s heart either; it is always the Pharaoh himself who hardens his own heart (Ex. 10.1, 20, 27). In the KJV it is now God,36 now the Pharaoh 37 who is the subject of the hardening. In KJV Acts 13.48 states that, as a result of Paul’s preaching, ‘as many as were ordained to eternal life believed’. The JST changes the order of the verbs (‘as many as believed were ordained unto eternal life’, and thus sidestepping the embarrassing idea that a human being’s destiny may be foreordained. The petition ‘lead us not into temptation’ in the KJV Lord’s Prayer is changed to ‘suffer us not to be led into temptation’ (Matt. 6.13 JST). Interestingly, the wording of the prayer here differs from that given in 3 Nephi, which is the same as the KJV, indicating that an interpretative process had continued in Joseph Smith’s mind.38 Thus far I have indicated parallels to Joseph Smith’s treatment of the Bible in the works of the Church fathers and those of conservative evangelicals of today. But parallels can be found in other camps, too – for instance, in new translations which try to avoid the offence caused by the patriarchal world view of the Bible. 35 

Ibid., 347. E.g, in the Exodus passages just mentioned 37  E.g., Ex. 7.14; 9.34. The discrepancy is often taken as an indication of the use of different sources by the final composer(s) of the Pentateuch. 38  See Barlow, Mormons and the Bible, 51. 36 

Chapter 13: Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible

233

In a recent translation of the New Testament, published by the Oxford University Press, for instance the saying ‘No one knows the Son except the father’ (Matt. 11.25) is rendered as follows: ‘No one knows the Child except the Father-Mother’.39 Or take the Contemporary English Version of 1995. Its translators wanted to produce a Bible that could not be exploited for anti-Jewish purposes; they therefore decided not to use the word ‘Jew’ at all in the exclusive sense as the enemy of Jesus in the New Testament.40 In more conventional translations, the Gospel of John speaks of ‘the Jews’ about seventy times in a highly disparaging way and even seems to drive a wedge between Jesus and his disciples on one hand and ‘the Jews’ on the other (see, e.g., John 13.33), as if Jesus and his circle were not Jews at all!41 As a Bible-believer who improves the Bible, Joseph Smith begins to look rather less idiosyncratic than he may have seemed at first glance. Yet perhaps the most striking of Joseph Smith’s innovations is a feature which is already prominent in his earlier Book of Moses. According to him, humans are from the very beginning aware of Messiah Jesus’ future mission. Even before his entrance into mortality, they can enjoy the salvation he offers. The JST clearly teaches that ‘the ancient prophets, from Adam to Abraham [...] taught and practised the gospel; they knew Christ and worshipped the Father in his name’.42 A number of additions and expansions to the KJV in the JST make this knowledge clear. God instructed Adam’s descendants to repent, promising: ‘And as many as believed in the Son, and repented of their sins, should be saved’ (Gen. 5.1–2 JST). So the gospel was preached right in the beginning (Gen. 5.44–45), even before the Flood. In one of the JST’s numerous additions to Genesis, Enoch summarizes God’s instructions to Adam: If thou wilt, turn unto me and hearken unto my voice, and believe, and repent of all thy transgressions, and be baptized, even in water, in the name of mine Only Begotten Son, who is full of grace and truth, which is Jesus Christ, the only name which shall be given under heaven, whereby salvation shall come unto the children of men; and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost (Gen. 6.53 JST).

39  V. R. Gold (ed.), New Testament and Psalms: An Inclusive Version (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). 40  B. M. Newman (ed.), Holy Bible: Contemporary English Version (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). 41  This is, in my view, an unfortunate feature of the original and not due to any incompetence of earlier translators. Incidentally, it is a feature that the JST has not changed. For example, John 5.18 reads: ‘The Jews sought the more to kill him, because he [...] said [...] that God was his father.’ 42 Matthews, Plainer Translation, 328. In the Book of Mormon, too, prophets and preachers repeatedly proclaim the future coming of Jesus Christ and describe it detail. For some passages, see Givens, By the Hand of Mormon, 199.

234

Part Two: Reception History

Enoch’s long speech is summarized in the following words: ‘This is the plan of salvation unto all men, through the blood of mine Only Begotten, who shall come in the meridian of time’ (Gen. 6.65 JST). Furthermore, JST Gen. 6.67 makes it explicit that Adam actually was baptized. For all the problems that Joseph Smith’s solutions may involve, he certainly has acutely sensed a problem in the Bible, touching a sensitive point in the conceptualization of salvation-history. The New Testament, too, hints at God’s eternal plan of salvation. But what is one to think of this plan, if Christ actually opened a new way of salvation which was unknown to the ancients, as many New Testament writings, especially Galatians, seem to suggest? Did God himself lead the Israelites astray by giving them a law which promised them life (e.g., Lev. 18.5) – but which, in fact, it was unable to provide, according to Paul (e.g., Gal. 3.21) – and which in no way suggested that it was just a provisional arrangement? Or is this interpretation a misapprehension and the way to salvation was indeed open to ancient generations, too, if they repented of their sins and accepted God’s law? But in that case, if the people of our Old Testament could achieve salvation, then what was Christ really needed for? Had God’s first plan failed so that he now came up with a better idea? This view would make Christ an emergency measure on God’s part. Either way, we are caught in a dilemma. One has to relativize either the immutability of God’s plan (the conviction that God does not change his mind) or the crucial significance of Christ. The problem surfaces in 1 Clement, an early writing which did not quite make it into the final New Testament. Clement of Rome confirms in New Testament terminology that God has from eternity always justified everyone in the same way: through faith (1 Clem. 32.4). God ‘gave those who wanted to turn to him, from generation to generation, opportunity for repentance’ (1 Clem. 7.5). This doctrine implies that the difference between Christians and the pious men and women of the Old Testament disappears. Clement maintains the immutability of God’s plan; but as a result, the role of Christ becomes vague. In fact, Paul had already faced the same problem (though he seemed unaware of it) when he introduced the figure of Abraham as the first Christian (as it were) in Gal. 3 and Rom. 4. If Abraham was justified by faith and faith without works thus was available a millennium before Christ as the way to salvation, why was it necessary for God at all to send Christ? Like Clement of Rome, Joseph Smith definitely holds, as Robert Hullinger puts it, that ‘God had always related to man on the basis of his faith, and any other terms would, indeed, make God mutable’.43 But unlike Clement, Smith does not let Christ’s role become vague; he projects the Christian soteriology in 43  R. N. Hullinger, Mormon Answer to Scepticism: Why Joseph Smith Wrote the Book of Mormon (St Louis: Clayton, 1980), 122. Ironically, Joseph Smith himself set forth in his later revelations that God actually made progress in his own development. See ibid., 135 n.  4.

Chapter 13: Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible

235

its totality into Paradise. Obviously he has sensed the artificiality of the standard christological reading of the Old Testament as it stands. If the Old Testament really is a testimony to Christ (as Christians of all times have asserted), then should it not actually speak of Jesus in straightforward terms? Smith does not appreciate the idea of development in the biblical thoughtworld, which is self-evident in modern historical study; but in purely logical terms, his solution is admirable. Nor is he quite alone in his absolutely christocentric exposition of the primeval stories. A Christian addition (perhaps from the second or third century) to the Jewish pseudepigraphon, the Testament of Adam (3.1), shows Adam teaching his son, Seth, as follows:44 You have heard, my son, that God45 is going to come from into the world after a long time, (he will be) conceived of a virgin […] he will perform signs and wonders on the earth, will walk on the waves of the sea. He will rebuke the winds and they will be silenced. He will motion to the waves and they will stand still. He will open the eyes of the blind and cleanse the lepers. He will cause the deaf to hear, and the mute to speak. He will straighten the hunchbacked, strengthen the paralyzed, find the lost, drive out evil spirits, and cast out demons. He spoke to me about this in Paradise…46

Actually it can happen in the midst of mainstream Christianity today that the biblical text is supplemented in a similar vein. The Children’s Bible by Anne de Vries provides an example. This Christian bestseller, which was originally published in Dutch, has sold millions of copies. It appends several mentions of Jesus to Old Testament stories when paraphrasing them for children.47 The story of the Fall ends with the promise that one day a child would be born who would be stronger than Satan. ‘Who would this child be? The Lord Jesus. When Jesus would come, God would no longer be angry […] When they [Adam and Eve] thought of that they became again a bit glad.’ To Abraham the promise is given: ‘Your children will live in the land, and later Lord Jesus will be born there.’ It is also said that Abraham yearned for this remote day. In the JST, the law does not become a problem in the way it does in standard Christian theology, for Adam had learned soon after being ejected from the Garden of Eden that animal sacrifices are ‘a similitude of the sacrifice of the only begotten of the Father’ (Gen. 4.7 JST). The typological theology of the cultic law presented in the Epistle to the Hebrews is projected into the beginnings of salvation history. Christ has brought the law to an end, for it was fulfilled in him (3 Nephi 9.17; 29.4) who, being identical with the God of Israel, was 44  J. H. Charlesworth adduced the passage as a parallel: ‘Messianism in the Pseudepigrapha and the Book of Mormon’, in Madsen (ed.), Reflections on Mormonism, 120–21. 45  According to another reading: ‘the Messiah’. 46  S. E. Robinson (trans.), ‘Testament of Adam’, in J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. Vol. 1: Apocalyptic Literature and Testaments (New York: Hendrickson, 1983), 994. 47  The quotations are my translations into English from a German translation: A. de Vries, Die Kinderbibel (Konstanz: Bahn, 1981), 14, 21.

236

Part Two: Reception History

also the giver of the law (3 Nephi 29.5). He actually is the law and the light (3 Nephi 29.9). Except for the identification of Father and Son, the Book of Mormon agrees in these statements with classical solutions presented by the early Church fathers.48 In presenting the story of Israel basically as a Christian story and the Hebrew Bible as a thoroughly Christian book, Joseph Smith brings to its highest possible expression, a tendency which is present, though somewhat muted, in mainstream versions of Christian doctrine as well. I think it is worth keeping in mind that throughout Christian history, this Christian reading of the Hebrew Bible has been one of the sources of anti-Jewish sentiments. It is all the more striking that Mormonism has apparently never succumbed to this temptation. It would have been easy to argue as follows: If salvation in Jesus and baptism in his name was the point of biblical religion all the time, surely the Jews who do not recognize this must be utterly blind or ill-willed? And if all this Christian talk about salvation-history was once part of the Old Testament but later disappeared and had to be restored by the JST, then the Bible must have been viciously amputated by Jewish scholars. (Who else?) Early Church fathers made just such inferences from the fact that most Jews did not recognize a christological reading of the Hebrew Bible; how much easier would such an inference have been on the basis of the JST? There Jesus need not be sought between the lines, for his coming glory shines openly on so many pages.49 But neither Joseph Smith nor his followers, very much to their credit, drew such conclusions. Their strong identification with biblical Israel seems rather to have led to a friendly attitude and to a respectful dialogue with Judaism. No doubt it has been an asset that the actual ‘parting of the ways’ between Judaism and Christianity, which was such a sore problem during the early centuries, was no longer an issue when Mormonism was born. Back to the New Testament! One further problem connected with the continuity of salvation history in the New Testament is Paul’s talk of the law as the cause of sin or of its function of increasing sin (Gal. 3.19; Rom. 5.13; 7.5; 7.7–11; 1 Cor. 15.56).50 Joseph Smith weakens many such statements. But then many Church fathers, in opposing the radicalism of Marcion who rejected the Old Testament altogether, took steps to render the apostle ‘harmless’ on such points.51 How could God’s law be a burden or even a curse (Gal. 3.10, 13!) connected with sin? Surely it would be normal to think that the function of the law 48  On Christ as the giver of the Old Testament law in patristic writings, see M. Werner, Die Entstehung des christlichen Dogmas (Bern: Haupt, 1941), 209–11. For example, e.g., the ‘mediator’ of the law in Gal. 3.19 is identified with the pre-existent Christ. 49  Similar questions are, of course, to be addressed relative to de Vries’s Children’s Bible. 50  H. Räisänen, Paul and the Law (WUNT 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 21987), 140–50. 51  See M. Wiles, The Divine Apostle: The Interpretation of St. Paul’s Epistles in the Early Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 52; Werner, Entstehung, 233. Both are commenting on Origen, who denied that Paul spoke so negatively of the Torah – which

Chapter 13: Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible

237

is to prevent sin or to fight against it? But Paul goes in unexpected ways and actually parts company with almost all other early Christians on this point. Thus, Paul speaks in Rom. 7.5 of the ‘motions of sins’ in our members ‘which were by the law’ and worked ‘to bring forth fruit unto death’. The JST, however, lets the apostle speak of the ‘motions of sins, which were not according to the law’. Later in the same passage Paul, according to the KJV, describes the fatal role of the law in bringing about death: ‘I was alive without the law once: but when the commandment came, sin revived, and I died. And the commandment which was ordained to life, I found to be unto death’ (Rom. 7.9–10). The JST avoids this blackening of the law in the following manner: ‘For once I was alive without transgression of the law, but when the commandment of Christ came, sin revived, and I died. And when I believed not the commandment of Christ which came, which was ordained to life, I found it condemned me unto death.’ Even the claim of verse 7.11 that sin was able to use the law as its springboard (‘sin, taking occasion by the commandment, deceived me’) is toned down in the JST: ‘For sin, taking occasion, denied the commandment and deceived me.’ The close connection which Paul here establishes between law and sin is flatly denied by Joseph Smith. Many modern interpreters will assess this as a dilution of Paul’s allegedly profoundly dialectical view of the law. Others, including myself, find that Paul’s view is beset with difficulties.52 Smith exhibits common sense in regarding only the transgression of the divine law as a negative matter, not the law itself. As stated above, most Church fathers were of the same opinion. John Chrysostom observed that, if the effect of the ‘commandment’ of the law is to engender sin, then logically even the precepts given by Christ and the apostles in the New Testament would have had the same effect: ‘This particular charge could never be directed against the Old Testament law without involving the New Testament also.’53 Therefore, he inferred that Paul must have meant something else, and indeed Chrysostom watered down Paul’s assertions in Rom.  7.8 and 7.11 in his exposition of the verses. Once more Joseph Smith finds himself in good company. Finally, I wish to call attention to a passage where Joseph Smith’s interpretation proves amazingly modern. In Rom. 7.14–25 Paul speaks of the misery of a wretched ‘I’ who is not able to do the good he wishes to do – in fact, no good at all. The passage is often taken as a description of Paul’s (and anyone else’s) Christian life. This, however, would contradict Paul’s general picture of life in the Spirit, not least in the chapter that immediately follows (Rom. 8) and the one that immediately precedes it (Rom. 6).54 This is why a great number of modern would have been to fall into the heresy of Marcion. According to Origen, what he meant was ‘the law in our members’. 52 Räisänen, Paul and the Law, 149–50, and passim. 53  John Chrysostom, paraphrased in Wiles, Divine Apostle, 57. 54 Matthews, Plainer Translation, 358–59, sharing the view that Paul is speaking of him-

238

Part Two: Reception History

biblical critics think that Paul must really mean non-Christian existence ‘under the law’; the use of the ‘I’-form is understood as a rhetorical device.55 Sensing the problem, the JST anticipates these critics and thoroughly alters the KJV text (while still assuming that the ‘I’ denotes Paul himself): ‘I am carnal, sold under sin’ becomes in the JST: ‘when I was under the law, I was yet carnal, sold under sin’ (Rom 7.14). Then a stark contrast to ‘I was carnal’ is created with the aid of an insertion: ‘But now I am spiritual.’ The sequel ‘For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that I do not’ (Rom. 7.15 KJV) is replaced with: ‘for that which I am commanded to do, I do; and that which I am commanded not to allow, I allow not’ (JST). A number of other changes in the same vein follow.56 The JST consistently transforms the apparent tension of flesh and spirit in the speaker’s heart into a contrast between two succeeding stages in his life. The modern alternative – that the ‘I-form’ is rhetorical and that Paul is speaking of the non-Christian under the law – has, understandably, not occurred to Joseph Smith. The JST even omits the last clause ‘with the flesh [I serve] the law of sin’ (7.25 KJV) which some modern scholars have ascribed to a post-Pauline interpreter.57 Both these scholars and the JST let Paul close the chapter with the statement: ‘With the mind I myself serve the law of God’ (7.27 JST). If the modern mainstream interpretation is on the right track, then Joseph Smith’s interpretation of the passage seems to be closer to Paul’s intentions than was, for example the influential interpretation of Martin Luther, who saw Paul as describing Christian life from the point of view of an Augustinian monk conscientiously scrutinizing his inmost thoughts and always finding them wanting.58

4. Conclusion There is much to be learnt from Joseph Smith’s implicit criticism of the Bible. He belongs to the large number of serious and sincere readers who wrestle with the problems that the Bible poses to them, since it is not exactly the kind of book self, notes that ‘these are strange statements, coming from a man like Paul so many years after he had experienced the cleansing power of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It is even contradictory for Paul to say these things about himself when in many other instances he declared that Christ had made him free, and that through the power of Christ he was able to walk no longer after the flesh but after the spirit. (This is the substance of what he says in Romans 8, of the King James Version... )’. 55  See, e.g., J. Ziesler, Paul’s Letter to the Romans (TPI NT Commentaries; London: SCM, 1989), 189–95. 56 Matthews, Plainer Translation, 359–60 offers a clear comparison by printing the two texts in adjacent columns and typographically indicating the differences. 57 Ziesler, Romans, 199. 58  P. Althaus, Paulus und Luther über den Menschen: Ein Vergleich (Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1963).

Chapter 13: Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible

239

it is mostly postulated to be. The parallels to mainstream conservatism of today are very interesting. Even more intriguing, perhaps, are the parallels to the apologetics of the early Church fathers. And yet it is not just the conservative camp that provides points of comparison. Champions of egalitarianism and tolerance have resorted to far-reaching ‘improvements’ of the biblical language in modern translations that try to avoid patriarchalism and prejudice. In Smith’s work one can, as with a magnifying glass, study the mechanisms operative in much apologetic interpretation of the Bible. Most importantly of all, his alterations point to real problems. Some are minor, problems only for those who insist on an infallible Bible. Others, however, are major issues for any interpreter, such as the continuity or discontinuity of the ‘salvation history’. Joseph Smith asks genuine questions and perceives genuine problems. Even those who do not accept all his answers would profit from taking his questions seriously.

Part Three

Interreligious Issues

Chapter 14

A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies 1. The Problem Mission studies deals, I understand, with the crossing of the boundary between Christianity and other faith communities or world views. Its sub-disciplines include the theology of religions, which asks such questions as ‘Is there anything unique in Christianity?’ or ‘What kind of dialogue should one have between religions?’ These are issues that have engaged me for decades, though less in the context of actual dialogue than as questions arising directly from my work on the Bible and on the Qur’an. I try to study religious encounters without privileging my own tradition. In this article I shall present some reflections on such encounters from the personal point of view of one biblical scholar. Some of my conclusions may seem radical, but my reading of the biblical evidence is hardly idiosyncratic – even though I presumably part company with many of my colleagues in my theological conclusions. The questions of uniqueness and dialogue are related to a practical question: should Christians exercise conversion-oriented mission? David Bosch, for one, replies with a resounding yes in his missiological magnum opus: theology must have missionary character or it has no reason to exist.1 ‘[M]issiology consciously pursues its task from a faith perspective,’2 and the Christian faith cannot surrender what Bosch calls the ‘inalienable elements of mission’: the conviction that God, in sending Jesus Christ into our midst, has taken a definitive and eschatological course of action and is extending to human beings forgiveness, justification, and a new life of joy and servanthood, which, in turn, calls for a human response in the form of conversion.3

There is, then, a basic difference between dialogue and mission.4 Like many other theologians, Bosch is quite critical of the pluralistic projects of John Hick and Paul Knitter.5 By contrast, I find myself supporting their approach – at least 1  D. J. Bosch, Transforming Mission: Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1991), 494; cf. ibid., 9. 2  Ibid., 497. 3  Ibid.,, 488. 4  Ibid., 487. 5  Ibid., 482–83, 487–88. See J. Hick (ed.), The Myth of God Incarnate (London: SCM, 1977); P. F. Knitter, No Other Name? A Critical Survey of Christian Attitudes Toward the

244

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

to a degree. I concur broadly with Hick in what he rejects: I, too, abandon the claim of Christianity ‘to an ultimate religious superiority’, the claim that the saving truth unknown to non-Christians is known to the church, which is God’s instrument in making redemption known and available. 6 I do not agree with everything he affirms when claiming that the great religious traditions constitute different human responses to one and the same ultimate Reality. Religions probably differ from each other on various levels in ways he does not acknowledge, and so do different versions of one and the same religion.7 For instance, there are, and have been from the beginning, different ‘Christianities’. Deconstructing Christian claims to superior uniqueness is one thing, relating that project to the assessment of other traditions is another. What matters here is the former task, and it alone. Hick and Knitter have been criticized for forcing religions into a preconceived mould, presumably not without reason. Yet in their critique of recent approaches to dialogue and mission both build on sound mainstream exegesis. Standard biblical scholarship should cause problems to such missionary enterprises as aim at converting adherents of other religions. Crucial missionary claims are based on part of the New Testament evidence; the New Testament itself includes material that can be used (by modern theologians) to support a different view. 8 I once entitled the final chapter in a book on encounters ‘The Pluralist Imperative’. I found that my exegetical findings converged with the philosophical-theological arguments put forward by Hick and Knitter, likewise pointing to a pluralist vision: the ultimate goal of dialogue could well be that Christians should become better – more humane – Christians, Muslims better Muslims, Hindus better Hindus, humanists better humanists and so on, each trying to help the others to reach this goal.9 I also took up of Krister Stendahl’s famous phrase: the language of a religious confession such as Acts 4.12 (‘there is no othWorld Religions (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1985); J. Hick & P. F. Knitter (eds.), The Myth of Christian Uniqueness (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1988); J. Hick, The Metaphor of God Incarnate (London: SCM, 2005). Critical voices include S. M. Heim, Salvations: Truth and Difference in Religion (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1995), A. E. McGrath, Christian Theology: An Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 2011), 441–43, and many others; a collection is found in G. D’Costa (ed.), Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered: The Myth of a Pluralistic Theology of Religions (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1990). 6  J. Hick, ‘The Non-Absoluteness of Christianity’, in Hick & Knitter (eds.), Myth, 22. 7  Cf. the critique by J. Cobb, ‘Beyond “Pluralism”’, in D’Costa (ed.), Christian Uniqueness, 81–95, esp.  91–94. 8  On the other hand it is quite clear that Christianity started as a mission-oriented movement, convinced that Christ’s lordship over all reality must be proclaimed and eager to persuade others to convert. I do not deny this at all; my reflections are evoked by the question what we should think of mission in our new situation. 9  H. Räisänen, Marcion, Muhammad and the Mahatma: Exegetical Perspectives on the Encounter of Cultures and Faiths (London: SCM, 1997), 189–203.

Chapter 14: A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies

245

er name in which salvation is to be found’) should be taken by us, possibly in contrast to those who originally formulated the confession, ‘as love language, as caressing language’.10 We could use a phrase like that as a confession of love, not as a proposition.11 I have not repented; here is my case in a nutshell. The New Testament is filled with contradictions, many of them by no means marginal. In some parts, Jesus’ death, interpreted in vicarious terms, is an indispensable part of God’s plan for human salvation. In others, it is the typical fate of a prophet, not invested with soteriological significance. There are different perceptions of the person of Christ. For some, his divine sonship is based on God’s raising the man Jesus from the dead; for others, on his eternal pre‑existence with God. Such variety on central issues inevitably tends to relativize traditional Christian truth claims.12 The starting-point for traditional Christian mission was that there is a fundamental anthropological problem which the Christians (and they alone) know. Humans are tragically involved in sin, even though they are not aware of it. As Bosch, obviously approving of Paul’s point, notes: Paul ‘sees humanity outside Christ as utterly lost, en route to perdition ... and in dire need of salvation’.13 Outside Christ, even in Judaism, there is only a ‘terrible abyss of darkness’.14 As Christians we, and we alone, possess the remedy – Jesus Christ. As God incarnate, he brought atonement (redemption, reconciliation) through his death and resurrection. It is tight package: the tragic plight of humanity outside Christ, the absolute necessity of trust in Christ’s work as a precondition of salvation, and the equally absolute necessity of acknowledging his divine nature (as part of the divine Trinity). If this package is indispensable for Christian mission, biblical studies cause problems, for none of these basic assumptions are shared by all New Tes10  K. Stendahl, Meanings: The Bible as Document and as Guide (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 239–40, followed, e.g., by Knitter, No Other Name?, 185. K. O. Sandnes, ‘Beyond “Love Language”: A Critical Examination of Krister Stendahl’s Exegesis of Acts 4:12’, StudTheol 52 (1998): 43–56 criticizes Stendahl for misreading Luke-Acts. Exegetically he has a point. I do not claim that the author of Acts (or any other early Christian) intended such a confession as mere love language. As a whole, the New Testament surely present an ‘exclusivist’ conviction (for some tentative inclinations toward an ‘inclusivist’ view in Acts 17 see Räisänen, Marcion, 9–12). Interpreting early Christian confession as love language is a conscious act of theological reinterpretation. Even Knitter (No Other Name?, 182) admits that ‘[w]hen the early Jesus-followers announced to the world that Jesus was “one and only”, they meant it.’ They were not conscious of the ‘historical relativity’ of such language. 11 Räisänen, Marcion, 202. 12  Of course, the spectrum of early Christian convictions was much wider than can be inferred from the New Testament alone. I have tried to paint an overall picture that takes account of and does justice to all early evidence, including among others the Nag Hammadi library. For the present purpose, however, it seems more meaningful to limit the discussion to canonical texts. 13 Bosch, Transforming Mission, 134. 14  Ibid.,178.

246

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

tament authors; on top of that, all three are burdened with internal problems of coherence. If, on the other hand, the contents of the package could be re-evaluated and debated, the door might be open for a more pluralistically oriented missiology. Trying to counter what he calls the danger of relativism, Bosch affirms that ‘there are faith traditions which all Christians share and which should be respected and preserved’.15 This claim depends, however, on one’s definition of who is a Christian. The new, globally oriented Cambridge Dictionary of Christianity states that ‘a Christian is anyone who claims to be a follower of Jesus Christ’ or ‘anyone claiming an association with Jesus Christ, however he or she might conceive of this association’.16 If we accept this definition (as I think we must), the thesis of traditions shared by all Christians becomes problematic. It is problematic today – and it always was. Early generations of Christians did quite well without the notion of incarnation, not to speak of the Trinity, and the same is true of atonement. I shall now discuss the three key issues – the human plight, the paths to salvation, and the Christological views. I must limit myself to a few characteristic examples.17

2. The Human Plight Jesus shared the general Jewish view that all humans sin, but that this does not make the human condition hopeless. Sinning can be resisted with some success; transgressions can be forgiven. The fact that humans are far from perfect is often a problem, but it is not a deep tragedy. Mikael Winninge coined the term ‘the sinfully righteous’ to denote those who, despite their actual transgressions, wanted to stay faithful to God’s covenant.18 Since blamelessness did not mean perfection, it was not considered impossible to fulfil God’s commandments. A man asks Jesus, how he can inherit eternal life. Jesus refers him to the Decalogue. The man claims to have observed all its commandments; Jesus does not object (Mark 10.17–20 par.). The ethical claims imposed by Jesus on his followers presuppose fulfillability. Jesus seeks ‘sinners’, but does not deny the existence of those who are ‘not in need of a physician’ (Mark 2.17). ‘Sins’ are spoken of in the plural; they are individual acts which can be forgiven (Luke 11.4 etc.). 15 

Ibid., 427 (Bosch’s italics). Patte, ‘Preface’, in id. (ed.), The Cambridge Dictionary of Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), xlv; id., ‘Christian’, ibid., 211. 17 For a fuller discussion see H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs: The Thought World of Early Christians (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010), 134–227, 354–80. 18  M. Winninge, Sinners and the Righteous: A Comparative Study of the Psalms of Solomon and Paul’s Letters (ConBNT 26; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1995), 131–34, 181–84, and elsewhere. 16  D.

Chapter 14: A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies

247

This understanding continues in early Christianity (Matt. 1.21; Luke 1.77; Acts 2.38 etc.). Take Luke. He portrays the pious Jews, who appear in the stories of Jesus’ infancy, as blamelessly fulfilling God’s law (Luke 1.6). The pious pagan Cornelius, a Roman officer, need not even repent of anything in order to become a Christian (Acts 10). No hopeless victims or slaves of Sin here! A darker view is found in Paul’s letters. In a dense section in Romans 5–8 he depicts Sin as an active power almost as potent as God (hence the capital S): where Christ is not acknowledged as the Lord, Sin rules and humans live in bondage to it. This view entails, however, a severe intra-biblical problem. It is thus described by E. P. Sanders, commenting on Romans 7 (the chapter that claims that a non-Christian cannot do good at all): The human plight, without Christ, is so hopeless in this section that one wonders what happened to the doctrine that the creation was good. Those who see here a profound analysis of why the law is not an answer to the plight of humanity may miss the criticism of God the creator and giver of the law which can easily be derived from Rom. 7:10 and 7:14–25.

Sanders further notes that this ‘extreme presentation of human inability ... does not express a view that Paul consistently maintains elsewhere’; indeed, it is ‘unique in the Pauline Corpus’.19 A look at Romans 1–3 reveals intra-Pauline problems in this pessimistic conception. Paul states in Rom. 3.9 that ‘all, both Jews and Greeks, are under Sin’. He implies that he has shown this in the previous sections (Rom. 1–2). The reasoning seems to be that since the situation is hopeless, God solved the problem by sending Christ. This line of thought is, however, contradicted by Rom. 2. Verses Rom. 2.9–10 in particular stand in stark contrast to the conception of Sin as a cosmic power in control of all people: ‘There will be anguish and distress for everyone who does evil, the Jew first and also the Greek, but glory and honour and peace for everyone who does good, the Jew first and also the Greek.’ Even good Gentiles are in the position to obey God’s will (Rom. 2.14; cf. 2.26–27). Yet in the previous chapter Paul has painted a desolate picture of the pagan world, drawing on standard Jewish polemics. All gentiles are lumped together as idolaters and lustful homosexuals, to whom a vice list of some twenty items applies (Rom. 1.18–32). In 2.17–29 Paul attacks Jews, to whom he attributes stealing, adultery and sacrilege. The charges are exaggerated to the extreme. But even if one accepted them as premises, they would prove no more than that many pagans and some Jews are guilty of heinous transgressions. To quote Sanders again:

19 

E. P. Sanders, Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 75, 78.

248

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

The conclusion in 3.9 [all are under Sin] does not correspond to what leads up to it … What this means is that Paul’s conclusion, that all are under Sin, was not derived from the line of observation and reasoning he had presented in the previous chapters. 20

The conclusion suggests itself that Paul was forced to create a bleak picture of the world in bondage to Sin, for the reason that otherwise God’s radical act in the death of Christ seems futile. Paul thought ‘backwards’. His statements on Sin are a reflection of his conviction that God has prepared salvation for all humans in Jesus, and in him alone. That Paul reasons ‘from the solution to the plight’ has been emphasized by Sanders, but the point was already made a century ago by the Swiss scholar Paul Wernle who wrote: St Paul’s pessimism is intended to serve his apologetic. It is because Jesus alone is the Redeemer, that the world has to be presented as irredeemably wicked, and every other road to salvation closed to men. It is not the actual recognition of the greatness of sin and the impotence of man which is at the root of this theory, but faith in Christ necessitates these pessimistic postulates.

Paul ‘first violently extinguished every other light in the world so that Jesus might then shine in it alone’.21 When Paul is not reflecting on the plight of humans from the perspective of his Christ-centred soteriology, he finds it quite natural that they can fulfil the demands of the law. But in some theologically charged contexts this intuitive view yields to a forced argument, which requires that everyone outside Christ must be a corrupt sinner, imprisoned by evil powers. Paul exploits the age-old biblical and near-Eastern notion of universal sinfulness, but he radicalizes it to the extreme. From the notion of universal sinfulness he alone draws soteriological conclusions: a new divine action is necessary to save humans from such a plight. In the words of Winninge: Paul’s application of universal sinfulness involved the denial of fundamental Jewish convictions… In a surprising way Paul denies the possibility of being ‘sinfully righteous’. 22

On the other hand, Paul presents a thoroughly optimistic theory of Christian conduct enabled by union with Christ. While non-Christian Jews are incapable of coping with the law, Christians fulfil in the spirit all that is required by it (Rom. 8.4, 9–11; 13.8–10; cf. Gal. 5.14–16). Yet Paul’s difficulties with many of his congregations, especially that of Corinth, put this optimism in a dubious light. Paul compares Christian life at its best (if not an ideal picture of it) with Jewish life at its worst (if not a pure caricature), thus using different standards for ‘us’ and ‘them’, respectively. His pessimistic analysis of the human plight 20 

E. P. Sanders, ‘Sin, Sinners (New Testament)’, ABD 6 (1992), 40–47, esp. p.  45. P. Wernle, The Beginnings of Christianity. Vol. 1 (London: Williams & Norgate, 1914), 236–37. 22 Winninge, Sinners, 305; 309. Winninge, ibid., 310, notes that Paul is ‘unconvincing’ in his depiction of the human plight. 21 

Chapter 14: A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies

249

boils down to an us/them -division: we bear fruit of the spirit; those outside are slaves of Sin. The same is true of the Gospel of John, where sin is defined as lack of faith in Jesus as the Revealer of God: ‘they’ live in Sin, because they reject our (image of) Jesus (John 8.21–24; 16.8–9). Apart from this artificial radical side of Paul’s theology, early Christianity before Augustine is much closer to Judaism (and Islam, for that matter) than to mainstream Protestantism, as regards the view of the human condition.

3. Soteriology If my analysis is on the right track, many early Christians had a view of the human condition that differed from Paul’s pessimistic depiction. They were also convinced that God had once made an eternal covenant with his people. On the face of it, this would seem to mean that there was no inherent need for a new dramatic saving act, such as God’s sending his Son to die for the sins of humans – and this is precisely what we find in many of the sources. For a number of early Christians repentance – the classic Jewish way – remained the road to salvation (whether salvation meant entrance into God’s kingdom on earth or into the transcendent realm of heaven after death).23 John the Baptist preached repentance. So did Jesus. In the synoptic gospels, where sin is conceived of as concrete transgressions, the path to salvation is marked by repentance, the remission of sins, and the production of ‘good fruit’. ‘The time is fulfilled and the kingdom of God has come near – repent!’ (Mark 1.15). God’s forgiveness is readily available to those who ask for it and are prepared to forgive their neighbours (Luke 11.4; 17.3–4; Mark 11.25). Jesus seems very open-minded, willing to accept ‘sinners’ who do not meet standard requirements of piety. He is known as a great healer and helper of people in need, and he portrays the kingdom of God in positive, life-affirming images. But he also presents rigorous requirements: one should leave one’s possessions, give up familial relationships, ‘amputate’ tempting members of the body (Mark 10.21 par.; Luke 14.26; Mark 9.43–48 par. etc.). Jesus stands in the apocalyptic tradition: the righteous will be saved from the coming disaster, the others will perish. The restoration of Israel envisaged by him actually amounts to the restoration of the repentant remnant, the ‘little flock’ (Luke 12.32). The meaning of ‘repentance’ shifts, however: the choice for or against repentance merges with a choice for or against Jesus. ‘Everyone who acknowledges me before others, the Son of Man will acknowledge before the angels of God; but whoever denies me will be denied before the angels of God’ (Luke 12.8–9). 23 

See on this distinction Räisänen, Rise, 79–113.

250

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

References to a saving significance of Jesus’ death (Mark 10.45 par.; 14.24 par.) remain isolated in the synoptic gospels. It is controversial whether Jesus anticipated his imminent death. His disciples experienced it as a shock, for which they had hardly been prepared. In Q (Logia), the source common to the gospels of Matthew and Luke, Jesus’ death is interpreted as the typical fate of a prophet (Luke 13.33–35 par.). This is hard to understand, if Jesus had spoken to his followers of its extraordinary saving significance. James Dunn summarizes: Jesus himself probably regarded his death as the beginning of the messianic woes which would bring in the eschaton, the final rule of God; the earliest churches and/or Luke apparently made little of it as a soteriological factor; whereas Paul in particular developed a theology of the suffering and death of Christ…24

Good deeds and a devout life persist in the Jesus movement in the traditional way as the crucial criterion of the last judgment, more or less in tension with the criterion of having acknowledged Jesus. Even Paul, who in general represents a Christ-centred soteriology, can insist that at the judgment God will, as we saw, ‘repay according to every one’s deeds’ (Rom. 2.6). In Matthew, the bearing of good fruit is all-important. One has to fulfil the Torah as interpreted by Jesus to meet the demands of righteousness (Matt. 5.17– 20). ‘A better righteousness’ than that of the scribes and Pharisees is required. The Sermon on the Mount describes this as nothing short of perfection (Matt. 5.48). Matthew does present Jesus as the one who saves his people from their sins (without telling how) in 1.21, and in the Eucharist liturgy forgiveness is connected with the blood of Jesus (26.29). In the bulk of the gospel, however, this kind of soteriology fades. God’s forgiveness is said to depend on whether people themselves forgive others (cf. 18.21–35). In the great judgment scene (Matt. 25.31–46) performing deeds of mercy is the sole criterion. Even the deeds of Christians will be scrutinized quite rigorously. When the disciples are sent out to evangelize ‘all nations’, their task is to teach those baptized to keep the commandments laid down by Jesus (28.19–20). His death is not mentioned. Luke elaborates the requirement of right conduct in memorable stories. The question ‘What must I do to inherit eternal life?’ is countered by Jesus with a new question, ‘What is written in the Torah?’ The Jewish discussion partner cites the dual commandment of love. Jesus accepts the answer and adds: ‘Do this and you will live’ (Luke 10.25–28). The story of the Samaritan, who helped his neighbour, follows. It ends on an exhortatory note: ‘go and do likewise’ (10.37). Right action is indeed what is needed for salvation, and the proper guidance is found in the Torah. The rich man would not have landed in Hades, had he 24  J. D. G. Dunn, Unity and Diversity in the New Testament: An Inquiry into the Character of Earliest Christianity (London: SCM, 1990), 224.

Chapter 14: A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies

251

heeded what ‘Moses and the prophets’ had written (Luke 16.29, 31). Since the Torah is the way to life, one may wonder what Jesus is really needed for. Luke evades this dilemma by in effect assimilating devout life with acceptance of Jesus (and, after Easter, with joining his community). Even a pious Gentile, such as Cornelius – Peter’s first convert according to Acts – can be acceptable to God even before knowing of Jesus. His case teaches Peter that ‘in every nation anyone who fears God and does what is right is acceptable to him’ (Acts 10.35). More often, however, people need to repent. John the Baptist gives practical advice about the ‘fruits worthy of repentance’. Luke paints an impressive picture of Jesus as the great friend of sinners – but these are always repentant sinners. The ‘many’ sins of the woman with a doubtful reputation ‘are forgiven, for she loved much’ (7.47 RSV). The prodigal son is joyously received by his father when he decides to return home (15.11–32). The toll collector Zacchaeus promises to give half of his possessions to the poor and to pay back ‘four times as much’, if he has ‘defrauded anyone of anything’. The penitent robber crucified with Jesus is promised that he will be ‘today’ in paradise with Jesus (23.42–43). The conclusion seems unavoidable that repentance ‘is not only a necessary but also a sufficient precondition for salvation.’25 Jesus’ whole ministry stands in the service of the good news that God is always ready to show mercy to the repentant sinner. Any saving significance of his death fades out of sight – even more clearly than in Mark or Matthew.26 Jesus’ death is simply the judicial murder of an innocent righteous man, and his resurrection demonstrates his vindication by God. When in Acts Peter’s hearers ask what they should do, the answer is this: ‘Repent, and be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven; and you will receive the gift of the holy spirit’ (Acts 2.38). Here, too, repentance is the medicine, but after Easter allegiance to the group of Jesus’ followers, actualized in the reception of baptism, is also required. In fact, a ‘remarkable assimilation’ takes place, as contrition and conversion to the new movement are moulded.27 Repentance now includes the recognition that the Jesus crucified by the Jews is their Messiah, whom God has raised from the dead. Later Luke lets Peter proclaim that there is ‘no other name in which salvation is to be found’ (Acts 4.12). Why this is so is not really explained. But the forgiveness of sins is in Luke-Acts connected with Jesus’ resurrection rather than with his death (Luke 24.46–47; Acts 3.26; 5.31; 13.38–39). 25  O. Lehtipuu, The Afterlife Imagery in Luke’s Story of the Rich Man and Lazarus (Lei­ den: Brill, 2007), 246 (my italics). 26  The ‘ransom saying’ (Mark 10.45) is replaced with ‘I am among you as one who serves’ in Luke 22.27. 27 K. Syreeni, ‘Matthew, Luke, and the Law: A Study in Hermeneutical Exegesis’, in T. Veijola (ed.), The Law in the Bible and Its Environment (PFES 51; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990), 126–55, esp. p.  148.

252

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

It is a thoroughgoing conviction of early Christians that repentance and grateful obedience toward God, who has shown us his mercy, is a precondition of salvation. The judgment will be according to deeds. Statements on salvation or judgment are often made without any reference to Jesus’ death (or even his resurrection). I need not discuss here the idea that Jesus’ death has a saving significance at any length: it is clear that this is a well-established fundamental conviction in many circles, especially in the New Testament letters (apart from James). I only wish to point out that it is not the only view (and that it has inherent problems). Despite the resurrection, it was unthinkable for many that Jesus would have ‘died for nothing’ (Gal. 2.21), given the ignominious nature of the death on the cross. A positive explanation stated that Jesus’ death had happened ‘for us’ (1 Thess. 5.10) or ‘for our sins’ (1 Cor. 15.3). Those who first interpreted Jesus’ death in such terms probably thought ‘backwards’, from the event to its cause. That is, the problem to be solved was not the plight of humans, but the fate of Jesus. This accounts for the striking fact that the usual Jewish path to salvation fades. Questions such as ‘Why does sincere repentance [like that shown by the prodigal son] no longer suffice to restore our relation to God?’ were not pondered, because they were not the burning issue at hand.28 Different paths to salvation can, then, be discerned in the mental world of early Christians. One route can be called the path of obedience and repentance; another focuses on an act of Jesus that is thought to have beneficial effects. The decisive event can consist in his resurrection or in his death, but also in the revelation brought by him.29 The paths seem distinct, but they do intersect: the authors who stress obedience and good deeds generally do not acknowledge that a person could bear good fruit without a special commitment to Jesus. Conversely, those who underline the significance of an act of Jesus do not cease to expect a pious life of the believers. Two problems stand out. First, what is the relation between human effort and divine grace? Apart from Paul’s more polemical statements, made in conflict settings,30 the all-but-unanimous answer is that God’s mercy and grace are the indispensable basis of salvation, but without the consent and co-operation of 28  Later religious history provides illuminating examples, parallel to the early Christian case, of a profound positive significance afterward ascribed to a shocking event. Husayn ibn Ali, a grandson of the prophet Muhammad, was killed in the battle of Kerbela (680 c.e.). Although the Qur’an stresses that no soul can carry the burden of another, Shia thought ascribed redemptive significance to Husayn’s death: it gave him (and his mother Fatima) the right to speak for all Shiites on the day of judgement. If God intends to punish Shiites for their sins, Husayn and Fatima intervene with intercessory prayers; one single tear that a person has shed because of Husayn’s death will protect him or her from the fire of hell. 29  On ‘saving knowledge’ see Räisänen, Rise, 184–86. 30  These settings (that are connected with the issue of the inclusion of Gentiles among the people of God) could not be discussed here, but see Räisänen, Rise, 177–81.

Chapter 14: A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies

253

humans this grace remains ineffective. Early Christianity contains a ‘synergistic’ strand, which connects it with Judaism and Islam. (A hundred per cent gratuity would only be possible within the framework of double predestination or else in the framework of a doctrine of apokatastasis, the salvation of all and sundry in the end.) What Rosemary Ruether, discussing Jewish-Christian relations, wrote about ‘ordinary Christianity’ applies fully to early Christianity: it ‘assumes the view that we are already loved by God, and yet must also do something to become what we are supposed to be’. This means that in practice ‘Christianity constantly tends to boil down to a religion of grace and good deeds structurally identical to Judaism.’ But then the question arises, ‘For such an ethic, does one need a Messiah? It would seem that Creation, covenant, and commandments would be sufficient.’31 This is indeed our second problem: what is the real significance of Jesus? The Messiah does seem indispensable, when something Jesus did or effected is construed as part of the ‘indicative’. A corollary then is that relying on God’s previous saving acts – the covenant and the gift of the Torah – does not save one who does not believe in Jesus. Yet an author’s confession to the indispensability of Jesus often stands in tension to other convictions of the very same author (notably, Luke).32 This adds force to critical questions, which a non-Christian, especially (but not only) a Jew, might have asked anyway: Was God’s grace not available all along to those who put their trust in him? Why would God have ceased to be merciful? For what exactly was Jesus needed? These problems are in my view serious enough to cast a shadow on efforts to convert other people to a faith centred on what Jesus did.

4. Christology A large part of the debate on pluralism has been concerned with Christology. Both Hick and Knitter question the classic view of incarnation, which they regard as a poetic myth or as a metaphor. They have been blamed even for abandoning Christianity,33 and yet their position has a good starting point in early Christian convictions. A comparative survey of New Testament Christologies can well serve as a basis for a pluralistic approach to religions. A Christology 31  R. M. Ruether, Faith and Fratricide: The Theological Roots of Anti-Semitism (New York: Seabury, 1974), 244–45. 32  The problem is crystallised in 1 Clement: God has always granted humans the possibility of repentance (1 Clem. 7.5) and he has also ‘justified everyone from eternity’ through faith (32.4). ‘Faith’ means for Clement such unconditional trust in God as some have shown in all ages. Evidently Christ could be removed from this theocentric soteriology without changing its structure, even though Clement also (inconsistently) states that it was the shedding of Christ’s blood that brought the grace of repentance to the world (7.4). 33  Cf. McGrath, Christian Theology, 442.

254

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

from below may not be the major New Testament view, and it is certainly not the only view, but it is there. The Myth of God Incarnate, a volume edited by Hick in 1977, emphatically sided with the early ‘recognition that Jesus was ... “a man approved by God” for a special role within the divine purpose’ (Acts 2.22). The authors interpreted the conception of Jesus as the second person of the Trinity as a ‘poetic way of expressing his significance for us’ and stated: This recognition is called for in the interests of truth; but it also has increasingly important practical implications for our relationship to the peoples of the other great world religions.34

Hick wrote on Peter’s speech in Acts 2: ‘Jesus is not said to have risen in virtue of a divine nature which he himself possessed but to have been raised by God’. On the gospel of John he stated: If we accept, with the bulk of modern New Testament scholarship, that the Fourth Gospel is a profound theological meditation … we cannot properly attribute its great christological sayings … to Jesus himself.35

Such statements are perfectly sound from an exegetical point of view. In his later work, too, Hick makes appropriate references to mainstream exegetical literature.36 So does Knitter; there is nothing wrong with his statement that traditional Christian christology is ‘not in keeping with Jesus’ own self-understanding, which was theocentric’.37 More precarious is Hick’s positive claim that Jesus must have been ‘conscious of a unique position among his contemporaries’, being aware that ‘he was himself far more intensely conscious of God’ and ‘far more faithfully obedient to God, than could be said of any contemporaries’.38 Such an assertion cannot be substantiated historically.39 In my view, both pluralists and non-pluralists tend to make facile assumptions about Jesus, who seems to stand out as the supreme 34 ‘Preface’, in Hick (ed.), Myth, ix. One scholar who whole-heartedly agreed was the Swede Gösta Lindeskog in a posthumous book: G. Lindeskog, Das jüdisch-christliche Problem: Randglossen zu einer Forschungsepoche (Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet, 1986), 191–92, cf. 27–29. 35  J. Hick, ‘Jesus and the World Religions’, in id. (ed.). Myth, 171. 36 Hick, Metaphor. 37 Knitter, No Other Name?, 173–75. Knitter’s explanation is much more realistic than the claim made by W. Pannenberg, ‘Religious Pluralism and Conflicting Truth Claims: The Problem of a Theology of the World Religions’, in D’Costa (ed.), Christian Uniqueness, 100–101, in the course of his critique of Hick: ‘Jesus’ emphasis on the anticipatory presence of God’s kingdom in his own activity (Luke 11:20) involved his person in a way that essentially implies what later on was explicated by incarnational language and by titles like the Son of God.’ Even if Jesus did claim ‘eschatological finality’ for himself, this is a far cry from actual divinity. Luke 11.20 refers to Jesus’ exorcisms – a healing method that was practised by others as well. 38  Hick, ‘Jesus’, 173; cf. id., Metaphor, 12. 39  Cf. D. Nineham, ‘Epilogue’, in Hick (ed.), Myth, 186–204.

Chapter 14: A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies

255

embodiment of the greatest Christian values. Bosch, for one, paints an idealized picture, making both Jesus and his closest followers, the ‘Q prophets’, supreme preachers of love, especially of the love of enemies.40 At times, love of enemies, exemplified by the alleged practice of Jesus, even seems to be the raison d’être of Christianity in general, and of Christian mission in particular. Bosch asserts that there was no tension between what Jesus said and what he did41 – but how do we know? The gospel stories do not provide any examples of enemy love in practice,42 whereas they do give expression to outbursts of anger against ideological enemies. Matt. 23 with its attacks on the Pharisees – ‘the brood of vipers’ – is a case in point. Long ago the Jewish scholar Claude Montefiore complained that one cannot help wishing that Jesus had practised what he taught. With the exception of the spurious verse in Luke [in the crucifixion account] we have no account of any prayer offered up by Jesus for his enemies, or of any love shown by him to them.

Instead, Jesus bitterly claims that ‘this generation will be charged with the blood of all the prophets shed since the foundation of the world’ (Luke 11.50).43 Mission studies (and Christian theology in general) should take more seriously the notion that Jesus was in all likelihood an eschatological preacher, the last herald of the coming kingdom, whose message aimed at the restoration of Israel, presumably on this earth. His twelve companions would reign and judge the re-gathered twelve tribes and he himself would have a special role that might be called messianic.44 The early followers of Jesus openly called him the ‘Messiah’ (‘Christ’) and the ‘Son of God’, emphasizing that God had chosen him for his specific task (an adoption of sorts), which included a role as the judge at his second coming. The Messiah was not expected to be a divine being, and the meaning of ‘Son of God’ depends wholly on the context. A creed-like formula quoted (and adapted) by Paul in Rom. 1.3–4 indicates that Jesus, a man of Davidic descent, received a new status on the basis of the resurrection: he ‘was descended from the seed of David according to the flesh and was appointed Son of God in power according to the Spirit of holiness by resurrection from the dead ...’ A similar point is made in the sermons of Acts (rightly emphasized by Hick). The resurrection vindicated Jesus’ message about the coming kingdom of God. 40 Bosch, Transforming Mission, 28 (cf. 69): ‘the primary concern of the Logia is the preaching of love even to enemies’. The injunction to love one’s enemies is ‘the most characteristic of the sayings of Jesus’, an innovation, ‘and the Q prophets faithfully retain and observe it’. They ‘even practice love by means of their proclamation of judgment’. 41 Bosch, ibid., 70. 42  Luke 23.34 is a Lukan creation (if not an addition to the text by a scribe). 43  C. G. Montefiore, The Synoptic Gospels 2 (London: Macmillan, 1909), 521. 44  See, in particular, E. P. Sanders, Jesus and Judaism (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985); cf. also the discussion in Räisänen, Rise, 86–93. Bosch, who often refers to other works by Sanders, regrettably omits to consult Jesus and Judaism in his discussion of Jesus and God’s reign.

256

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

‘Jesus of Nazareth was a man chosen by God’ for the Israelites. The righteous one had been killed by lawless men, but God had exalted him (Acts 2.22–36). God made Jesus, who had been crucified, Lord and Christ (2.36). The Paul of Acts later applies Psalm 2 to Jesus’ resurrection: ‘You are my Son, today I have begotten you’ (Acts 13.32–33). In itself, Acts is not an early document, but the conception in question must be old. If a Christology ‘from below’ did not exist at a very early stage, one wonders how it could have come into existence at all, given the increasing tendency to venerate Jesus in very exalted ways. Luke’s own Christology combines different approaches that are in mutual tension (Jesus may become God’s Son either at the resurrection or at his baptism or even at his conception), but the dominant impression is that ‘the Lukan Jesus is a figure who is very much subordinate to God, ... supremely a man chosen by God to do God’s will.’45 This is theocentric Christology. Geoffrey Lampe once noted that [t]he union between him [Jesus] and the father is, as it were, an external bond. Luke does not picture such a unity as we find in the Pauline or Johannine Christology. They are joined by the Spirit on the one side and the human response of prayer, on the other.46

Jesus was expected soon to return from heaven as redeemer and judge. A hymn cited by Paul extols the ultimate victory of Jesus when ‘every knee in heaven and on earth and under the earth’ will bow to him and ‘every tongue’ will confess his lordship (Phil. 2.10–11). But no matter how high Jesus’ new name (Phil. 2.9) or how spectacular his victory, in the end he will surrender all power to the Father (1 Cor. 15.28). Jesus’ lordship is as much a way of distinguishing Jesus from God.47 For Paul, Jesus is the Son of God precisely as one who is obedient to the Father. On the other hand, during a few decades another rapid Christological development, sporadically documented in Paul’s letters, took place. It was unthinkable that God had just happened to find a man worthy of becoming the Messiah. God must have had a plan, and that from all eternity. Some applied to Jesus current Jewish notions of God’s Wisdom and Logos, thus adumbrating the thought of Jesus’ pre-existence with God before his earthly career. Yet the assertion of pre-existence may at first have been an assertion about the context or background of Jesus’ human existence which was still a normal human existence.48 Typically, the language of pre-existence is first used in poetic, hymnic praise (as in Phil. 2.6–11; cf. Col. 1.15–18). 45  C. M. Tuckett, Christology and the New Testament: Jesus and His Earliest Followers (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2001), 143–44. 46  G. W. H. Lampe, ‘The Lucan Portrait of Christ’, NTS 2 (1955–56): 160–75, esp. p.  172. 47  Cf. J. D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 251–52. 48  J. Knox, The Humanity and Divinity of Christ: A Study of Pattern in Christology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 12.

Chapter 14: A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies

257

Everything changed, when the notion of pre-existence was combined with the story of Jesus’ earthly life in the Gospel of John. This combination produced the picture of a divine being walking on the earth, one who lived in a human body (‘flesh’) but was different from other humans because of his omniscience, divine power, and sinlessness. Jesus is now the Logos who existed before the creation of the world in which he participated (John 1.3). He has come from heaven and tells humans what he has seen and heard there (John 3.32; 8.26; 8.38; 12.49). Jesus is always in complete control of events. His dying is a deliberate act, and he is even able to rise back to life by himself (10.18). His death really means a return – and Jesus knows it. No doubt John thinks of Jesus as a genuine human being, but his humanity is in the process of being thoroughly qualified. John presents Jesus in far more exalted terms than anything we find in the synoptic gospels. James Dunn comments: [W]hen John opens the floodgates of his christology of pre-existent sonship it sweeps all before it and leaves no room at all for the earlier stress on Jesus’ sonship as an eschatological status and power that opens the way for others to share in.49

The portrait of a Jesus who is fully aware of his heavenly pre-existence and possesses superhuman knowledge and a power so unlimited that he can himself take back the life he has first surrendered certainly raises the question ‘whether one who enjoyed that sort of consciousness can be said to have been fully or genuinely human’. To raise this question is to question the coherence of the traditional Christian doctrine of the God-Man, of which Hick and Knitter want to take leave. The patristic scholar Maurice Wiles states indeed that ‘to treat the incarnation as myth does not simply destroy a coherent pattern of Christian belief and life’ (as critics had claimed), for the pattern never has been that coherent.50 Wiles observes that if John’s depiction is taken at face value, we have here ‘on the one hand a conscious pre-existent being alongside God the father’ – a kind of second god – and ‘on the other hand a self-consciously incarnate Jesus who is not in any proper sense of the word human.’51 John’s Christology is, in the words of the Canadian scholar Stephen Wilson, ‘well on the way to ditheism’ – a doctrine of two gods.52 James Dunn, certainly not a ‘radical’ exegete, even suggests that if the pre-existent Word of God, the Son of God, is a person in the sense that Jesus of Nazareth was a person, ‘then Christianity is unavoidably tritheistic’.53 Dunn tries to avoid this conclusion by explaining away the notion of a real pre-existence of Jesus from New Testament texts. 49  J. D. G. Dunn, Christology in the Making: An Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation (London: SCM, 1989), 62. 50  M. Wiles, ‘Myth in Theology’, in Hick (ed.), Myth, 164. 51  M. Wiles, ‘Christology – The Debate Continues’, Theol 85 (1982): 324–32, esp. p.  331–32. 52  S. G. Wilson, Related Strangers: Jews and Christians, 70–170 C.E. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 79. 53 Dunn, Christology, xxxi–xxxii.

258

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

There is some irony of history in the fact that the maverick Gospel of John, so different from the other gospels, came to have a vast significance for the development of Christian doctrine. The church fathers had to take for granted John’s fictional story of the all but docetic Jesus. To harmonize it with such evidence as bore out his full humanity was a hopeless task from the start. The Christians whose views came to be regarded as orthodox considered it crucial that Jesus had ‘come’ in a genuinely human body; it did not bother them too much if he seemed very different from normal humans in other respects. Wiles concludes that ‘the church has never succeeded in offering a consistent or convincing picture’ of Jesus as both fully human and fully divine. ‘Most commonly it has been the humanity of Christ that has suffered.’ He asks, ‘Are we sure that the concept of an incarnate being, one who is both fully God and fully man, is after all an intelligible concept?’54 The deification of Jesus also hangs together with the spiritualization of his message, which probably had the realization of God’s justice on this earth in view. The spiritualization, which can partly be understood as a response to the non-fulfilment of the awaited consummation, is palpable precisely in the Gospel of John. What started as an effort to solve the problem of Jesus’ relation to God slowly developed into the problem of the Trinity. Theologians such as Tertullian, who first began to speak of the Logos as ‘God’ or used trinitarian formulations, met with bitter opposition from many believers who charged them with ditheism or tritheism. Leslie Houlden, retorting to the claim that classic Christology simply brings out the implications of New Testament belief,55 points out that it ‘need to be recognized how strange and blasphemous the first Christians would have found the ascription to Jesus of divinity as later conceived.’56 It would have been an option for the churches to develop, say, the Lukan approach toward a full-blown theocentric subordination Christology, yet this only happened in some Jewish-Christian and Arian circles.

5. Conclusion Christian mission, informed by classic Christian theology, has traditionally offered would-be converts a tight package, in which pessimistic anthropology, atonement soteriology and high Christology hang closely together. Biblical scholarship has pointed out that the package should not be simply transmitted as a summary of New Testament teachings. Should not the original diversity of Christian convictions have implications for missions and mission studies? 54 

M. Wiles, ‘Christianity without Incarnation?’, in Hick (ed.), Myth, 4–5. Cf. Pannenberg’s claim, referred to in note 37 above. 56  J. L. Houlden, Jesus: A Question of Identity (London: SPCK, 1992), 120. 55 

Chapter 14: A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies

259

Hans Küng points out that if pre-Nicene Christians were to be gauged with the statements of this council, not only the Jewish Christians but almost all Greek fathers of the three first centuries would be heretics, for they taught in a self-evident fashion that the Son was subordinated to the Father.57 He calls attention to this in a book on Islam. In the Qur’an, Jesus, son of Mary, appears as a figure who in many respects resembles the Lukan Jesus. He is a prophet, a servant of God who worked miracles ‘by God’s permission’ and taught people to fear God. Küng claims that Islam poses a challenge to Christians as reminder of their own past – coming fairly close to the thoughts of some of the Christians’ own earliest thinkers. Küng emphasizes that he can fully understand and accept what he calls the ‘Hellenistic development of Christology’ in the Councils from Nicaea to Chalcedon. Nevertheless, he asks whether a Christian can really require that a Muslim (or a Jew for that matter) should accept the decisions of these Hellenistic councils.58 That is what I wonder, too. What is the point of trying to convert Muslims (or anybody else) to a Johannine, let alone to a Nicene Jesus, when even Luke-Acts points in a different direction (and the earliest Christians might have found the Christ of the Creeds blasphemous)? What is the point of trying to convert them to a Pauline conviction of Jesus’ death as atoning, when New Testament authors like Luke (he again!) fail to ascribe such significance to it? What is the point of trying to convince others of the utter hopelessness of the human plight in the world outside Christ, when this is a minority view even in the New Testament, not shared, among others, by Luke? Personally, I do not see the point. Rather than conveying non-negotiable truths, the New Testament, as I see it, consists of differing attempts to make sense of religious traditions in light of new experiences and, vice versa, of attempts to make sense of new experiences in light of traditions.59 The doctrinal diversity of the New Testament tends to render all doctrinal systems suspect and suggests that it might be wise to focus instead on life-style and practical ethics. It encourages, I think, Christians to wrestle with their own traditions, letting others to wrestle with theirs in light of their experiences, or to follow their paths when looking for a way forward. 60 In the course of such enterprises 57  H. Küng, Der Islam: Geschichte, Gegenwart und Zukunft (München & Zürich: Piper, 2006), 596–97. 58  Ibid., 616–17. 59  Cf. H. Räisänen, Beyond New Testament Theology: A Story and a Programme (London: SCM, 2000), 189–202. 60  In his insightful inaugural lecture, M. Vähäkangas states that ‘[t]he relativist relativises not only her religion but that of her dialogue partner as well’. This is surely true in a sense: I certainly do not share the standard Muslim view of the absoluteness of the Qur’an, and I tend to see other religions, too, as consisting of processes of reinterpreting traditions in light of experiences and vice versa. However, I do not quite see why it should follow that the counterpart is ‘latently expected to be another relativist’ (M. Vähäkangas, ‘Mission Studies, Syncre-

260

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

all parties may offer mutual aid61 to each other and co-operate in efforts towards well-being, peace and justice. I therefore continue to sympathize with Knitter’s pluralistic agenda: the goal of inter-religious encounters could well be that, in trying to make sense of their own traditions in the current situation, Christians should become better – more humane – Christians, Muslims better Muslims and so on. And as long as Luke-Acts is not excised from the New Testament, of which it constitutes almost one third, I feel that I have even some biblical backing for my heresies.

tism and the Limits of Christianity during the Time of the Heretical Imperative’, SMT 98 [2010], 7–22, esp. p.  20). Why not see the counterpart simply as a fellow traveller who has started the pilgrimage from another place and is continuing on a path different from mine, even though the paths may intersect? While it may be easier to change ideas with ‘another relativist’ (cf. the following footnote), it goes without saying that a dialogue with a non-relativist is possible (of course I can discuss, sometimes even fruitfully, the Qur’an with Muslims who regard it as the eternal Word of God without trying to impose my own view on them). 61  In my opinion, this ‘aid’ includes a critical dimension. A Christian may point to problems in, say, Islamic traditions, while a Muslim can do the same with regard to Christian tradition. Thus, Muslims may point to problems in Christian Christology and Christians in Muslim views of the Qur’an; in both cases the relativizing of something that has been considered non-negotiable might follow (or might be seen as a distant goal). But in both cases the mitigation of the doctrine can seize on something that is already present in the tradition (some Christians have refrained from deifying Jesus; steps toward a more historical view of the Qur’an have been taken by some Muslims). See below, chapter 17.

Chapter 15

Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament? 1. Einführung Zu den Ähnlichkeiten zwischen christlicher und islamischer Theologiegeschichte gehört das Problem, inwiefern das endgültige Heil oder Unheil eines Menschen von seinem eigenen Verhalten abhängt. Kann der Mensch seinen Weg selbst wählen, oder ist sein ewiges Los – Heil oder Verderben – von Gott vorherbestimmt worden? Im klassischen islamischen Denken stand die letztere Alternative – die doppelte Prädestination – im Vordergrund, obwohl die Qadariten und die Mu‘tazaliten für die Willensfreiheit eintraten, was moderne Muslime oft ebenfalls tun. Die Mehrheit der christlichen Theologen hat sich für die Freiheit (in gewissen Grenzen) eingesetzt, aber zur andersdenkenden Minorität zählen Männer vom Rang: Augustinus, Zwingli, Calvin und Luther. Auf beiden Seiten wurde das Problem durch die Schrift hervorgerufen. Der Koran enthält eine Anzahl von Aussagen, die Gottes volle Souveränität hervorheben, zum Beispiel: „Und wenn Gott einen rechtleiten will, weitet er ihm die Brust für den Islam. Wenn er aber einen irreführen will, macht er ihm die Brust eng und bedrückt […]“ (Sure 6.125).1 Im Neuen Testament heißt es: „[Gott] erbarmt sich also, wessen er will, und macht verstockt, wen er will“ (Röm. 9.18). Auf der anderen Seite sind beide Schriften voll von Sätzen, die an den Willen appellieren; im Koran lesen wir etwa: „Wer nun will, möge glauben, und wer will, möge nicht glauben!“ (Sure 18.29). Es blieb den Theologen überlassen, solche Spannungen oder Widersprüche auszugleichen. Mein Interesse gilt hier vor allem dem negativen Aspekt – der Vorherbestimmung zum Verderbnis. Es ist ja diese Seite, die – anders als die Prädestination zum Heil oder ein positives Erwählungsbewusstsein – als problematisch empfunden werden kann. Sehr verständlich erscheint doch die Frage: Wie kann Gott jemanden verdammen, sogar zu einer ewigen Strafe, wenn er zuvor selbst diese Person „irregeführt“ oder „verstockt“ hat? Von christlicher Seite ist oft behauptet worden, dass gerade hier sich der Geist der Bibel als ein anderer als der des Korans erweise. Das ewige Ziel werden nach dem Koran „nur die von Gott Vorherbestimmten“ erreichen, im Unterschied zu „den Nichterwählten, den von vornherein Verworfenen“; dagegen will Gott 1 

Die Übersetzungen nach R. Paret, Der Koran (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 21980).

262

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

nach dem neutestamentlich-christlichen Verständnis, „dass alle Menschen gerettet werden“.2 Auch viel gröbere Ausdrücke sind gebraucht worden: Allah enthülle sich als ein wahrer orientalischer Despot – er sei launisch (er tue, was ihm gerade einfällt), willkürlich und grausam.3 Allerdings sollte schon der Umstand, dass es offenbar um ein paralleles Problem in beiden Schriften handelt,4 zur Vorsicht mahnen. Ich meine, dass der Schlüssel zur Lösung des Problems jeweils in einer Kontextexegese liegt.5 Die einschlägigen Stellen wurden oft als (mehr oder weniger zeitlose) Lehrsätze interpretiert. Achtet man auf den literarischen und sozialen Kontext, entsteht ein anderes Bild. Hier kann es nur um einige Beispiele gehen.

2. Der Koran 2.1. Die erste mekkanische Periode Ich beginne mit dem Koran6 , weil der Stoff dort reicher ist, und bespreche die Texte in der wahrscheinlichen chronologischen Reihenfolge.7 Manchmal wurde 2  J. Gnilka, Bibel und Koran. Was sie verbindet, was sie trennt (Freiburg: Herder, 2004), 182–83, vgl. 139–42. Der Vergleich misslingt schon deshalb, weil koranischen „Reprobationsaussagen“ nicht (wie zu erwarten wäre) biblische Prädestinationsaussagen gegenübergestellt werden, sondern „universalistisch ausgerichtete“ neutestamentliche Stellen wie 1. Tim. 2.4: „Gott will, dass alle Menschen gerettet werden […]“. 3  Vgl. etwa H. Kraemer, The Christian Message in a Non-Christian World (London: Edinburgh House Press, 1938), 221; M. Schlunk, Die Weltreligionen und das Christentum. Eine Auseinandersetzung vom Christentum aus (Frankfurt a. M.: Anker, 1953), 113; H. Spencer, Islam and the Gospel of God. A Comparison of the Central Doctrines of Christianity and Islam (Delhi et al.: SPCK, 1956), 4, 54. Eine ähnliche Charakterisierung von Allah auch in religionswissenschaftlichen Darstellungen: G. Mensching, Die Religion. Erscheinungsformen, Strukturtypen und Lebensgesetze (Stuttgart: Curt E. Schwab, 1959), 59–60, 179; S. G. F. Brandon, Man and His Destiny in the Great Religions: An Historical and Comparative Study Containing the Wilde Lectures 1954–1957 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1962), 244–45, 250. 4  Vgl. zu Röm. 9 etwa O. Kuss, Der Römerbrief 3 (RNT; Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1978), 730: die Beweisführung des Paulus habe „den Vorwurf der ‚Ungerechtigkeit‘, des Despotischen, Tyrannischen, Sultanhaften kaum wirksam von dem Bilde Gottes abgewehrt“. 5  Ich lese den Koran als Außenseiter, aber nicht ohne kritische Sympathie. Zwar interpretiere ich ihn von den Erfahrungen und Vorstellungen Muhammads her, was ein Muslim so nicht tun würde; ich versuche, gängige kritisch-exegetische Methoden auch hier anzuwenden. Ich möchte aber betonen, dass eine kritische Lektüre mein Respekt für den Koran erhöht hat. Es liegt mir daran, sowohl die eigene als auch die fremde Schrift im Geiste von fair play methodisch gleich zu behandeln. Mancher Christ wird in der Tat meine Behandlung der Bibel beanstanden. 6  Der koranische Teil dieser Studie fußt auf einer früheren Untersuchung: H. Räisänen, The Idea of Divine Hardening. A Comparative Study of the Notion of Divine Hardening, Leading Astray and Inciting to Evil in the Bible and the Qur’an (PFES 25; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 21976). Vgl. ferner id., Marcion, Muhammad and the Mahatma:

Chapter 15: Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?

263

nämlich vermutet, dass Muhammad allmählich eine Entwicklung von einem Prediger des freien Willens zum Lehrer einer starren Prädestinationslehre hin durchgemacht hat (siehe unten 2.5.).8 In den ältesten Suren herrscht die Verkündigung des nahen Gerichts vor. Muhammad appelliert an die Leute in einer Weise, die ihre Wahlfreiheit und Verantwortlichkeit voraussetzt. Gott zeigt dem Menschen den steilen Weg, den er wählen sollte; dieser besteht darin, dass man einem Sklaven zur Freiheit verhilft, einer hungrigen Waise oder einem Armen zu essen gibt „und zu denen gehört, die Glauben und Geduld und Barmherzigkeit einander ans Herz legen […] Diejenigen aber, die nicht an unsere Zeichen glauben, sind die Unglückseligen. Über ihnen werden die Flammen des Höllenfeuers zusammenschlagen“ (Sure 90.13–20). „Wer sich abwendet, und nicht glaubt, über den verhängt Gott die schwere Strafe“ (88.23–24). Nichts weist hier auf Willkür hin. Allerdings meldet sich gleich im Anfang die Anschauung, dass das irdische Schicksal eines Menschen, sein Leben und Tod, völlig von Gott abhängig ist (zum Beispiel 53.43–48). Aus dieser Determiniertheit folgt jedoch nicht unbedingt die Prädestination in religiösem Sinne, das heißt die Vorherbestimmung des Schicksals eines Individuums beim Gericht. Diese Betonung der menschlichen Verantwortlichkeit zieht sich wie ein roter Faden durch die ganze Laufbahn Muhammads hindurch. Einige Zitate aus verschiedenen Perioden mögen das verdeutlichen: „Diejenigen, die glauben und tun, was recht ist, werden wir in die Rechtschaffenen eingehen lassen“ (29.9). „Du rufst sie auf einen geraden Weg. Aber diejenigen, die nicht an das Jenseits glauben, weichen vom Weg ab“ (23.73–74). „Wenn einer rechtschaffen handelt, ist es sein eigener Vorteil, wenn einer Böses tut, sein eigener Nachteil. Gott ist nicht gewohnt, den Menschen Unrecht zu tun“ (41.46). Gott vervielfältigt am Tag des Gerichts jede gute Tat, denn „Gott tut nicht im Gewicht eines Stäubchens Unrecht“ (4.40). Überall im Koran begegnet man diesem Anliegen.

2.2. Die zweite mekkanische Periode Die Suren aus der nächsten Periode enthalten ebenfalls kräftige Appelle an den Willen der Zuhörer. Mose und Aaron sollen sanft zum „aufsässigen“ Pharao sprechen, „damit er sich vielleicht mahnen lässt oder sich fürchtet“ (20.44). Exegetical Perspectives on the Encounter of Cultures and Faiths (London: SCM, 1997), 98–117, 258–60. 7  Ich schließe mich der klassischen Analyse von Theodor Nöldeke an, die trotz einiger Probleme immer noch wenigstens als eine vernünftige Arbeitshypothese gelten darf: T. Nöldeke & F. Schwally, Geschichte des Qorans, 2 Bde (Leipzig: Dieterich’sche Verlagsbucchandlung, 21909/21919). Für eine neuere Behandlung der Frage vgl. etwa N. Robinson, Discovering the Qur’an: A Contemporary Approach to a Veiled Text (London: SCM, 1996), 76–96. 8  Die klassische Darstellung dieser Art war: H. Grimme, Mohammed, Bd.  2: Einleitung in den Koran. System der koranischen Theologie (Münster: Aschendorff, 1895).

264

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

Nicht einmal der Pharao, der Prototyp eines Verstockten in der biblischen Tradition, gilt von vornherein als hoffnungslos. „Dem, der umkehrt und glaubt und tut, was recht ist, und sich rechtleiten lässt, bin ich bereit zu vergeben“ (20.82). Doch der Ruf Gottes fand fast kein Echo. Manche Suren aus dieser Zeit sind schon durch Enttäuschungen gefärbt. Fast würde der Prophet wegen des Hohnes der Hörer „sich selber umbringen“, aber er wird von Gott ermutigt: Kein Zeichen würde diese Leute überzeugen (26.3–5). Muhammad braucht nicht sich selber Vorwürfe zu machen. An anderer Stelle heißt es: „Wer ist frevelhafter, als wer mit den Zeichen seines Herrn gemahnt worden ist und sich dann von ihnen abwendet […] Wir haben über ihr Herz eine Hülle und in ihre Ohren Schwerhörigkeit gelegt, so dass sie es nicht verstehen“ (18.57). Also ist es vergeblich zu hoffen, dass solche Leute sich je rechtleiten lassen. Der Kontext stellt klar heraus, dass die gottgewirkte Schwerhörigkeit eine Folge der „Frevelhaftigkeit“ dieser Leute ist. Das etwas seltsame Bild einer Hülle auf dem Herzen (statt auf dem Gesicht!) erinnert an Paulus (2. Kor. 3.15). Wo das Alte Testament von einer Hülle auf dem Gesicht des Mose sprach, verlegt der Apostel sie in seiner typologischen Anwendung auf das Herz der Ungläubigen, wo sie bis heute liegen soll. Die Fortsetzung in Sure 18 – die gottgewirkte Schwerhörigkeit zum Zweck des Nicht-Verstehens – erinnert wiederum an den göttlichen Verstockungsauftrag an Jesaja (Jes. 6, eine Stelle, die im Neuen Testament oft zitiert wird). Angesichts solcher Anklänge kann man ernstlich fragen, ob hier nicht ein Einfluss der biblischen Tradition vorliegt.9 An einigen Stellen wird das Irren der Menschen auf den Satan zurückgeführt. Iblis lässt (unter der Duldung Gottes) den Frevel im schönsten Licht erscheinen und führt so manche Menschen irre; allerdings nicht die Diener Gottes, die ihm nicht folgen (15.39–43). Dabei tragen die Menschen, die ihm folgen, selbst die Verantwortung. Auch in späteren Suren taucht Iblis manchmal in dieser versucherischen Rolle auf. Das ist insofern bemerkenswert, als hier eine alternative Erklärung der menschlichen Abirrung vorliegt. Sie muss nicht rein menschliche Verfehlung sein, aber sie muss auch nicht unbedingt von Gott (etwa als Strafe) verhängt worden sein: Sie kann auch auf die Tätigkeit Satans zurückgehen. Manchmal wird die Rolle von Gottes Erbarmen bei der Rettung der Menschen hervorgehoben. Es wäre einseitig zu behaupten, dass der Mensch nach dem Koran einfach durch seine eigene Frömmigkeit gerettet wird. So wird jemand im Paradies sagen: „Wenn nicht mein Herr Gnade hätte walten lassen, wäre ich [jetzt auch zur Bestrafung in der Hölle] vorgeführt worden“ (37.57). Mose gehörte „zu denen, die irregehen“, aber Gott schenkte ihm Weisheit und 9  So mit Recht J. Wansbrough, Quranic Studies: Sources and Methods of Scriptural Interpretation (London Oriental Series 31; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), 72–73.

Chapter 15: Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?

265

machte ihn zu einem Gesandten (26.20–21). Man wird sagen können, dass nach dem Koran ein Mensch selbst daran schuld ist, wenn er verloren geht, dass aber seine Rettung im Wesentlichen ein Werk Gottes ist. Solche Töne klingen auch in späteren Offenbarungen an: „Wenn mein Herr mich nicht rechtleitet, werde ich zum Volk derer gehören, die irregehe“, sagt Abraham (6.77), und die Rechtschaffenen rufen im Paradies aus: „Lob sei Gott, der uns hierher rechtgeleitet hat! Wir hätten unmöglich die Rechtleitung gefunden, wenn nicht Gott uns rechtgeleitet hätte“ (7.43). Insgesamt erscheint Gott in den Suren der zweiten mekkanischen Periode als ein furchterregender, aber gerechter Richter, keineswegs als ein willkürlicher Despot. Er mag einen Sünder verblenden oder irreführen, aber dann hat der Mensch dieses Los sicher verdient.

2.3. Die dritte mekkanische Periode Die Suren der dritten mekkanischen Periode spiegeln eine zunehmende Spannung zwischen den Einwohnern Mekkas und dem Propheten wider. Wieder weisen viele Stellen auf ein Gericht nach den Werken hin und setzen die Verantwortlichkeit des Menschen voraus. „Wenn einer das dahineilende [diesseitige Leben] haben möchte, lassen wir ihm darin eilig zukommen, was wir wollen – und wem wir wollen. Hierauf machen wir ihm die Hölle [zum Aufenthaltsort] […] Diejenigen aber, die das Jenseits haben möchten und sich mit dem entsprechenden Eifer darum bemühen und dabei gläubig sind, finden für ihren Eifer Dank“ (17.18–19). Also wird jeder gerade das bekommen, was er zutiefst haben wollte. Hier heißt es allerdings auch, dass Gott „wem er will was er will“ zukommen lässt. Das Vorkommen einer solchen Bemerkung ausgerechnet in einem Kontext, wo alles am Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhang liegt, deutet an, dass es sich um eine Formel handelt, die rhetorisch die Allmacht Gottes hervorhebt, aber nichts mit Willkür zu tun hat. Diese Erkenntnis wird bestätigt, wenn der Kontext mancher gleichlautender Sätze beachtet wird. „Gott festigt diejenigen, die glauben, im diesseitigen Leben und im Jenseits durch die feste Aussage. Aber die Frevler führt er irre. Gott tut was er will“ (14.27). Wenn Gott ausgerechnet die Frevler irreführt, muss der „willkürlich“ klingende Schluss „Gott tut was er will“ rhetorisch sein. Entsprechend wird der Satz „Gott führt irre, wen er will“ (13.27) eindeutig durch die Fortsetzung ausgelegt: „Aber wenn einer sich [ihm] zuwendet, führt er ihn zu sich.“ Ebenso wenig weist der Satz „Gott erwählt wen er will“ (42.13) auf eine willkürliche Erwählung hin, denn er setzt fort: „und führt dazu [auf den rechten Weg], wer sich [ihm] zuwendet“. Solche Beispiele, die sich vermehren ließen, zeigen, dass die „Wen-er-will-Formel“ als eine rhetorische Hyperbel gelten muss.

266

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

Die Frage „Wer könnte diejenigen rechtleiten, die Gott irregeführt hat?“ (30.29) wird durch den vorangehenden Vorwurf interpretiert: „Diejenigen, die freveln, folgen in [ihrem] Unverstand ihren Neigungen.“ Irregeführt werden also die Frevler. Der Satz „Er lässt in seine Barmherzigkeit eingehen wen er will“ (42.8) wird durch die Fortsetzung ins rechte Licht gerückt: „Und die Frevler haben [dereinst] weder Freund noch Helfer.“ Sure 40 ist explizit: „Wer verlogen ist und nicht maßhält, den leitet Gott nicht recht“ (Vers 28); er „führt diejenigen irre, die nicht maßhalten und Zweifel hegen“ (Vers 34); „so versiegelt Gott allen denen das Herz, die sich hochmütig gebärden und gewalttätig sind“ (Vers 35). Der anfangs zitierte berühmte Spruch „wenn Gott einen rechtleiten will, weitet er ihm die Brust für den Islam. Wenn er aber einen irreführen will, macht er ihm die Brust eng und bedrückt“ (6.125) impliziert auch keine Willkür, denn er setzt fort: „So legt Gott die Unreinheit auf diejenigen, die nicht glauben.“ Von denjenigen, „die an Gott nicht glauben, nachdem sie gläubig waren“, heißt es: „Das sind diejenigen, denen Gott ihr Herz, ihr Gehör und ihr Gesicht versiegelt hat; sie werden gestraft, weil sie das diesseitige Leben dem Jenseits vorziehen. Gott leitet eben das Volk der Ungläubigen nicht recht.“ (16.106–108). Schon der Umstand, dass es möglich ist, vom Glauben abzufallen, spricht natürlich gegen die Vorstellung einer absoluten Prädestination. Auch während dieser Periode wird der Prophet, den die Schwerhörigkeit seiner Hörer bedrückt, durch den Gedanken getröstet, dass es seine einzige Aufgabe ist, die Leute zu warnen; für den Unglauben anderer ist er nicht verantwortlich. In diesem Zusammenhang tauchen manchmal prädestinatianisch klingende Aussagen auf. „Ist es denn einer, dem sich das Böse, das er tut, im schönsten Licht zeigt […gleich einem, der rechtgeleitet ist…]? Gott führt irre, wen er will, und leitet recht, wen er will. Darum verzehre dich ihretwegen nicht in [schmerzlichem] Bedauern […]“ (35.8). Auch diesmal führt Gott denjenigen irre, der schon vorher Böses tut. Der Zweck des Passus ist, den Propheten zu trösten. In Sure 39.36–37 gehört die Rede von der göttlichen Irreführung ebenfalls in einen praktischen Kontext: Genügt nicht Gott seinem Diener als Helfer, wenn die Ungläubigen ihm „mit denjenigen [Göttern] Angst machen, die es [angeblich] außer ihm gibt? Wen aber Gott irreführt, für den gibt es keinen, der ihn rechtleiten könnte. Und wen Gott rechtleitet, für den gibt es keinen, der ihn irreführen könnte. Gott ist doch mächtig und lässt [die Sünder] seine Rache fühlen.“ Muhammad braucht sich nicht um die Drohungen seiner Gegner zu kümmern. Weil Gott selbst sie irregeführt hat, sind sie in Wirklichkeit völlig hilflos. Der Prophet ist nicht durch ihre polytheistischen Einreden zu erschüttern, weil er durch Gott rechtgeleitet wird. Es geht hier um die konkrete Frage, auf wessen Seite die helfende Kraft Gottes ist, und gar nicht um die metaphysische Frage nach dem Ursprung des Irrens. Bald ist die Sprache denn auch schon sehr „anthropozentrisch“: „Und wenn einer irregeht, tut er das zu seinem eigenen Nachteil. Du bist nicht ihr Sachwalter“ (39.41).

Chapter 15: Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?

267

Muhammad kann die Leute nicht zum Glauben zwingen: „Niemand darf gläubig werden, außer mit dem Erlaubnis Gottes“ (10.99–100). Insofern ist das Schicksal des Menschen von Gott abhängig. Aber die Verantwortlichkeit des Menschen wird keineswegs ausgeschlossen: „[Gott] legt die Unreinheit (das heißt Strafe) auf diejenigen, die keinen Verstand haben.“ Solche Sätze dienen dazu, den Propheten inmitten von Zweifeln zu ermutigen. Der Gedanke, dass Gott es ist, der letztlich über alles verfügt, ist nicht als eine theoretische Antwort auf die intellektuelle Frage nach den Ursachen des Unglaubens gemeint, sondern als eine praktische Quelle des Trostes. An einigen Stellen wird die Sprache jedoch härter. „Wenn wir gewollt hätten, hätten wir einem jeden seine Rechtleitung gegeben. Aber das Wort von mir ist in Erfüllung gegangen: ‚Ich werde wahrlich die Hölle mit lauter Dschinn und Menschen anfüllen.‘ Jetzt bekommt ihr zu spüren dafür, dass ihr vergessen habt, dass ihr diesen Tag erleben würdet. Wir haben euch [ebenfalls] vergessen. Ihr bekommt jetzt die ewige Strafe zu spüren für das, was ihr getan habt“ (32.13–14). Allerdings spricht auch in diesem Passus vieles gegen „Willkür“. Die Menschen müssen die Strafe spüren „für das, was sie getan haben“. Es gibt demnach nichts Willkürliches in der Bestimmung derjenigen, die die Hölle füllen werden. Der Abschnitt ist als ernste Warnung zu verstehen. Die Hörer sind nicht bereit, an eine „neue Schöpfung“ nach dem Tod zu glauben (Vers 10), und Muhammad versucht sie dadurch zu bekehren, dass er das Schicksal der Sünder in schrecklichen Farben ausmalt. „Wenn du sehen würdest, wenn sie vor ihrem Herrn den Kopf hängen lassen!“ (Vers 12). Die Hölle wird angefüllt werden; am Tag des Gerichts gibt es keine Chance mehr, ins Leben zurückzukehren und rechtschaffen zu handeln (Vers 12). Also ist es angebracht, rechtzeitig zu glauben! In einer Variante des eben genannten Passus erreicht der starke Sprachgebrauch seinen Höhepunkt: „Wir haben viele von den Dschinn und Menschen für die Hölle geschaffen. Sie haben ein Herz, mit dem sie nicht verstehen, Augen, mit denen sie nicht sehen, und Ohren, mit denen sie nicht hören. Sie sind wie Vieh. Nein, sie irren noch eher. Die geben [überhaupt] nicht acht.“ (7.179). Muhammad sieht sich von tauben, blinden und unbekümmerten Leuten umgeben, die die Wahrheit zurückweisen. Er zieht die bitter polemische, extreme Schlussfolgerung: Seine Gegner sind für die Hölle geschaffen worden! Es ist schwer zu glauben, dass Muhammad jetzt Gott eine willkürliche Entscheidung zuschreiben würde. Auch hier ist nämlich der Kontext voll von warnenden Mahnungen, die auf die Bekehrung der Hörer abzielen. Gott gibt Zeichen – „vielleicht würden sie sich bekehren“ (Vers 174). Muhammad bekommt die Aufgabe, „zu berichten was es zu berichten gibt – vielleicht werden sie nachdenken“ (Vers 176). Es wird beklagt, wie schlimm es mit den Leuten steht, die Gottes Zeichen für Lüge erklären (Vers 177). Unmittelbar folgt eine Mahnung, Gott anzurufen und denjenigen keine Aufmerksamkeit widmen, „die seine Namen in

268

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

Verruf bringen“ (Vers 180). Im Lichte des Kontextes will auch die stark prädestinatianisch klingende Aussage den Mahnungen Gewicht verleihen, die an den Willen der Hörer appellieren. An sich würde die Vorstellung einer Schöpfung für die Hölle dieser Verkündigung widersprechen, aber es wäre denn auch verfehlt, sie als ein „Dogma“ zu verstehen. Als Teil einer Predigt aber erhöht sie den rhetorischen Effekt der dringenden Mahnung. Um die Leute bußfertig zu machen, muss man sie manchmal auch erschrecken!

2.4. Die medinische Periode Die Suren aus Medina spiegeln die veränderte geschichtliche Lage wider. Der Prophet ist der Leiter einer theokratischen Gemeinschaft geworden und muss mit Problemen neuer Art fertig werden. Jetzt stehen ihm nicht mehr die Spötter aus Mekka entgegen, sondern verschiedene Gruppen, deren Einstellung zu ihm variiert; außer den Gläubigen sind dies u. a. „die Heuchler“ (munafiqun), die sich manchmal als unzuverlässig erweisen. Das Gericht nach Werken bleibt ein zentrales Thema. Sogar stärker als vorher wird betont, dass es die Frevler sind, die von Gott irregeführt werden. Durch koranische Gleichnisse führt Gott viele irre, aber leitet auch viele recht; „und nur die Frevler führt er damit irre“ (2.26). Die „Wohlhabenden“, die an einem Kriegszug nicht teilnehmen wollten, „sind damit zufrieden, mit denen zu sein, die zurückbleiben. Ihr Herz ist versiegelt. Daher haben sie keinen Verstand“ (9.87). Die Heuchler „haben Gott vergessen, und nun hat [auch] er sie vergessen“ und verflucht (9.67–68). In Medina wird Muhammad ständig auch mit dem Phänomen der Apostasie konfrontiert. Er spricht viel über die strengen Strafen, die auf die Abgefallenen warten (3.106 usw.). Dabei fällt es ihm nicht ein, Gott für ihren Abfall verantwortlich zu machen. Theozentrische Sprache kommt vor, aber im Dienste der Polemik: „Wie könnt ihr hinsichtlich der Heuchler unterschiedlicher Meinung sein, wo doch Gott sie wegen dessen, was sie begangen haben, zu Fall gebracht hat! Wollt ihr denn rechtleiten, wen Gott irregeführt hat? Wen Gott irreführt, für den findest du keinen Weg.“ (4.88). Die Heuchler haben verdient, irregeführt zu werden. Im folgenden Vers heißt es: „Nehmt niemand von ihnen zu Freunden, solange sie nicht [ihrerseits] um Gottes willen auswandern!“ (Vers 89). Also ist es durchaus möglich, dass ein Abgefallener zum rechten Weg zurückkehrt. Es hängt von ihm selbst ab. Während der medinischen Periode kommen prädestinatianisch klingende Sätze meistens in polemischen Zusammenhängen vor. Gott führt die Frevler irre und leitet die Gläubigen recht.

Chapter 15: Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?

269

2.5. Schlussfolgerungen Es wird oft angenommen, dass Muhammad einen „weltanschaulichen Entwicklungsprozess“ von einem Prediger des freien Willens zu einem Lehrer der doppel­ten Prädestination durchmachte; die Halsstarrigkeit der Hörer habe Muhammad zu einer grundsätzlichen, und zwar „deterministischen“ Stellungnahme gezwungen.10 An dieser These ist richtig, dass die sozialen Erfahrungen Muhammads in der Formulierung des Korans eine große Rolle spielen. Eine Prädestinations-„Lehre“ kann ich im Koran jedoch nicht entdecken, dafür aber eine Entwicklung der Rhetorik. Dabei finden sich die schroffsten Ausdrücke nicht in der letzten (medinischen) Periode, sondern gegen Ende der mekkanischen Zeit,11 als die Opposition dem Propheten am stärksten Kummer machte. In der schweren Lage appelliert er auf jede Weise an den Willen seiner Hörer. Er versucht, sie durch Mahnungen, Warnungen und Drohungen zu gewinnen. Die Überzeugung von der Verantwortlichkeit des Menschen und vom Gericht nach den Werken ist so grundlegend, dass sie auch dort vorherrscht, wo die Sprache prädestinatianisch wirkt.12 Es trifft also nicht zu, dass – verglichen mit der Vorstellung des freien Willens – der Gedanke einer doppelten Prädestination im Koran überwiegen würde. Ganz im Gegenteil: Fast jede Seite wird vom Gedanken der menschlichen Verantwortlichkeit beherrscht. Der Gott des Korans ist kein willkürlicher Despot, sondern ein streng unparteiischer Richter. Er ist aber auch der Erbarmende. Eine Anzahl von Stellen weist darauf hin, dass ein Muslim sein Heil nicht seinen eigenen Taten, sondern Gott zuschreiben soll, der ihn rechtgeleitet hat. Das Heil hängt letztlich vom göttlichen Erbarmen ab. Wenn aber einer in die Hölle gelangt, ist er daran selbst schuld. Dass Menschen von Gott irregeführt werden (oder Ähnliches), sagt der Koran in dreierlei Zusammenhängen: Es handelt sich um Polemik, Warnung oder Trost. Polemik: Es sind die Frevler und Apostaten, die mit Irreführung bestraft werden. Warnung: Gott vermag die Hörer Muhammads unwiderruflich irrezuführen, wenn sie nicht bald glauben. Trost: Muhammad braucht sich nicht über den Unglauben der Hörer Sorgen zu machen, denn er ist nicht daran schuldig. Die prädestinatianisch klingenden Aussagen sind keine Lehrsätze, sondern dienen den Bedürfnissen der Predigt. Wo Muhammad Hörer anspricht, die ihn nicht von vornherein zurückweisen, stellt er ihnen nie eine Theorie von göttlicher Erwählung und Verwerfung vor. Dann appelliert er an den Willen eines jeden. 10  R. Paret, Mohammed und der Koran. Geschichte und Verkündigung des arabischen Propheten (UTB 32; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 51980), 108–9; vgl. auch Gnilka, Bibel, 140. 11  Das wurde von Paret, ibid., richtig wahrgenommen. 12  Ähnlich T. Nagel, Der Koran. Einführung – Texte – Erläuterungen (München: Beck, 1983), 279.

270

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

Insgesamt kann gefolgert werden, dass es die soziale Erfahrung ist, die die prädestinatianische Rhetorik bei Muhammad hervorgerufen hat. Demnach ist die Interpretation von Rudolf Otto und anderen Forschern einseitig, die die prädestinatianische Rede direkt aus Muhammads „numinöser“ Gotteserfahrung ableiten.13 In den frühesten Suren, wo die Erlebnisse des Heiligen wohl am direktesten die Sprache färben, wird eben nicht von göttlicher Irreführung oder Versiegelung der Herzen geredet. Dazu kommt, dass es im Koran auch der Satan sein kann, die Menschen irreführt, und er ist in dieser Schrift sicher keine numinöse Gestalt. Die allgemeine Theozentrizität der Vorstellungswelt Muhammads, die auch für seine arabische Umgebung typisch war, ist eine notwendige Bedingung für die prädestinatianische Sprache, aber sie ist kaum eine zureichende Bedingung. Muhammad hätte sich kaum jener Sprache bedient, wenn nicht seine bitteren Erfahrungen ihn dazu getrieben hätten. In den prädestinatianisch klingenden Abschnitten werden diese Erfahrungen bewältigt. Dabei macht Muhammad vielleicht auch von Verstockungstraditionen biblischen Ursprungs Gebrauch. Doch ganz unabhängig von dieser genetischen Frage ist die Parallele zu Paulus (Röm. 9) und zu den Evangelien offenkundig. Hiermit kommen wir auf das Neue Testament zu sprechen.

3. Das Neue Testament 3.1. Paulus Im Neuen Testament14 kommt der Gedanke einer positiven Gnadenwahl oft vor, bei Paulus am stärksten in Röm. 8.28–30: „Wir wissen, dass Gott bei denen, die ihn lieben, alles zum Guten führt, bei denen, die nach seinem ewigen Plan berufen sind […].“ Dieser Gedanke stellt in unserem Zusammenhang kein größeres Problem dar. Er besitzt eine tröstende Funktion: Wenn Gott für uns ist, wer kann dann gegen uns sein? Die Bedrängnisse der Gegenwart sollen die Christen nicht in ihrer Heilsgewissheit verunsichern. Der klassische Text zur doppelten Prädestination ist Röm. 9.15 Jean Calvin soll gesagt haben, er hätte seine Prädestinationslehre ohne jenes Kapitel nicht 13  R. Otto, Das Heilige. Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen (Gotha: Leopold Klotz, 151926), 117–20; T. Andrae, Muhammed, hans liv och hans tro (Stockholm: Natur och Kultur, 1930), 84–86. Vgl. auch J. Bouman, Das Wort vom Kreuz und das Bekenntnis zu Allah. Die Grundlehren des Korans als nachbiblische Religion (Frankfurt a. M.: Lembeck, 1980), 262–63; er spricht dort von „paradoxaler Komplementarität“ im Wesen Allahs, der „der ganz Andere“ sei. 14 Vgl. zum Ganzen G. Röhser, Prädestination und Verstockung. Untersuchungen zur frühjüdischen, paulinischen und johanneischen Theologie (TANZ 14; Tübingen & Basel: Francke, 1994). 15  Die Auslegung von Römer 9–11 ist umstritten. Folgende Darstellung ist im Wesentlichen eine Zusammenfassung von H. Räisänen, „Römer 9–11: Analyse eines geistigen Rin-

Chapter 15: Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?

271

ausgebildet. Weil die Lehre aber dort vorlag – und also von der Schrift gelehrt wurde – blieb ihm keine Wahl.16 Die Kapitel Röm. 9–11 gehören zusammen. Sie können dem Gedankengang nach in drei große Abschnitte aufgeteilt werden, die ich hier A (9.6–29), B (9.30– 10.21) und C (11.1–36) nenne. Es geht Paulus um das Problem Israel. Er teilt mit, dass er große Trauer in seinem Herzen trage, weil die Mehrzahl der Juden seine Botschaft verworfen habe (9.1–5). Ist das Wort Gottes „hinfällig geworden“, wenn sein Volk nicht zum Glauben kommt? Paulus weist eine solche Folgerung zurück, indem er neu definiert, was „Israel“ heißt: Nicht alle, die fleischlich aus ihm stammen, sind [wirklich] Israel (Vers 6), und das war schon immer so. Ob einer zum erwählten Volk gehört oder nicht, wird völlig frei von Gott bestimmt. Er hat immer einige, wie Jakob, frei berufen und wiederum andere, wie Esau, nicht berufen, ganz unter Absehung von ihrer Abstammung und sogar von ihren Taten. Jakob und Esau „waren noch nicht geboren und hatten weder Gutes noch Böses getan; aber damit Gottes freie Wahl und Vorherbestimmung gültig bleibe, nicht abhängig von Werken, sondern von ihm, der beruft“, wurde nur Jakob berufen; „Jakob habe ich geliebt, Esau aber gehasst“, steht deshalb in der Schrift (9.7–13). Folglich erübrigt sich die anfangs gestellte Frage. Das Evangelium ist nicht vom erwählten Volk verworfen worden, denn die Mehrzahl des Volkes gehört nicht zu „Israel“ und hat nie dazu gehört.17 Alles ist in bester Ordnung. Der Preis der Ordnung scheint freilich eine strenge Prädestinationslehre zu sein. Paulus geht sehr weit, wenn er die souveräne Freiheit der Erwählung unterstreicht. „Dem Mose hat Gott gesagt: ‚Ich schenke Erbarmen, wem ich will, und erweise Gnade, wem ich will.‘ Also kommt es nicht auf das Wollen und Streben des Menschen an, sondern auf das Erbarmen Gottes“ (9.15–16). Nicht nur das; die Erwählung hat auch eine negative Seite: „Er erbarmt sich also, wessen er will, und macht verstockt, wen er will.“ Das zeigt das Beispiel des Pharao (9.17–18). Paulus empfindet sehr wohl, dass sich hier ein moralisches Problem verbirgt, dem er sich stellen muss. Wenn alles von Gott erwirkt ist, wie kann ein Mensch für sein Verhalten verantwortlich gemacht werden? Paulus weist den Einwand allerdings gleich ab: Ein Geschöpf sei nicht in der Lage, mit seinem Schöpfer zu streiten. Der große Töpfer hat das Recht, Gefäße auch für „unedlen“, „unehrenvollen“ Gebrauch zu machen (Vers 21). Er kann „Gefäße des Erbarmens“, aber auch „Gefäße des Zornes“ (Verse 22–23) machen, genau wie er will. Es gibt in gens“, in W. Haase (Hrsg.), ANRW II.25.4 (Berlin & New York: de Gruyter, 1987), 2891–939. Vgl. auch id., „Marcion“, 17–32 und oben S. 67–86. 16 H. Höpfl, The Christian Polity of Jean Calvin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, Nachdruck), 230 und 289 Anm.  34. 17  So auch u. a. H. Hübner, Gottes Ich und Israel. Zum Schriftgebrauch des Paulus in Römer 9–11 (FRLANT 136; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), 15–24.

272

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

der Tat „Zorngefäße“, die „für das Verderben hergestellt“ worden sind, nämlich die ungläubigen Juden. Dieser Gedankengang, der an die koranische Aussage über die Schöpfung einiger Menschen für die Hölle erinnert, scheint eine Prädestination zum Verderben vorauszusetzen. Hier bricht Paulus allerdings ab – als ob er empfände, dass der Gedanke der doppelten Prädestination ihn in eine Sackgasse führen wird. Plötzlich verlegt er das Gewicht auf Gottes „positives“ Handeln: Er wendet jetzt alle Aufmerksamkeit den Gefäßen des Erbarmens zu, das heißt „uns“, die Gott „nicht nur aus Juden, sondern auch aus Heiden“ berufen hat. Im Folgenden taucht der Gedanke auf, dass Gott aus Israel einen Rest übriggelassen hat. Hier denkt Paulus natürlich an die Judenchristen. Die Restvorstellung steht nicht mehr in vollem Einklang mit der Vorstellung, dass ganz Israel nie berufen worden sei. Doch die Anschauung, dass ganz Israel nicht gerettet werden wird, bleibt konstant im Abschnitt A. Es wird oft übersehen, dass der Gedanke der „Rechtfertigung durch den Glauben“, den Paulus oft so stark hervorhebt, in Abschnitt A fehlt, und auch fehlen muss. Denn jede Betonung eines menschlichen Verhaltens, und sei es des Glaubens, würde den Gedankengang hier zerstören. Gott wählt ja einfach wen er will.18 Im Abschnitt B (9.30–10.21) ist es anders. Hier geht es um den Gegensatz „Glauben (an Jesus) oder Werke“ (das heißt Treue zur Tora). Israel (jetzt doch als ein Volk konzipiert) hat sich verweigert, an Jesus zu glauben, und hat deshalb sein Ziel verfehlt. Von Gottes souveränen Ratschlüssen ist nichts zu spüren. Im Gegenteil, Gott hat alles getan, um Israel zum Heil kommen zu lassen. Den ganzen Tag lang hat er seine Hände liebevoll ausgebreitet „gegen ein ungehorsames und widerspenstiges Volk“ (V. 21). Das Volk ist widerspenstig geblieben. Seine Lage ist selbstverschuldet. Heiden haben Gott gefunden, weil sie auf seinen Ruf mit Glauben geantwortet haben. Abschnitt C (Kapitel 11) bringt einen neuen Ton. „Hat Gott sein Volk verstoßen? Keineswegs!“ (Vers 1). Allerdings bedeutet diese Versicherung zunächst nicht mehr als dass ein treu gebliebener Rest gerettet werden wird. Seine Erwählung ist das Resultat einer göttlichen Wahl; den anderen hat Gott selbst einen „Geist der Betäubung“ gegeben. Die Mehrheit des Volkes bleibt verstockt, weil Gott es so gewollt hat. Die Fortsetzung bringt dann jedoch wieder eine Überraschung. Die Verstockung Israels hat einen positiven Zweck in den Plänen Gottes. Irgendwie sorgt ihr „Straucheln“ dafür, dass das Heil auch Heiden erreicht. Der wahre Zweck der Heidenmission sei es, der Rettung Israels zu dienen, indem ihr Erfolg Israel 18 Natürlich setzt Paulus dabei stillschweigend voraus, dass Gott eben die glaubenden Juden­christen erwählt hat, aber das darf er nicht sagen – dann würde die Argumentation fehlgehen.

Chapter 15: Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?

273

zur „Eifersucht“ anreizen soll. Gott kümmert sich sehr ernst um Israel. Es folgt ein Gleichnis, in dem Israel mit einem „edlen“ Ölbaum verglichen wird. Aus ihm wurden „einige“ Zweige ausgebrochen, und an ihrer Stelle wurden Zweige aus einem „wilden“ Ölbaum eingepfropft. Hier gibt Paulus – anders als im Abschnitt A – zu verstehen, dass Israel (als Volk) nach wie vor das eigentliche Gottesvolk ist. Heiden können aufgenommen werden – als „wilde“ Zweige, als Proselyten. Doch auch Heidenchristen können ausgebrochen werden, wenn sie sich nicht im Glauben bewähren. Die ausgebrochenen Zweige wurden in der Tat wegen ihres Unglaubens ausgebrochen (Vers 20). Hier wird die Linie des Abschnitts B fortgesetzt: Die jetzige Lage ist durch menschliche Schuld verursacht – nicht durch Vorherbestimmung. Gott kann aber die Ausgebrochenen wieder „einpfropfen“, wenn sie nur nicht „im Unglauben verharren“ (Verse 22–23). Und in der Tat: Israel wird nicht ewig im Unglauben verharren. Wenn die Heiden in voller Zahl das Heil erlangt haben, wird „ganz Israel gerettet werden“ (Verse 25–26), denn „unwiderruflich sind Gnade und Berufung, die Gott gewährt“ (Vers 29). Gott hat sein Volk nicht verworfen. Dagegen hat Paulus den Gedankengang vom Abschnitt A aufgegeben. Gottes Souveränität steht immer noch im Vordergrund, aber der Ton liegt jetzt gänzlich auf seinem überragenden Erbarmen. Dabei entsteht der Eindruck, dass auch der Ungehorsam aller von Gott gewollt und bewirkt sei (11.30–32), damit er seine Barmherzigkeit gegen alle demon­ strieren kann. Keine Zorngefäße also! Kein Wunder, dass man hier manchmal sogar eine Lehre von apokatastasis, der Wiederherstellung aller, entdeckt hat. Man sieht, wie problembeladen die Interpretation dieser drei Kapitel ist, in denen die Argumentation sich hin und her bewegt. Man kann den einen oder anderen Abschnitt herunterspielen; man kann von paradoxaler Dialektik sprechen; man kann sogar eine Kehrtwende im Denken des Paulus postulieren, die allerdings während des Diktierens hätte stattfinden müssen. Falls einen keine dieser Alternativen überzeugt, bleibt nur die Auslegung übrig, dass Paulus hier mit einem Problem ringt, das ihm keine einleuchtende Lösung zulässt. Er probiert gleichsam drei verschiedene Lösungen zum Problem des Unglaubens ­Israels. An sich widersprechen sich die Lösungen, aber nach seinen Bemühungen findet Paulus Ruhe in einer zuversichtlichen Doxologie: Die Dinge sind kaum zu fassen, aber letztlich muss alles den guten Zwecken Gottes dienen (11.33–36). Ich kann hier nicht auf das Problem „Paulus und Israel“ eingehen,19 sondern begnüge mich mit einigen Bemerkungen zur Frage der Prädestination. Im Abschnitt A herrscht ja anscheinend der Gedanke einer doppelten Vorherbestim19  Siehe dazu H. Räisänen, „Paul’s and Qumran’s Judaism“, in id., Challenges to Biblical Interpretation. Collected Essays 1991–2001 (BINS 59; Leiden et al.: Brill, 2001), 111–39.

274

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

mung vor, während in B und in der Mitte von C (im Ölbaumgleichnis) alles an der menschlichen Entscheidung liegt; am Ende von C hat es den Anschein, als würde Paulus letztlich an eine Prädestination aller zum Heil denken. Für mich liegt die Lösung des Problems in derselben Richtung wie im Falle des Korans auch: Paulus kommt wegen der Unempfänglichkeit seiner Hörer dazu, sich stark prädestinatianischer Sprache zu bedienen. Nicht nur das; er kommt wirklich dazu, einen klar prädestinatianischen Gedankengang (im Abschnitt A) zu entfalten. Hier geht er meines Ermessens erheblich weiter als der Koran; er versucht ja sogar die „Willkür“ Gottes (des „Töpfers“) zu rechtfertigen. Er bleibt allerdings nicht bei dieser Lösung. Sein Ziel ist nicht, eine Prädestinationslehre vorzulegen, sondern es geht um die Bewältigung sozialer Erfahrungen. Inmitten bitterer Enttäuschung und Zweifel findet Paulus Trost in der Überzeugung, dass alles doch in Gottes Hand liegt. Bei seinen unterschiedlichen Lösungsversuchen scheint er freilich „zu weit“ bald in die eine, bald in die andere Richtung zu gehen – „zu weit“ nämlich, falls wir das zum Vergleich heranziehen, was er im Allgemeinen in seinen Briefen vorlegt. Dann ist nämlich der Abschnitt B, wo Paulus auf den Glauben bzw. Unglauben der Hörer abhebt, das „Normalste“. Im Abschnitt A, aber auch am Ende vom Abschnitt C scheint er dagegen jede menschliche Möglichkeit der Mitwirkung auszuschließen, allerdings auf zwei völlig entgegengesetzte Weisen. Dabei schweigt er beide Mal vom Glauben. Wenn man bedenkt, wie wichtig gerade der Glaube an Christus ihm durchgehend ist, ist dies erstaunlich. Es ist der Versuch, die düsteren sozialen Erfahrungen auch theoretisch zu bewältigen, der ihn „zu weit“ von seinem „normalen“ Anliegen führt. Diese Interpretation wird meines Ermessens durch 2. Kor. 3–4 bestätigt. Schon dort (in einem etwas früher geschriebenen Brief) begegnet die Vorstellung einer göttlichen Verstockung des Volkes Israel (3.14). Allerdings muss sie nicht endgültig sein: Die Decke wird vom Herzen eines Einzelnen weggenommen, wenn jemand sich zum Herrn (Jesus) bekehrt (Vers 16). Alles hängt davon ab, ob ein Israelit sich bekehrt oder nicht (wie in Röm. 10 auch, das heißt in unserem Abschnitt B). In 2. Kor. 4 bringt Paulus eine andere Erklärung: Die Verlorengehenden sind „verblendet“, aber nicht durch Gott (wie in Röm. 9), sondern vom „Gott dieses Äons“, das heißt vom Satan (Vers. 4). Das ist harte Polemik gegen die Gegner, wie wir sie auch im Koran finden. Man sieht, wie verfehlt es wäre, bei Paulus eine „systematische“ Lehre von der Verstockung zu suchen. In Röm. 9 und 11 wird sie als gottgewirkt angesehen; die Einführung des Satans hätte dort den Gedankengang von Grund auf zerstört. Der Eindruck wird verstärkt, dass Paulus – wie der Koran auch – verschiedene Lösungen für ein konstantes Problem – den Unglauben der Hörer – anwendet. Er versucht, seine in der Tradition wurzelnde Überzeugung von der unwiderrufbaren Erwählung Israels mit seinen neuen Erfahrungen in Einklang zu bringen, wobei das Problem klarer ist

Chapter 15: Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?

275

als die Lösungen. Aber letztlich mündet alles in den Lobpreis von Gottes guten Zwecken. Grundlegend ist die Erfahrung der Gnade.

3.2. Markus und Johannes Ähnliche soziale Erfahrungen sind es wohl, die auch sonst wo im Neuen Testament prädestinatianisch klingende Aussagen hervortreten lassen – jedes Mal in starker Spannung zu anderen Vorstellungen in denselben Schriften, die alle die Notwendigkeit einer richtigen Entscheidung betonen. Eine Enttäuschung mit der Unempfänglichkeit der Hörer kann man hinter der eigenartigen Erklärung des Zwecks der Gleichnisrede Jesu erahnen, die das Markusevangelium gibt: Den Außenstehenden wird alles in Gleichnissen zuteil, „auf dass sie nicht […] verstehen, damit sie nicht umkehren und ihnen vergeben werde“ (Mk. 4.11– 12).20 Hier wird Jesaja 6 auf die eigene Lage bezogen. Das geschieht ebenfalls bei Johannes,21 wobei der Zusammenhang – die Auseinandersetzung mit „ungläubigen“ Juden – expressis verbis angegeben wird (Jh. 12.37–40): trotz vieler Zeichen glaubte man nicht an Jesus. „Denn sie konnten nicht glauben, weil Jesaja […] gesagt hat: ‚[Gott] hat ihre Augen blind gemacht und ihr Herz hart, damit sie nicht […] zur Einsicht kommen, damit sie sich nicht bekehren und ich sie nicht heile‘“. Neben stark prädestinatianisch klingenden Aussagen – „niemand kann zu mir kommen, wenn der Vater ihn nicht zieht“ (6.44) usw.22 – begegnen im vierten Evangelium aber auch andere, die die Notwendigkeit der Entscheidung betonen und ihre Möglichkeit sowie die menschliche Verantwortlichkeit betonen.23 Gott hat die Welt so sehr geliebt, dass er seinen Sohn hingab. Wer an ihn glaubt, wird nicht gerichtet; wer nicht glaubt, ist schon gerichtet. Das Licht kam in die Welt, und die Menschen liebten die Finsternis mehr als das Licht; denn ihre Taten waren böse (3.16–21). Wer bereit ist, den Willen Gottes zu tun, wird erkennen, ob Jesu Lehre von Gott stammt oder nicht (7.17). Zwar lässt die stark dualistische Redeweise von Johannes den Verdacht eines Dualismus aufkommen, wo alles von vornherein festgelegt ist. Doch es ist angebracht, den (einigermaßen rekonstruierbaren) sozialen Kontext des Evangeliums zu bedenken. Die neuere Forschung ist sich darüber einig, dass es sich zum 20  Siehe dazu H. Räisänen, The Messianic Secret in Mark’s Gospel (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1990), 76–143. Hier wird meine frühere Studie Die Parabeltheorie im Markusevangelium (PFES 26; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 1973) vertieft und teilweise korrigiert. 21  Zur Forschungslage siehe den Überblick bei Röhser, Prädestination, 179–92. 22  Vgl. E. Käsemann, Jesu letzter Wille nach Johannes 17 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1966), 112: „Nirgendwo im Neuen Testament begegnet uns ein härterer Dualismus als in unserm Evangelium.“ Ibid., 114: „Es gibt nicht nur dies, dass man nicht glauben will, sondern auch das andere, dass man nicht glauben kann, und das eine beweist das andere. Sich für Jesus entscheiden zu können, ist göttliche Gabe und nur den Erwählten möglich […].“ 23  Diese Seite wird von Röhser, Prädestination, 252 (Ergebnis) stark betont.

276

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

großen Teil um eine Auseinandersetzung mit der jüdischen Gemeinschaft handelt, aus der die johanneischen Christusgläubigen anscheinend ausgestoßen worden sind (vgl. Jh. 9.22; 12.42; 16.2).24 Aus dieser Konfliktlage sind die harten Aussagen (bis hin zur Behauptung, die Juden seien Kinder des Teufels: 8.44) zu verstehen. So ist die oben genannte Aussage 6.44 Teil der Antwort Jesu an die „Juden“, die sich über seine Selbstdarstellung („das Brot vom Himmel“) ärgern (6.41). Die prädestinatianische Redeweise des vierten Evangeliums erweist sich als ein Versuch, die schroffe Zurückweisung der christologischen Ansprüche der johanneischen Gruppe durch die Synagoge zu bewältigen. Doch ist zuzugeben, dass der Appell an den menschlichen Willen bei Johannes nirgends so stark ist wie im Koran; aber es handelt sich denn auch – anders als beim Koran – um einen Text, der sich in erster Linie an „Insider“ richtet. Man scheint die Hoffnung, dass die „Ungläubigen“ sich noch bekehren würden, fast schon aufgegeben zu haben, 25 so dass die prädestinatianische Sprache eher der Stärkung der eigenen Gruppe dient. Vergleichbare dualistische Aussagen begegnen in Qumran (vor allem in 1 QS 3.13–4.26), wo jedoch ebenfalls in anderen Zusammenhängen die menschliche Verantwortlichkeit stark hervorgehoben wird.26 Die Mitglieder der Qumran-Gemeinschaft sind gerade die „Freiwilligen“, die in den neuen Bund hineingetreten sind.

4. Fazit So begegnet in unseren Texten überall ungefähr dasselbe Bild. Was sich aus einer Kontextexegese des reichen koranischen Materials ergab, lässt sich beim Neuen Testament bestätigen: Wo die Sprache prädestinatianisch wird, handelt es sich um einen Versuch, schmerzliche soziale Erfahrungen mit Hörern, von denen man Besseres erwartet hatte, zu bewältigen. Weder im Koran noch im Neuen Testament handelt es sich um eine Lehre von einer doppelten Prädestination. In beiden Fällen herrscht eine allgemein theozentrische Anschauung vor: Was in der Welt geschieht, steht unter der Kontrolle Gottes oder gehört sogar zu sei24  Grundlegend war J. L. Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (Nashville: Abingdon, 21979). Für eine neue, weiterführende Bearbeitung der Problematik siehe R. Hakola, Identity Matters: John, the Jews and Jewishness (NovTSup 118; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2005). Es ist auch durchaus möglich, dass die johanneischen Gläubigen selbst auswanderten, als sie allmählich ihrer früheren jüdischen Lebensweise entfremdet worden waren. Für unsere Fragestellung ist es egal, von welcher Seite der entscheidende Impuls zur Trennung ausging; im Johannesevangelium geht es auf jeden Fall um „Trauerarbeit“. 25  Vgl. R. E. Brown, The Community of the Beloved Disciple (New York: Paulist, 1979), 68: „The insistence of the Johannine Jesus in speaking to ‚the Jews‘ that it is not possible to come to belief unless it be granted by God (6:37,39,44,65) is a sign that there was no real hope in Johannine circles for such people.“ 26  Vgl. Räisänen, „Paul’s and Qumran’s Judaism“, 127–30.

Chapter 15: Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?

277

nem Plan. Aber im Rahmen dieser Theozentrizität gibt es immer auch Raum für menschliche Entscheidungen und menschliche Verantwortung. Nie ist der Mensch von vornherein dem Verderben ausgeliefert, obwohl ein Kapitel bei Paulus, mehrere Verse bei Johannes, und einige Verse im Koran dies an sich nahelegen könnten. Sieht man jeweils den weiteren Kontext an, verändert sich das Bild. Die Verantwortlichkeit des Menschen wird in beiden Schriften betont, aber zugleich schreiben beide das Heil des Menschen letztlich dem Erbarmen Gottes zu. Dabei tritt im Koran der Gedanke des unparteiischen Gerichts stärker hervor, im Neuen Testament wiederum der Gedanke der unverdienten Gnade. Doch dies sind die zwei Seiten derselben Sache. Dass ein Glaubender zur Hölle vorherbestimmt sein könnte, wäre sowohl für Paulus als auch für Johannes oder für den Koran ein ebenso unmöglicher Gedanke gewesen wie der andere, dass man zu den Erwählten gehören könnte, auch ohne zum Glauben zu kommen (so Zwingli). In beiden Religionen haben philosophisch denkende Theologen die Aussagen der Schrift als Lehrsätze verstanden, die sich unabhängig von ihrem Kontext lesen lassen, was zu Debatten über Vorherbestimmung und freien Willen führte. Dies sollte auf der christlichen Seite unerwartete Folgen haben. Zunächst wurde im Calvinismus auf Röm. 9 eine strenge Prädestinationslehre aufgebaut – jeder Einzelne sei entweder zum Himmel oder zur Hölle vorherbestimmt. Die Unruhe darüber, zu welcher Gruppe man zählte, führte die Menschen dazu, ständig in ihrem Leben nach Zeichen der Erwählung zu suchen. Dies wiederum führte zu immer größeren Anstrengungen im Alltag, sich als ein Erwählter zu erweisen. Letztlich aus diesem Grunde sei es (nach Max Webers berühmter Theorie) zur Entstehung des Kapitalismus auf protestantischem Boden gekommen. Hier sind wir sehr weit weg gekommen von der Ursprungssituation, wo die Prädestinationsaussagen im Grunde eine tröstende Funktion hatten.27 Es wäre unfair, zwischen der Bibel und dem Koran einen Gegensatz zu konstruieren, indem man die Muslime der Willkür Allahs ausgeliefert wähnt. Ob man der hier vorgeschlagenen Interpretation zustimmt oder nicht, das Problem der Prädestination stellt eine Parallele – und keinen Gegensatz – zwischen den beiden Schriften dar. Dazu kommt die Möglichkeit, dass einige koranische Aussagen sogar der christlichen Tradition entlehnt sein könnten. Sowohl die Vorzüge als auch die Probleme, die der Glaube an einen Gott, der als allmächtig vorgestellt wird, mit sich bringt, sind den monotheistischen Religionen gemeinsam. 27 Gnilka, Bibel, 140 erkennt, dass die koranischen „Reprobationsaussagen“, hinter denen „der Erfahrungshorizont Muhammads“ stehen mag, der Stärkung der Gläubigen gedient haben. Er macht dann aber die so entstandene Reprobations-„Lehre“ auch dafür verantwortlich, dass sich unter Muslimen „eine fatalistische Lebenseinstellung ausbreiten konnte“. Das mag sein; aber dann sollte man beim Vergleich der Schriften nicht unberücksichtigt lassen, dass neutestamentliche Aussagen ebenfalls zu problematischen (vom Autor nicht geahndeten) Konsequenzen – etwa von Trost zu Angst im Falle des Calvinismus – geführt haben.

Chapter 16

Das lukanische Jesusbild und der Dialog mit dem Islam Mein Augenmerk gilt in diesem kleinen Beitrag einem Zeugnis aus der farbenreichen Glaubenswelt des frühen Christentums, dem Werk des „Lukas“, das immerhin nicht weniger als ein Viertel des Neuen Testaments ausmacht.1 Ich habe die lukanische Jesusdarstellung zum Thema gewählt, weil sich darin auffällige, vielleicht auch etwas überraschende Anknüpfungspunkte und Parallelen zum Koran entdecken lassen.2 Dabei soll das Wort „lukanisch“ bewusst etwas in der Schwebe bleiben; es bezeichnet sowohl das, was dem Verfasser ganz charakteristisch ist und am ehesten seinen eigenen Intentionen entsprechen könnte,3 als auch das, was er vielleicht nur übernommen hat. Um eine systematische Harmonisierung seiner diversen Traditionen hat sich Lukas offensichtlich nicht bemüht; inwiefern er sich solcher Spannungen und Widersprüche bewusst gewesen ist, die wir meinen feststellen zu können, lässt sich kaum noch ausmachen. Was das Jesusbild betrifft, scheint er ältere Vorstellungen, die seiner eigenen Anschauung nicht ganz entsprechen, weitertradiert zu haben, und zwar solche, die gerade im Zusammenhang des Religionsdialogs bedeutsam sind. Genauso interessant sind freilich auch manche Akzente, die Lukas offenbar selbst setzt. Es ist in der Tat kaum möglich, hier eine klare Grenzlinie zu ziehen.4

1  Dieses Werk besteht aus zwei Teilen, dem Lukasevangelium und der Apostelgeschichte. Es wurde in der altkirchlichen Überlieferung einem Mitarbeiter des Apostels Paulus, dem Arzt Lukas, zugeschrieben, gilt aber heute meistens als das Werk eines unbekannten Christen der dritten Generation. 2  Zum ersten Mal herausgestellt bei H. Räisänen, Das koranische Jesusbild: Ein Beitrag zur Theologie des Korans (Schriften der Finnischen Gesellschaft für Missiologie und Ökumenik 20; Helsinki: Finnische Gesellschaft für Missiologie und Ökumenik, 1971), 90–94. An meine Ausführungen schließen sich u. a. folgende Beiträge an: K. Rudolph, „Jesus nach dem Koran“, in W. Trilling & I. Berndt (Hrsg.), Was haltet ihr von Jesus? Beiträge zum Gespräch über Jesus von Nazaret (Leipzig: St. Benno, 1975), 260–87, bes. 285; H. Küng, „Eine christliche Antwort“, in H. Küng et al., Christentum und Weltreligionen: Hinführung zum Dialog mit Islam, Hinduismus und Buddhismus (München: Piper, 1984), 191. 3  Selbstverständlich kann man von den Intentionen eines Autors nur mit großer Vorsicht sprechen. 4  Vgl. C. M. Tuckett, „The Christology of Luke-Acts“, in J. Verheyden (ed.), The Unity of Luke-Acts (BETL 142; Leuven: Peeters, 1999), 133–64, bes. 133–49.

280

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

1. Parallelen zwischen Lukas und dem Koran 1. 1. Jesus als Beter Um zunächst am Generalthema der Tagung [Theologie und Praxis des Gebets in Christentum und Islam] anzuknüpfen: Der Jesus des Lukasevangeliums ist ein vorbildlicher Beter. „Der betende Jesus wird zum Paradigma.“5 Noch viel stärker als die anderen Evangelien hebt Lukas diesen Zug hervor, auch an Stellen, wo andere Evangelisten nicht vom Gebet sprechen. Bei der Taufe Jesu kommt der Geist herab auf ihn während er gerade betet (Lk. 3.21–22), und auch seine Verklärung findet während eines Gebets statt (Lk. 9.28–29). Wenn Jesus auf einen Berg steigt, lässt Matthäus ihn eine große Predigt halten (Matt. 5–7), aber Lukas sagt: „Er ging auf einen Berg, um zu beten. Und er verbrachte die ganze Nacht im Gebet zu Gott.“ (Lk. 6.12). Matthäus bringt das Vaterunser im Zusammenhang einer Belehrung Jesu über das Gebet (Matt. 6.9–15); bei Lukas betet Jesus zunächst selbst, und erst „als er das Gebet beendet hatte“, bittet ihn einer der Jünger, dass er sie beten lehre (Lk. 11.1). „Immer wieder zieht er sich zum Gebet zurück (5.16), vor wichtigen Entscheidungen wie der Berufung der zwölf Apostel (6.12), vor seinem Leiden. Er erfährt die Unterstützung Gottes, der seinen Engel sendet, um ihn zu stärken (22.41–43).“6 Dass Jesus so intensiv zu Gott betet, sollte Christen schon zu denken geben. „Das von Lukas stereotypierte Motiv vom Gebet Jesu“ zeigt offensichtlich seine Unterordnung unter Gott.7 „The union between him [Jesus] and the Father is, as it were, an external bond. Luke does not picture such a unity as we find in the Pauline or the Johannine Christology. They are joined by the Spirit on the one side and the human response of prayer, on the other.“8 Zwar berichtet auch das Johannesevangelium, wo der himmlische Ursprung Jesu vorausgesetzt wird, vom Beten Jesu, aber es handelt sich eben nicht um echte Gebete. In Jh. 11.41–42 verbalisiert „ein Demonstrationsgebet […] die Einheit Jesu mit dem Vater“; „Jesus bedarf des Gebetes nicht.“9 Jesu Abschiedsgebet in Jh. 17 ist in Wirklichkeit eine lange Belehrung für die Jünger, eine „demonstrative Entfaltung der Gesandtenchristologie und der Situation der Adressaten der Sendung nach seiner Rückkehr, und zwar für die Gemeinde“.10 Bezeichnenderweise wird Jesu Gebetskampf in Getsemani nicht erwähnt.11 5 J. Gnilka, Theologie des Neuen Testaments (HTKNTSup 5; Freiburg et al.: Herder, 1994), 207. 6  Ibid. 7  H. Conzelmann, Die Mitte der Zeit: Studien zur Theologie des Lukas (BHTh 17; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 41962), 163, vgl. 167. 8  G.W.H. Lampe, „The Lucan Portrait of Christ“, NTS 2 (1955/56): 160–75, bes. 172. 9  J. Becker, Das Evangelium nach Johannes: Kapitel 11–21 (ÖTK 4/2; Gütersloh: Mohn, 1981), 363–64. 10  Ibid., 510. 11  Zur Uminterpretation der Getsemani-Tradition in Jh. 12.27–30 vgl. ibid., 387–90.

Chapter 16: Das lukanische Jesusbild und der Dialog mit dem Islam

281

Im Koran erscheint Jesus ebenfalls als ein vorbildlicher Beter, der auch die sonstigen Tugenden eines guten Muslims aufweist. Er sagt dort (Sure 19.31–32), Gott habe ihm „das Gebet [zu verrichten] und die Almosensteuer [zu geben] anbefohlen, solange ich lebe, und [dass ich] gegen meine Mutter pietätvoll [sein soll]“.12

1.2. Theozentrische Christologie Noch auffallendere christologische Aussagen begegnen in der Apostelgeschichte, insbesondere in Predigten, die dem führenden Apostel Petrus in den Mund gelegt worden sind. Sicherlich hat Lukas ihren Wortlaut gestaltet, aber er hat sich dabei wohl auch alter Überlieferungen bedient;13 das legt die gelegentliche Spannung zwischen dem Inhalt jener Reden und dem des Lukasevangeliums nahe. Aus dem Munde des Petrus hören die Jerusalemer u. a. Folgendes: „Jesus den Nazoräer, einen Mann, der von Gott vor euch beglaubigt worden ist durch machtvolle Taten und Wunder und Zeichen, die Gott durch ihn in eurer Mitte getan hat […], diesen, der nach Gottes festgesetztem Ratschluss und Vorsatz dahingegeben worden war, habt ihr […] töten lassen. Und ihn hat Gott auferweckt“ (Apg. 2.22–24). In einer späteren Predigt sagt Petrus entsprechend: „Ihr kennt […] Jesus von Nazareth, wie ihn Gott mit Heiligem Geist und Kraft gesalbt hat, der umherzog beginnend von Galiläa aus nach der Taufe, die Johannes predigte, und Gutes tat und alle heilte, die vom Teufel überwältigt waren; denn Gott war mit ihm“ (Apg. 10.38). Die Wunder, die Gott durch Jesus wirkte, sind als „Legitimationszeichen“ gedacht, „denn durch sie wird der Beweis erbracht, dass Gott es war […], der hinter Jesu Leben, Wirken und Lehren stand“.14 Die Geschichte Jesu wird hier als eine völlig theozentrische Geschichte dargestellt: Sie erzählt davon, was Gott durch einen Menschen ausrichtete. Jesus ist ganz klar Gott untergeordnet. Nicht alles, was in diesen Versen steht, könnte so im Koran stehen, wohl aber die Aussage, dass Jesus durch Wunder und Zeichen beglaubigt wurde. Ist doch das Wort „Zeichen“ gerade ein Schlüsselwort im Koran, der ebenfalls sagt, dass Jesus „mit meiner [Gottes] Erlaubnis“ Zeichen wirkte (5.110).15 Wie der Koran, so stellt auch Lukas Jesus als ein völlig Gott zur Verfügung gestelltes Werkzeug dar. Der lukanische Jesus ist „der Erwählte“ Gottes (Lk. 12  Die Übersetzungen nach R. Paret, Der Koran (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 21980). Ein eingehender Vergleich der Marienbilder bei Lukas und im Koran wäre eine Aufgabe für sich. 13  „Lukas hat die Reden stark bearbeitet und stilisiert. Wenn man aber nach Traditionen fragt, lassen diese sich vor allem in Einzelstücken des Baumaterials des Lukas aufzeigen, und diese Traditionen gehen offenbar auf judenchristliche Vorstellungen zurück.“ J. Jervell, Die Apostelgeschichte (KEK 3; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 152–53. 14  E. Kränkl, Jesus der Knecht Gottes: Die heilsgeschichtliche Stellung Jesu in den Reden der Apostelgeschichte (BU 8; Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1972), 208. 15  Vgl. M. Bauschke, Jesus im Koran (Köln et al.: Böhlau, 2001), 125–27.

282

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

9.35, Apg. 3.20), „der Heilige und Gerechte“ (Apg. 3.14). Man vergleiche Sure 3.46, wo Jesus als „einer von den Rechtschaffenen“ (salihina) bezeichnet wird (ähnlich Sure 6.85). Nach dem Ratschluss Gottes wurde Jesus getötet (Apg. 2.23). An diesem Punkt ist der Koran bekanntlich anderer Meinung (siehe unten.), aber die Theozentrik ist Lukas und dem Koran gemeinsam: Was auch immer durch und mit Jesus geschah, dahinter stand Gott. Von Gott wurde Jesus auferweckt (Apg. 2.23) und „zum Herrn und zum Christus gemacht“ (Apg. 2.36). Gott hat ihn dabei „als Anführer und Retter an seine rechte Seite erhoben, um Israel die Umkehr und Vergebung der Sünden zu schenken“ (Apg. 5.31, in einer Rede von „Petrus und den Aposteln“). In Apg. 17.31 heißt es entsprechend in einer Rede des Paulus, dass Gott einmal die Welt richten wird „durch einen Mann, den er dazu bestimmt und vor allen Menschen dadurch ausgewiesen hat, dass er ihn von den Toten auferweckte“. Dass Jesus zum Herrn und Christus gemacht wurde (Apg. 2.36), setzt voraus, dass er zu einer Stellung erhöht wurde, die er vorher noch nicht hatte. Wir können uns die Debatte ersparen, ob Lukas hier mit Absicht so formuliert oder ob er eine ältere Vorstellung zu Wort kommen lässt, die er selbst nicht völlig teilt. In seinem Evangelium bringt er nämlich fortgeschrittene Vorstellungen, nach denen Jesus schon im Erdenleben ein besonderes Verhältnis zu Gott hatte; spätestens seit seiner Taufe (Lk. 3.22), aber eigentlich schon seit seiner Empfängnis im Mutterleib (Lk. 1.35) heißt er „Sohn Gottes“. In Bethlehem wurde „der Retter“, der „Christus und Herr“ ist, geboren (Lk. 2.11).16 Wie dem auch sei, auf alle Fälle schimmert in den Reden der Apostelgeschichte eine sehr alte Christologie durch,17 die vermutlich bis zur ältesten Jerusalemer Gemeinde zurückgeht. In Apg. 13.33 wird denn auch Ostern als der „Geburtstag“ Jesu als Gottessohn angegeben: Hier bezieht Paulus das Psalmwort (Ps. 2.7): „Mein Sohn bist du, heute habe ich dich gezeugt“ auf dessen Auferweckung. Unabhängig von der Frage, seit wann Jesus nach Lukas als „Messias“ oder „Gottessohn“ bezeichnet werden kann, bietet Lukas ein Bild, wo Jesus Gott klar untergeordnet bleibt.18 Gott hat den Mann Jesus zu dem „gemacht“, was er 16  Kränkl fragt allerdings nachdrücklich, ob den Reden der Apostelgeschichte als „programmatischen heilsgeschichtlichen Aufrissen des Lebens Jesu“ nicht größeres Gewicht zukommt, so dass Lukas mit Aussagen wie Apg. 2.36 „primär seiner eigenen Überzeugung“ Ausdruck verleiht: Kränkl, Jesus, 161–63. 17  Vgl. die zweifellos vorpaulinische Formel in Röm. 1.3–4: Jesus „ist dem Fleisch nach geboren als Nachkomme Davids“ und „dem Geist der Heiligkeit nach eingesetzt als Sohn Gottes in Macht seit der Auferstehung von den Toten“. Paulus interpretiert die Formel allerdings im Sinne seiner Präexistenzchristologie (Röm. 1.2). 18  Tuckett fasst eine weitgehende Übereinstimmung der Exegeten zusammen: „the Lukan Jesus is a figure who is very much subordinate to God“; „Jesus is supremely a man chosen by God to do God’s will (Acts 2:22, 17:31)“. C. M. Tuckett, Christology and the New Testament: Jesus and His Earliest Followers (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2001), 143–44. Für eine Auseinandersetzung mit einigen angelsächsischen Forschern, die bei Lukas eine höhere Christologie finden wollen, vgl. id., „Christology of Luke-Acts“, 149–57.

Chapter 16: Das lukanische Jesusbild und der Dialog mit dem Islam

283

für die Christen ist. Eine Sendungschristologie johanneischen Stils (Jesus sei ein präexistentes Wesen, das vom Himmel auf die Erde gesandt wurde) ist dadurch ausgeschlossen. Hier ist anzumerken, dass die Bezeichnung „Christus“ sowohl bei Christen als auch bei Muslimen falsche Assoziationen der Göttlichkeit wecken kann. Ursprünglich bezeichnete „Messias“, auf Griechisch „Christos“, einen von Gott auserwählten menschlichen König, dessen Erscheinen in der Endzeit manche erwarteten. Bei Lukas ist dieser Sprachgebrauch noch zu erkennen, vor allem in den Kindheitsgeschichten Lk. 1–2. Gott ist es, der ihm den Thron Davids geben wird (Lk. 1.32–33; allerdings wird der Charakter der Messiasvorstellung völlig uminterpretiert; letztlich ist das Königtum Jesu kein irdisches mehr). Jesus ist der Christus Gottes (Apg. 3.18 usw.) und, was noch enger an den Koran erinnert, auch ein Knecht Gottes (vgl. z. B. Sure 19.30). Den Juden zuerst „hat Gott seinen Knecht [Jesus] erstehen lassen und ihn gesandt, euch zu segnen“ (Apg. 3.26; vgl. 3.13; 4.27), sagt Petrus. In einer Rede des Paulus erscheint Jesus neben den Vätern, den Richtern und Königen als ein Glied in der Kette der Heilsmittler, die Gott an Israel gesandt hat, freilich als bedeutsamstes Glied (Apg. 13.17–25). In der langen Rede des Stephanus wiederum steht Jesu Schicksal neben dem der Gottesdiener Joseph, Mose und dem der Propheten (Apg. 7.9–52). „Jesus ist […] keine isolierte Heilsgestalt, er steht vielmehr in der Nachfolge der alttestamentlichen Gottesboten und bildet zugleich deren Abschluss und Höhepunkt. Diese heilsgeschichtliche Zuordnung hat ihren prägnanten Ausdruck in dem Jesusprädikat ‚Knecht Gottes‘ (Apg. 3.13, 26; 4.27, 30) gefunden. Denn als ‚Knechte Gottes‘ galten auch die alttestamentlichen Gerechten (vgl. Lk. 1.54–69; Apg. 4.25).“19 Der Titel „Prophet“, der im Koran so bedeutsam ist, findet sich gelegentlich auch im Werk des Lukas als eine Bezeichnung Jesu (z. B. Lk. 7.16), doch es handelt sich hier eher um eine „historische“ Erinnerung: Zu seinen Lebzeiten wurde Jesus von manchen Leuten für einen Propheten gehalten. Allerdings ist Jesus nicht nur der Endpunkt einer heilsgeschichtlichen Entwicklung, mit ihm beginnt auch etwas Neues und Entscheidendes (Lk. 16.16). Schon zu seinen Lebzeiten bringt Jesus in besonderer Weise Gottes Gnade den Menschen nahe, und nach seiner Erhöhung hat er eine ganz außerordentliche Stellung in Bezug auf die Welt; er kann z. B. den Heiligen Geist auf die Menschen ausgießen (Apg. 2.33), allerdings nur als Folge seiner Unterordnung unter Gott.20 Dem Tod Jesu wird im Doppelwerk des Lukas kein Heilswert beigemessen. An der Stelle, wo im Markusevangelium die Aussage steht, der Menschensohn sei gekommen, um „sein Leben hinzugeben als Lösegeld für viele“ (Mk. 10.45), 19 Kränkl, 20 

Jesus, 210–11. Vgl. Tuckett, „Christology of Luke-Acts“, 144.

284

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

lesen wir im Lukasevangelium nur dies: „Ich aber bin unter euch wie der, der bedient“ (Lk. 22.27). Der Tod Jesu erscheint als das unschuldige Leiden des Gerechten (vgl. bes. Lk. 23.47) und als eine „notwendige Durchgangsstufe zu Auferweckung und Erhöhung“21 (vgl. u. a. Lk. 24.46). Zwar zeigen der Abendmahlsbericht (Lk. 22.19–20) und ein dem Paulus zugeschriebenes Wort vom Blut Jesu (Apg. 20.28), „dass für Lukas und seine Gemeinde die Heilsbedeutsamkeit des Todes Jesu auch im Sinne stellvertretenden Sterbens ‚für‘ bekannt war. Aber um so erstaunlicher ist es, dass Lukas selbst diese Verständnisweise für die Heilsbegründung und Heilsverkündigung nie verwertet. Er hat sie vielmehr bewusst vermieden und zugunsten einer anderen Konzeption umgangen.“22 Denn „nach Lukas hat offenbar nicht nur Jesu Tod, sondern sein ganzes Leben und Sterben samt der Auferweckung das Heil des Menschen bewirkt. Sein gesamtes Wirken ist der Dienst (22.27), bei dem es darum geht, ‚das Verlorene zu suchen und zu retten‘ (19.10).“23 Im Lukasevangelium ruft Jesus seine Hörer nachdrücklich zur Umkehr auf (z. B. Lk. 15.7, 10) und bietet dem heimkehrenden Sünder die Gnade Gottes an (so besonders Lk. 15.11–32). Nach der Verkündigung der Apostel in der Apg. wird ein Mensch gerettet, wenn er Buße tut und sich taufen lässt; dann werden seine Sünden vergeben (Apg. 2.38). Das Jesusbild des Lukas weicht also deutlich von dem eher gottähnlichen Bild ab, das Johannes (und im Ansatz wohl schon auch Paulus) zeichnet. Auch die jungfräuliche Empfängnis Jesu – eine Vorstellung, die im Neuen Testament nur in den Kindheitsgeschichten bei Lukas und Matthäus auftaucht (Lk. 1; Matt. 1) – verändert diesen Tatbestand nicht. Denn die Präexistenz (von Paulus und Johannes vorausgesetzt) auf der einen und die jungfräuliche Empfängnis auf der anderen Seite sind ursprünglich alternative und sich gegenseitig ausschließende Versuche, das besondere Verhältnis Jesu zu Gott zu umschreiben. Es ist bei den Christen üblich geworden, die Lehre von der Jungfrauengeburt mit der Göttlichkeit Jesu zu verbinden. Aber man kann ja gerade aus dem Koran lernen, dass es nicht so sein muss. Der Koran zeigt, dass es möglich ist, die Geburt Jesu ohne einen menschlichen Vater zu bejahen und zugleich seine Göttlichkeit sogar streng zu verneinen. Die Geburt Jesu ist im Koran (Sure 19.16–33; 3.45–47) ein Zeichen der Allmacht Gottes – ähnlich wie die Erschaffung Adams aus dem Staub (Sure 3.59). Ob die Dinge bei Lukas anders liegen, lässt sich diskutieren. Auch er hebt in diesem Zusammenhang hervor, dass Gott nichts unmöglich ist (Lk. 1.37). Der 21 Kränkl,

Jesus, 209. A. Weiser, Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Vol. 2: Die Theologie der Evangelien (Stuttgart et al.: Kohlhammer, 1993), 145. Weiser bemerkt ferner, dass Lukas selbst dort, wo er den von der stellvertretenden Sühne des sterbenden Gottesknechts aus Jes. 53 zitiert, den Sühnegedanken konsequent weglässt (Lk. 22.37; Apg. 8.32–33). 23  W. Radl, Das Lukas-Evangelium (EdF 261; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1988), 106; zitiert bei Weiser, Theologie, 146. 22 

Chapter 16: Das lukanische Jesusbild und der Dialog mit dem Islam

285

Ursprung Jesu liegt im schöpferischen Geist Gottes: „Der Heilige Geist wird über dich [Maria] kommen, und die Kraft des Höchsten wird dich überschatten. Deshalb wird auch das Kind heilig genannt werden, Sohn Gottes.“ (Lk. 1.35). Man könnte diesen Spruch des Engels Gabriel zwar so deuten, dass die besondere Art der Empfängnis mit der (dann vorauszusetzenden) göttlichen „Natur“ Jesu zu verbinden wäre (allerdings nicht im Sinne der späteren Zwei-Naturenlehre); auch in diesem Fall würde Jesus als der „Sohn“ deutlich dem Vater subordiniert bleiben. Aber Lukas zeigt kein Interesse an einer Systematisierung der diversen Aussagen über Jesu Gottessohnschaft.24 Lk. 1.35 lässt sich denn auch durchaus in seine theozentrische Gesamtanschauung eingliedern: Schon vor seiner Geburt ist Jesus zum Heiland bestimmt; seine Geburt verdankt sich demselben Geist, der nachher sein ganzes Leben und Wirken bestimmen wird (Lk. 3.22; 4.1, 14; 10.21; Apg. 10.38; vgl. auch Lk. 4.36; 5.17).25 Man kann Sure 5.110 (2.87; 2.253) zum Vergleich heranziehen: Gott hat Jesus von Geburt an „mit dem Geist der Heiligkeit“ gestärkt.26

2. Unterschiede Die größten Unterschiede zwischen Lukas und dem Koran, die sich auch im jeweiligen Jesusbild widerspiegeln, bestehen einerseits in der Auffassung von der Geschichte, andererseits im Verhältnis zum Problem des Leidens. Zwar vertreten beide eine „heilsgeschichtliche“ Konzeption, doch jeweils eine etwas verschiedene. Von Gott gelenkt, bewegt sich nach Lukas die Geschichte durch verschiedene Stadien – die Zeit Israels, die Zeit Jesu und die Zeit der Kirche – ihrem Ziel entgegen, wobei die Zeit Jesu das entscheidende Zentrum, die „Mitte der Zeit“ ausmacht.27 Die Geschichte Jesu ist etwas Einmaliges und Unwiederholbares – obwohl Lukas eigentlich nicht sagt, warum sie so entscheidend wichtig ist.28 Nach der koranischen Konzeption dagegen wiederholt sich im Grunde die gleiche Geschichte unzählige Male.29 24  Wir sahen oben, dass in Apg. 13.33 die Auferweckung als der Zeitpunkt der Einsetzung Jesu in die Würdestellung des „Sohnes“ angegeben wird. Im Laufe der Traditionsbildung, deren verschiedene Stadien noch im Lukasevangelium zu erkennen sind, wurde der Tag der „Adoption“ weiter rückwärts datiert: zunächst auf die Taufe Jesu (Lk. 3.22), schließlich auf seine Geburt (Lk. 1.35). 25  Vgl. Bauschke, Jesus, 142–43. 26 Vgl. ibid., 54. 27  Die klassische Darstellung: Conzelmann, Mitte der Zeit. 28  Bei Lukas entsteht in der Tat eine fühlbare Spannung zwischen der Betonung, dass das Heil durch Umkehr und frommes Leben zu erreichen ist, und der Behauptung, den Menschen sei „kein anderer Name gegeben worden, durch den wir gerettet werden sollen“ (Apg. 4.12). Diese Inkonsistenz wird von D. Seeley, Deconstructing the New Testament (BINS Series 5; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 81–102, herausgestellt. 29  R. Paret, Mohammed und der Koran. Geschichte und Verkündigung des arabischen Pro-

286

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

Ein wesentlicher Unterschied kommt in der jeweiligen Einstellung zum Leiden zum Vorschein. Lukas betont, dass Christus leiden „müsse“ (Apg. 26.23). Die Passion Jesu stellt sich bei Lukas als eine Schilderung von einem leidenden Gerechten dar; auch hier wird er zum großen Vorbild.30 Auch von dem ersten christlichen Märtyrer, Stephanus, zeichnet Lukas ein idealisiertes und eindrucksvolles Bild (Apg. 7). Die Zeit der Kirche ist eine Periode von Leiden und Verfolgungen, und so muss es sein. Die christliche Ethik konzentriert sich auf das tägliche „Tragen des Kreuzes“ und die konkrete Nachfolge Jesu; sie neigt sich zu einer Martyriumsethik hin.31 Ist das Leiden letzten Endes bei Lukas ein „Tor zur Herrlichkeit“, so vertritt der Koran eine Einstellung, die man theologia gloriae nennen könnte – eine „Theologie der Herrlichkeit“, in der der schmachvolle Tod eines Gesandten Gottes undenkbar bleibt.32 Der Kreuzestod Jesu wird in einem (im Übrigen vieldeutigen) Koranvers (Sure 4.157) bestritten. Inwiefern das im Blick auf den Dialog ein unüberbrückbarer Unterschied ist, sei dahingestellt. Ansonsten drängt sich folgende These auf: Im Neuen Testament gibt es Ansätze zu unterschiedlichen Lehren über Person und Werk Jesu. Die klassische christliche Dogmatik hat den Weg eingeschlagen, dessen Anfänge bei Paulus und im Johannesevangelium liegen (Gott hat seinen Sohn in die Welt gesandt, der von allem Anfang an bei ihm weilte), und diese Ansätze bis hin zur Trinitätslehre weiterentwickelt. Es wäre aber auch möglich gewesen, beim lukanischen Ansatz anzufangen und eine Christologie zu entwickeln, wo der Sohn deutlich dem Vater untergeordnet ist. Das ist in einigen (judenchristlichen oder auch etwa arianischen) Kreisen auch geschehen, diese haben jedoch im Kampf um die rechte Lehre verloren. Die islamische Kritik am „offiziellen“ christlichen Jesusbild wird von Christen gewöhnlich schroff zurückgewiesen. Doch Hans Küng hat m. E. recht, wenn er bemerkt, dass die Kirche dabei auch einen Teil ihrer eigenen Vergangenheit verdrängt. „Der Islam erinnert die Christen an ihre eigene Vergangenheit!“33 Denn am Anfang war für die Kirche vom Neuen Testament aus – und im Anschluss an Jesu eigene Botschaft!34 – auch eine theozentrische Christologie eine Möglichkeit. Neuerdings hat eine wachsende Anzahl christlicher Theo-

pheten (UTB 32; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 51980), 100: „Eintönig, mit nur geringfügigen Abwandlungen, wurde auf der Bühne der Geschichte immer wieder dasselbe Stück gespielt.“ Vgl. auch Bauschke, Jesus, 125. 30  Vgl. Gnilka, Theologie, 207. 31  Vgl. Conzelmann, Mitte, 218–19. 32 Bauschke, Jesus, 41: „Gott hat seine eigene Ehre so sehr an den Gesandten gebunden, dass dem Koran zufolge zwar Propheten getötet werden können […], nicht aber ein Gesandter.“ 33 Küng, Christentum, 192. 34  Vgl. Bauschke, Jesus, 44, 136–40.

Chapter 16: Das lukanische Jesusbild und der Dialog mit dem Islam

287

logen 35 versucht, jenen Ansatz aufzunehmen. Daraus könnten sich neue Per­ spektive für den Dialog ergeben.36 Um am Ende zum Thema Gebet zurückzukommen: Manche frühen Christen haben Jesus kultisch verehrt und sogar zu ihm gebetet. Das auf aramäisch aufbewahrte maranatha („Unser Herr, komm!“) ist eine eschatologische Bitte an Jesus (1. Kor. 16.22; vgl. Offb. 22.20); Paulus hat den Herrn Jesus Christus (vergeblich!) gebeten, den „Stachel“ von seinem Fleisch (wohl eine Krankheit) wegzunehmen (2. Kor. 12.8).37 Doch im Lichte des lukanischen Jesusbildes ist es nur konsequent, dass Gebete an Jesus in der Apostelgeschichte des Lukas eben nicht vorkommen. Lukas berichtet sehr oft, dass die Christen beteten, aber diese Gebete werden immer an Gott gerichtet. Das wird in Apg. 12.5; 16.25 ausdrücklich gesagt, und besonders klar wird die Sache in Apg. 4: Die Apostel „erhoben einmütig ihre Stimme zu Gott“ (4.24); in dem langen Gebet wird zweimal „dein heiliger Knecht Jesus“ erwähnt (4.27, 30), der also ganz deutlich von Gott unterschieden wird. Wer als Christ seine Gebete nur an Gott richtet, findet im Werk des Lukas eine starke Stütze.

35  So schlossen sich die Verfasser eines von J. Hick herausgegebenen berühmten Sammelbandes unter Verweis auf „eine wachsende Anzahl von Christen, professionellen Theologen wie Laien“, dem frühen Bekenntnis an, dass Jesus „ein von Gott für eine besondere Rolle beglaubigter Mann (Apg. 2.22)“ war; „die spätere Vorstellung von ihm als der inkarnierte Gott, die zweite Person der Trinität, die ein menschliches Leben führte“, sei „eine mythologische oder poetische Weise, seine Bedeutung für uns auszudrücken“: J. Hick (ed.), The Myth of God Incarnate (London: SCM, 1977), ix–x. Vgl. etwa H. Küng, Christ sein (München: Piper, 8 1976), 436; G. Lindeskog, Das jüdisch-christliche Problem: Randglossen zu einer Forschungsepoche (Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis; Historia Religionum 9; Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1986), 27–29, 191–92. Weitere Hinweise bei Bauschke, Jesus, 138, 146–52. 36  Um Missverständnissen vorzubeugen, sei bemerkt, dass eine solche Schwerpunktverschiebung nicht durch muslimische Kritik an der christlichen Christologie veranlasst wurde; das Problem hat als ein innerchristliches schon immer existiert. Dass christliche Selbstkritik Muslimen willkommen ist, versteht sich. Ein wirklicher Dialog kann m. E. jedoch erst dann entstehen, wenn Muslime eine ebenso tiefgreifende Veränderung in ihrem Verständnis vom Koran zustande bringen. Der „Vermenschlichung“ der Christologie auf der christlichen Seite sollte eine entsprechende „Vermenschlichung“ des Korans auf islamischer Seite entsprechen – nicht wegen des Dialogs, sondern einfach weil die Frage nach der Natur des Korans auch längst ein innerislamisches Problem ist. Vgl. unten, Kapitel 17. 37 Allerdings richtet Paulus seine Danksagung nicht an Christus, sondern an Gott (1. Thess. 1.2; 1. Kor. 1.4 usw.), wenn auch gelegentlich „durch Christus“ (Röm. 1.8).

Chapter 17

How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other: An Exegetical Perspective The three monotheistic religions – Judaism, Christianity and Islam – pose challenges to each other. Some of these are intellectual in nature. Each of the three religions has a specific tenet that it considers non-negotiable, but that the others consider unacceptable. For Judaism, this is the unique, chosen status of Israel as God’s people (with its promised homeland); for Christianity, the doctrine of Christ as the Son of God and the second person of the Trinity; for Islam, the Qur’an as the eternal Word of God. A theological dialogue with respect to these points is an extremely difficult matter but, for precisely this reason, it needs to begin. In fact, it is overdue. To be sure, in the present situation an encounter on the intellectual level may not seem the most pressing task. Efforts to help each religion focus on its peaceful traditions and to overcome its violent aspects are no doubt more urgent (each religion has both these dimensions, and it is a question of which part the leading authorities choose to emphasize). But in the long run a radical dialogue on the underlying key convictions is unavoidable – not least as a contribution to the efforts to prevent a ‘clash of civilizations’. I limit myself here to the mutual intellectual challenge that Christianity and Islam present to each other from the perspective of a scholar engaged in the critical study of both the New Testament and the Qur’an.

1. The Christian Challenge to Islam: Critical Study of One’s Own Scripture One thing that a modern Christian finds largely missing in Islam is the notion that even a holy book is indebted to its historical context. Islam has produced no counterpart to the critical study of the Bible developed by Jews and Christians, which has – to some extent at least – gained ground in mainstream churches. In general Muslims regard the Qur’an as the direct word of God, which existed before the creation and was ‘sent down’ to Muhammad in a series of revela-

290

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

tions.1 In their eyes, it has nothing to do with Muhammad’s personality or his human ideas. An outsider can hardly avoid the question, ‘Can revelation fall directly from heaven, dictated word for word by God? Why could one not perceive the Qur’an as a prophetic witness to God?’ In the words of the controversial Catholic theologian Hans Küng, now engaged in interreligious dialogue for the sake of world peace: ‘If we have historical criticism of the Bible (for the benefit of contemporary faith) why not then also have historical criticism of the Qur’an, and this for the benefit of a Muslim faith appropriate to modern times?’ 2 Part of that benefit could be coming to terms with those parts of the Qur’an that encourage violence; such passages have been used by militant Muslims to justify extremely violent acts. These acts are condemned by the majority of Muslims who assure that Islam is a religion of peace. Yet the peaceful majority cannot change the fact that there are passages in the Qur’an that can plausibly be taken to encourage violence. Later on I shall quote a Muslim author’s claim that inability to address critical questions to one’s Scripture tends to make moderate Muslims somewhat helpless when faced with extremist claims that are supported with an appeal to the Qur’an. It would make a great difference, if violence-oriented passages could be regarded by Muslims as human efforts to master difficult situations in Muhammad’s time, in much the same way that open-minded biblical scholars regard some of the violent and xenophobic texts of the Hebrew Bible as efforts by ancient Israelites to master the crisis of Exile. Is one entitled to ask a foreign tradition questions like this? I think the answer is yes – but only on the condition that one is prepared to pose equally critical questions to one’s own tradition (my idea of ‘fair play’). Moreover, though we may raise questions, we may not demand that the other tradition wrestle with them. Such demands cannot be imposed from outside, least of all in the present climate which is hardly very favourable to self-critical exercises. Still the fact is that related questions, though formulated in more cautious ways, have now and then been put forward even within Islam. Questions from without sometimes converge with existing strands of thought within the religion. For instance, individual Muslim scholars admit the following: – The Qur’an makes use of extant Jewish and Christian stories, adapting them to its message; – the Qur’an addresses the auditors of Muhammad in a particular place at a given time,3 which has a bearing on its applicability in altered circumstances, and 1  The ‘Mu’tazilites’ once held that the Qur’an was created, but their view did not carry the day. 2  H. Küng, ‘Christianity and World Religions: The Dialogue with Islam as one Model’, Muslim World 77 (1987): 80–95, esp. p.  86–87 (emphasis added). 3  This is something that classical Muslim scholars were well aware of, as the discussions of

Chapter 17: How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other

291

– the contents of the Qur’an are intimately related to the personality of the Prophet. Here we will briefly consider some examples of Muslim thinkers who have engaged these positions.4 Some, mainly Egyptian, interpreters have claimed that the Qur’an has to be studied with similar methods as applied to any other literary work. This was emphasized by Amin al-Khuli (1895–1966), a leading Egyptian 20th century exegete who wanted to promote literary-critical (literaturwissenschaftlich) study of the Holy Book. He considered it essential that one first establish the exact literal meaning of the Qur’an ‘as it was understood in the days of its revelation’.5 In the 1940s he supervised the doctoral thesis of Muhammad Khalafallah (1916–1998), which aroused a great stir, as the author asserted that the Qur’an uses legends and fables in the service of its message. Many stories of the earlier prophets in the Qur’an need not be historically true. The stories contain religious truths, intending to influence people’s will and actions. 6 God took into account Muhammad’s audience and its ability to understand. He employed – using his artistic freedom and creative phantasy! – expressions and stories that were familiar to those people. The Qur’an is ‘human with reference to expression and style’. Part of it is addressed – by God – to Muhammad to comfort him. Here a problem arises which Khalafallah evades: how does this correlation with Muhammad’s situation fit with the assumed pre-existence of the Qur’an before the creation? Still, this author’s view is comparable to the fairly standard Christian notion that biblical revelation in the early stories of Genesis employs oriental tales. The response to these reflections was not encouraging. Khalafallah’s dissertation was rejected. Critics claimed that he did not really believe in the divine origin of the Qur’an. This was not the case, though one may ask whether it was consistent to hold fast to the full divinity of the book, when so much was conceded in terms of human expression. A recent member of the literary-critical school of thought was Nasr Hamid Abu Zayd (1943–2010) who got involved in vast difficulties because of his views. An Egyptian court sentenced him as an alleged apostate from Islam to divorce (which neither he nor his wife wanted). The couple emigrated to the Netherthe asbab al-nuzul (the occasions of sending down given verses) show, though critical conclusions were not drawn. 4  Cf. H. Räisänen, Marcion, Muhammad and the Mahatma (London: SCM, 1997), 118–36 (‘Word of God, Word of Muhammad: Could Historical Criticism of the Qur’an Be Pursued by Muslims?’). 5  J. J. G. Jansen, The Interpretation of the Koran in Modern Egypt (Leiden: Brill, 1980), 33; 65–69. 6  On Khalafallah whose views were debated even in the Egyptian Parliament, see R. Wielandt, Offenbarung und Geschichte im Denken moderner Muslime (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1971), 134–52.

292

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

lands; Abu Zayd taught at the universities of Leiden and Utrecht. He connected al-Khuli’s view of the Qur’an as a literary work with a communication-theoretical model of the event of revelation: the language of the Qur’an is adapted to the ability of Muhammad and his audience to understand its message. The existence of this ‘human side’ means that one cannot identify the statements of the Qur’an directly with God’s eternal truth. Revelation is only accessible in a form which has already been interpreted by its human recipients. Nevertheless, Abu Zayd insisted that the ‘divine pre-history of the text defies human scholarship. The human mind cannot and should not try to penetrate what is in every respect beyond human reason.’ 7 This reservation reminds one of standard Christian attitudes to rational discussions concerning the Trinity. Here one may also mention Mohammed Arkoun (1928–2010), an Algerian who taught at the Sorbonne. He took a subtle but critical approach in the framework of a linguistic-semiotic analysis; such a programme allowed him to evade the hottest issues. But the text of the Qur’an had to be treated like any other text; thereby, individual critical points were made almost in passing. Thus, Arkoun admitted the existence of legends in the Qur’an, the language of which is mythical and symbolical. He stated that it was inevitable that Western scholars would take up the question of textual criticism of the Qur’an, although Muslim orthodoxy had made a taboo of the issue, and he even conceded the possibility that there may be later textual corrections in the Qur’an.8 Fazlur Rahman (1919–1988) was a Pakistani scholar who taught for some twenty years in Chicago. He made a programmatic distinction between the Qur’an and later tradition – a distinction which recalls the ‘Bible alone’ principle of the Protestant Reformation. The legal experts of Islam tend to equate the traditional Islamic law (sharia) with the Qur’an, with the result that their own decisions actually gain a more or less divine authority. By contrast, Rahman claimed that the sharia should be reassessed in light of the Qur’an. In addition, there are distinctions to be made even within the Qur’an itself; in the jargon of biblical scholars one might venture to speak of a ‘canon within the canon’. It is the earliest revelations that show the ‘basic impulse’ of Islam, which differs from later developments. To some extent this basic impulse differs even from later parts of the Qur’an itself, which are therefore not to be applied literally. The early parts urge peaceful debate with non-believers; only in the later parts is the possibility of violent encounters envisaged. Rahman even states that the Qur’an tackles legal problems experimentally. An example is the topic of

7  See, e.g., N. H. Abu Zaid, Gottes Menschenwort: Für ein humanistisches Verständnis des Koran (Freiburg: Herder, 2008); S. Wild, ‘“We have sent down to thee the Book with the Truth…”’, in S. Wild (ed.), The Qur’an as Text (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 145. 8  M. Arkoun, Lectures du Coran (Paris: G.-P. Maisonneuve et Larose, 1982); see Räisänen, Marcion, 129–30.

Chapter 17: How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other

293

wine: early suras praise it as a gift from God; later sections criticize its misuse; only in the end it is totally prohibited. Rahman states that the Qur’an ‘had partly to accept the then existing society as a term of reference’; therefore it could not possibly intend its laws to be ‘literally eternal’. One must go beyond the actual legislation to reach the real intention of each law. In searching for this intention one must pay close attention to the social context of a revelation.9 Rahman wrote that ‘the Qur’an is entirely the Word of God’ and ‘also entirely the word of Muhammad’ – a truly radical statement from a Muslim, but close to the standard Christian view that the Bible is wholly God’s Word and also wholly written by humans. The Qur’an is ‘purely divine’, for there were moments when ‘Muhammad’s moral intuitive perception rose to the highest point and became identified with the moral law itself’. Inspiration is assumed, but this is not verbal inspiration. The Qur’an is ‘pure Divine Word’, ‘but of course (!) it is equally intimately related to the inmost personality of the Prophet Muhammad whose relationship to it cannot be mechanically conceived like that of a record. The Divine Word flowed through the Prophet’s heart.’ 10 Rahman claimed that he held fast to the full divinity of the Qur’an, yet one wonders whether his position does not imply a more ambiguous attitude. Hans Küng was indeed able to refer to Rahman in voicing the proposal that Muslims could understand the Qur’an as Muhammad’s inspired testimony or as a revelation influenced by the personality of the Prophet. This took place in a dialogue arranged in Harvard in 1987. Küng’s proposal was, however, categorically rejected by the invited dialogue partner, Seyyed Hossein Nasr, another leading Muslim scholar, an emigrant from Iran. For him, Küng’s suggestion was absolutely unacceptable. An orthodox Muslim could never accept any other view than that the Prophet received the Qur’an from Heaven, word for word. It is the Word of God, not the word of the Prophet. Accordingly, it is in Muslim eyes an act of the greatest blasphemy to say that the Prophet may have learnt his view on salvation history or Christology from Jewish and Christian sources, as Küng had indicated. With regard to Küng’s appeal to Rahman, Nasr stated that it is sad to refer to such an ‘anomaly’ or ‘an isolated case, even if it be an eminent scholar, and overlook the beliefs of a billion Muslims’. Such a manoeuvre ‘destroys from the very beginning the possibility of understanding and creating peace’.11 Yet one may regard this statement as an exaggerated, if not desperate, defensive move, for even if Rahman was controversial, he was both a respected Islamic activist and an academic teacher who has exerted a fundamental influence on a remarkable 9 

F. Rahman, Islam (New York: Doubleday, 1968), 25–38. Ibid., 27–29. 11  S. H. Nasr, ‘Response to Hans Küng’s Paper on Christian-Muslim Dialogue’, Muslim World 77 (1987): 95–105, esp. p.  98–99. 10 

294

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

number of disciples (a group of Turkish scholars known as the Ankara school may be singled out). However, decades before Rahman, an Indian lawyer and diplomat, Asaf A. A. Fyzee (1899–1981), had distinguished even more sharply between God’s word and Muhammad’ s testimony. The Qur’an represents God’s voice as heard by Muhammad; God does not speak directly, but Muhammad speaks with divine authorization. The Qur’an ‘is a testimony of his faith in God’. ‘God spoke to him, and he spoke to us.’ Nevertheless, Muhammad’s words and God’s Word are one in a mysterious way.12 This revolutionary idea comes even closer than Rahman’s view to the Christian commonplace that the Bible is wholly God’s Word and also wholly written by humans. Fyzee inferred that the concrete legislation found in the Qur’an is not binding. The Qur’an has to be expounded in its historical context. This means, among other things, that ‘the better we get acquainted with the contributions of Judaism and Christianity, the fuller insight we will gain into the message and doctrines of the prophet’13 – a standpoint regarded as blasphemous by Nasr a generation later. Yet one must look even further back to discover how far in a ‘liberal’ direction Muslim interpretation of the Qur’an has been able to move – which probably means that it could do the same today. In the late nineteenth century Justice Sayyed Amir Ali (1849–1928), a celebrated Indian lawyer and political leader who established the first mosque in London made a grand attempt to conquer the West with its own weapons in a peaceful debate. His book The Spirit of Islam (1891) has been ‘one of the most widely read works in many Muslim countries’ for more than a century. It is an apologetic work that praises Islam as a religion of free thinking and argues its superiority to Christianity.14 But Amir Ali makes it clear that in his view the Qur’an consists of Muhammad’s teachings – noble teachings of an inspired preacher. The Qur’an even gives expression to Muhammad’s feelings. Furthermore, Muhammad went through a religious evolution which is reflected in the Qur’an: traditions inherited from his environment yielded gradually to a more spiritual understanding. Thus, according to Amir Ali, the Qur’an contains ‘realistic’ descriptions of heaven and hell, borrowed from Zoroastrianism, in passages from the early period ‘before the mind of the teacher had attained the full development of religious consciousness’. Materialistic descriptions were necessary when the message had to be conveyed ‘to the common folk of the desert’, but in the end they had to yield to the ‘real essence – the adoration 12  A. A. A. Fyzee, A Modern Approach to Islam (Bombay: Asia Publishing House, 1963), esp.  109–10. 13  This statement by Fyzee in an Arabic journal from 1959 is quoted by J. M. S. Baljon, Modern Muslim Koran Interpretation (Leiden: Brill, 1968), 68 n.  2. 14  First edition in 1873; I am in possession of a pocket edition of 1965, and even it is not the most recent one.

Chapter 17: How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other

295

of God in humility and love’.15 Amir Ali tries to refute the common view that Muhammad promised a sensual paradise with lovely virgins to his followers in general and to martyrs in particular. In view of the consequences of some paradise fantasies today one can only wish that Amir Ali’s view would have had more success. Amir Ali went much further than any of his followers have been prepared to go in that he regarded Muhammad as the author of the Qur’an and also stated this clearly. One Western scholar commented (half a century ago) that he does not know of any modern Muslim writer who has taken the same view. But he adds that ‘many Muslims hold the belief, and openly say so in conversation’. He also goes on to point out that ‘there is no historical reason why they should not, because the doctrine that the Qur’an is “uncreate”, i.e. literally the word of God, was not finally established until the third (Islamic) century’.16 No doubt openness depends on one’s situation. Today voicing critical questions can endanger one’s life, so it is no coincidence that the most outspoken written statements were made some generations ago. But the British Pakistani political philosopher Tariq Ali has written: ‘In reality millions of skeptics, agnostics and atheists currently live in the Islamic world. They dare not speak in public for fear of the response, but they will not keep quiet forever.’17 The sociologist and radical Hebrew Bible scholar Jacques Berlinerblau comments: A rational and skeptical framework for analysis of the Qur’an, one carried by religious intellectuals, has never achieved legitimacy in the Islamic world. There are, in all likelihood, numerous believing critics among Muslim exegetes. Few, however, are willing or able to share their skeptical insights with the public at large. Jousting with the ‘ulama [the guardians of Islamic doctrine and law]... and scandalizing the masses is something that very few intellectuals would want to do. This is one very obvious lesson to be learned from the Rushdie affair or the plight of a persecuted believing critic such as [...] Nasr Abu Zaid.18

Berlinerblau highlights the role of ‘believing critics’ as central players in the development of modern Judaism and Christianity. He singles out Julius Wellhausen and William Robertson Smith. They were pious religious men, but they questioned traditional assumptions about the authorship of biblical books and ran into difficulties for that. Berlinerblau suggests that ‘their accomplishments are every bit as world altering as those of Darwin, Marx, Nietzsche, and Freud’. ‘The emergence of a critical and self-critical framework for the study of the Bi-

15 

A. Ali, The Spirit of Islam (London: Methuen, 1965), 197. A. Guillaume, Islam (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1968), 160. 17  Quoted in J. Berlinerblau, The Secular Bible (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 127. 18 Berlinerblau, The Secular Bible, 124. 16 

296

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

ble must be reckoned not only as an effect, but also as a cause (and stabilizer) of occidental modernity’. Berlinerblau stresses that ‘institutionalized believing criticism may function as a solvent of religious fanaticism’ and expresses the wish that Muslim exegetes could follow the example of their Jewish and Christian colleagues. No attempt to trigger the much sought-after ‘Islamic Reformation’ will succeed without the emergence of a comparable class in the Muslim world. Wherever it comes from, it is essential that rational Qur’anic criticism emerge from within Muslim theological circles and be predicated on ideas indigenous to its rich exegetical traditions [...] So we await the new (and more tolerant) Mu’tazila. [Believing criticism] does not bring about the salvation of the species. It does, however, go a long way in dampening those irrational passions that occasionally overcome all religious groups.19

The public silence in the Muslim world has, however, been recently broken in a dramatic way. It is a sign of the times that the new initiative, the most radical of all, comes from a layperson, from a woman in the diaspora. It does not quite meet the demand that ‘criticism emerge from within Muslim theological circles’, but at least it appeals to Muslim tradition. Irshad Manji (1968–) is a Canadian Muslim journalist, today director of a ‘Moral Courage Project’ at New York University. Called ‘Osama bin Laden’s worst nightmare’ by some and the ‘Luther of Islam’ by others, she exerts great influence through her books,20 media appearances and website.21 Irshad (she prefers to use her first name) calls for an Islamic reformation, which she calls ‘Project Ijtihad’. Ijtihad is an old technical term of Muslim theology, meaning roughly ‘independently forming one’s own opinion’; Irshad calls it ‘Islam’s lost tradition of independent thinking’. But ‘the gates of ijtihad’ were closed more than nine hundred years ago. Irshad claims that ‘to this very day, imitation of medieval norms has trumped innovation in Islam. It’s time to revive ijtihad to update Islam for the 21st century.’ The main source of Irshad’s troubles is the sharia, the traditional Islamic law, constructed and interpreted by men. But she also states on her website (in passing, to be sure) that even the Qur’an is ‘ambiguous and contradictory’. She has no problem in conceiving it, ‘like all holy books, as divinely inspired’. But this does not mean that it is ‘divinely authored’. What is known, for example, of the history of its compilation ‘points to the probability of human editing and therefore human error’. Like Hans Küng, Irshad refers to biblical criticism as a model, because it would bring religious benefits. She observes (a bit inaccurately) that ‘moderate Christians’ accept that the Bible is a compendium of gospels as interpreted by different observers. By contrast, she continues, 19 

Ibid., 126, 128. Starting with The Trouble with Islam (Toronto: Random House Canada, 2003). 21 www.irshadmanji.com 20 

Chapter 17: How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other

297

even moderate Muslims believe that the Qur’an is the final, immutable word of God, untouched by the human hand and mind. Which is why most Muslims have no clue how to debate or dissent with extremists – we’ve never been introduced to the possibility, let alone the virtue, of asking questions about our holy book. It’s time to change that [...] Mainstream Muslims need to face those questions, just as the moderates in Christianity and Judaism have been doing for the past century.

Unlike Amir Ali, Irshad Manji is not concerned to assert the superiority of Islam to other faiths. For her, Muhammad is a messenger of God, not the messenger. Islam is built on a pluralistic foundation, as Muhammad actually learnt a great deal from Jews and Christians. Naturally, the response to Irshad in letters by readers is varied, but positive comments by fellow Muslims are not lacking. One reader states that ‘before Islam can truly begin to reform, Muslims have to get over the idea that the Qur’an is undoubtedly divine’. That reader regards herself as an agnostic; however, Islam is ‘a very big part’ of who she is so she nevertheless thinks of herself as ‘a non-observant Muslim’. It may well be that such liberal Muslims in the diaspora will make more attempts at reappraising the Qur’an. Project Ijtihad seems a big step in that direction. But it cannot be ignored that someone like Irshad Manji lives in the shadow of death threats. It seems, then, that the challenge from the Christian side – or rather the challenge of academic enquiry that has, to some degree, pervaded even the churches – converges with some critical attempts within the Muslim world itself. It is true that these attempts have been (partly, at least) stimulated by external ‘Western’ influences. Fyzee explicitly compares his program with that of Martin Luther; Irshad appeals to the model of biblical criticism. But Christian biblical criticism, too, was initially largely kindled by external impulses, e.g., astronomical observations and the ‘voyages of discovery’. Actually, from the beginning, Muslim scholars have themselves been aware of such problems as internal differences within the Qur’an. They have even constructed theories of how some verses are abrogated by other verses – though mostly without drawing conclusions that might affect the dogma of full divinity. A biblical scholar may think here of the abrogation of parts of the Old Testament law in the New despite God’s repeated assurances that these would be eternal decrees for his people. Certain facts about the compilation of the Qur’an after Muhammad’s death are well-known to Muslims – but critical conclusions have not been drawn. Wouldn’t it be time to venture that? Could Muslim and non-Muslim scholars one day join forces in an attempt to produce a critical edition of the Qur’an, making use of the numerous old manuscripts found several decades ago in a mosque in Jemen? These manuscripts seem to indicate that the text of the Qur’an was in the early decades less stable than has been claimed. Again, one cannot help thinking of the early stages in biblical studies, when some bold scholars

298

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

began to collect variant readings and challenged the authority of the ‘textus receptus’, exposing themselves to ridicule and ostracism. In a still more remote future an even more tremendous challenge awaits scholars: to contemplate seriously the possibility that some of the internal differences in the Qur’an may be due to interpretative processes in the early Muslim community. This is argued in an intriguing book by the German Hebrew Bible scholar Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann.22 His approach is not to be confused with that of some Western scholars who date the Qur’an centuries after Muhammad; here we are speaking of a few decades. Pohlmann applies to the Qur’an source-critical (literarkritisch) methods long employed in biblical exegesis. Scholars of the prophetic books of the Bible have introduced the term Fortschreibung, meaning a continuous process of scribal work on the texts, which involves changes and additions. Time will tell how Pohlmann’s approach will be received, but it seems that he has made a promising start. A biblical scholar, then, will recognise in the study of the Qur’an features that are familiar to him or her from the history of biblical studies. Our Muslim colleagues wrestle with similar problems and we would do well to encourage and assist them in their critical enterprise. If critical study by Muslim ‘believing critics’ still seems to be mostly an underground activity, we should remember that it took Christians some seventeen centuries to develop a critical study of our own Scripture. In comparison with that, Muslims still have plenty of time. But is it at all meaningful to compare criticism of the Qur’an with criticism of the Bible? It has often been pointed out that the position of the Qur’an in Islam is not identical with that of the Bible in Christianity. The Qur’an is adamant about its divine origin which is incessantly underlined throughout the book, which is not the case with the Bible. The position of the Qur’an in Islam is therefore much higher and corresponds rather to that of Christ in Christianity. Muslim theologians have pondered the same kinds of questions with regard to the Qur’an that Christian theologians have considered with regard to Christ: for example, is the Qur’an created or not? Criticism of the Qur’an thus involves a great deal more for a Muslim than historical criticism of the Bible does for many Christians. Yet one should not exaggerate the difference, for the Bible did not always have a secondary position in Christianity. It has been pointed out that many patristic texts look rather ‘Islamic’ as regards the view of verbal inspiration.23 Even a radically independent thinker like Origen held fast to verbal inspiration and

22  K.-F. Pohlmann, Die Entstehung des Korans: Neue Erkenntnisse aus Sicht der historisch-kritischen Bibelwissenschaft (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2012). 23  J. van Ess, ’Verbal Inspiration? Language and Revelation in Classical Islamic Theology’, in Wild (ed.), The Qur’an as Text, 177–94, esp. p.  194.

Chapter 17: How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other

299

acknowledged no contradictions in the Bible.24 The Bible had a very central place in post-Reformation Protestantism; one has with justice spoken of a ‘biblical culture’ especially in Britain. According to the German orthodoxy in the seventeenth century even the vowels of the Old Testament Hebrew were directly revealed by God. Islamic interpreters have never gone so far: it is thought that only the consonant text of the Qur’an has been sent down by God. The gradual breakdown of the seventeenth-century view and the transfer of the Bible to a less prominent position has been a painful process which is not yet fully over; fundamentalism is a significant power in the Protestant world, especially in the United States. If a critical approach to the Bible is applied consistently, the all-important doctrine of Christ will also be affected; historical criticism touches even the heart of Christian dogmatics. The spirit of fair play demands: if one would have Muslims adopt criticism of the Qur’an, one should not shrink from drawing conclusions from biblical criticism that affect traditional views of the divinity of Christ. This brings me to the second part of my reflections. It will be relatively brief, as I assume that the issues treated will be more familiar to most readers than those discussed in the first part.

2. The Muslim Challenge to Christianity: Criticism of the Doctrines of Trinity and Christology British author Ruqayya Waris Maqsood, formerly called Rosalyn Kendrick, was a devout Christian who earned a degree in theology and wrote books on Christian themes. She reports, however, that she became impatient with ‘the intricate maze of doctrinal axioms’ she was supposed to accept by faith. She discovered that the doctrine of the Trinity was not found in the Bible and was not formally accepted by the church until the fourth century. She had other problems, too, with the way God was portrayed (especially in connection with the doctrine of atonement). Eventually something important happened: ‘I think it was when I finally admitted to myself that God did not need any “sacrifice” to make him more merciful than he already is, that I realised that I had become a Muslim.’25 According to Ruqayya Maqsood, Christian converts to Islam often feel that they are ‘coming home’. They do not regard themselves as renegades. On the contrary, ‘most of what was incomprehensible in Christianity falls neatly into place, and there is often a “flash of light” experience […] that can be compared 24  That the allegorical method provided a means to explain away contradictions – a wellknown phenomenon even in the history of Qur’anic interpretation – is a different matter. 25  R. Maqsood, The Separated Ones (London: SCM, 1991), ix, xi.

300

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

to any Christian “born again” experience’.26 Many other converts report having had similar intellectual difficulties with Christian doctrine. If converts can thus feel at home in Islam, this may be so because Islam poses a challenge to Christians ‘as a reminder of their own past’ (Hans Küng).27 The roots of Islam lie deep in the Jewish-Christian soil. Contacts with Jews and Christians had great significance for Muhammad’s religious development. Through them biblical material as well as popular post-biblical traditions, Jewish and Christian alike, flowed into the Qur’an. Even Jesus has a place in the Qur’an. His portrait as the last prophet before Muhammad is painted in sympathetic colours.28 In the Qur’an, Jesus’ virgin birth is a sign of God’s creative power (not of Jesus’ divinity), and the same is true of the miracles which Jesus carried out ‘by the permission of God’. He was of exemplary piety, ‘highly honoured in this world and the next’, one of those ‘near to the Lord’. But the Qur’an firmly refutes the claim that Jesus was ‘God’s son’, let alone a god. The Qur’an likewise denies that God could consist of three persons. Christians are thought to have falsified Jesus’ pure monotheism even against Jesus’ explicit prohibition. Probably most Christian theologians still regard the doctrine of the Trinity as a non-negotiable foundation of their religion. Yet the Qur’anic criticism comes close to important currents within Christianity itself. In the creeds worked out in the fourth- and fifth-century councils, Jesus is seen as ‘true God and true man’. One speaks of his two ‘natures’, divine and human, and attempts to define their mutual relationship. Certainly these articles of faith stand in blunt contradiction to the Qur’anic picture in which Jesus is a human servant of God. But there are also remarkable differences between the christological definitions of the councils and the New Testament portraits of Christ. Ruqayya Maqsood is right: the doctrine of the Trinity is missing in the Bible. Nowhere in the New Testament is Jesus fully identified with God. The Son is always subordinated to the Father. The Gospel of John goes farthest in the direction of an identification of the two in that it has Jesus state: ‘The father and I are one’ (John 10.30). In this gospel Jesus is presented as a pre-existent heavenly being, though he is still different from the Father who sent him to the earth. It is clear to modern scholars that the Gospel of John has moved far beyond older interpretations of the person and work of Jesus, describing Jesus in categories known from Jewish traditions about God’s Wisdom and Word (sometimes conceived of as semi-personal entities [hypostases]). In some other layers of the New Testament Jesus is portrayed as a man chosen and employed by God for a cer26 

Ibid., 176. Christianity and the World Religions, 123. 28 See e.g., H. Räisänen, Das koranische Jesusbild (Missiologian ja ekumeniikan seuran julkaisuja 20; Helsinki: Missiologian ja ekumeniikan seura, 1971); id., Marcion, 81–97, 254– 58. 27 Küng,

Chapter 17: How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other

301

tain purpose and finally elevated by God to a new status. This view finds its clearest expression in the speeches attributed to Peter and Paul in Acts of the Apostles. Acts is not an early document, but the conception in question must be old. If a Christology ‘from below’ did not exist at an early stage, one wonders how it could have come into existence at all. In these sermons the subordination of Jesus to God is made very clear. Jesus is described as ‘God’s Messiah’, ‘whom he had appointed’ (Acts 3.18, 20), ‘his Anointed’ (4.26), God’s ‘servant’ (3.13, 4.27), ‘the Holy and Righteous One’ (3.14) who was raised up after his death by God (3.26). Jesus was ‘a man attested to you by God with deeds of power, wonders and signs that God did through him’ (2.22); he was ‘anointed by God with the Holy Spirit and power’ and ‘went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him’ (10.38). Such theocentric sentences resemble the Qur’anic statement that Jesus worked his signs (a key term in the Qur’an) ‘by the permission of God’. Acts emphasizes that Jesus died according to God’s plan. It was God who raised him and made him Lord and Messiah (2.36). Thereby God also made Jesus his ‘Son’: ‘what God promised to our ancestors, he has fulfilled […] by raising Jesus; as also it is written in the second psalm, “You are my Son, today I have begotten you”’ (13.32–33). Those Christians whose voice is heard in these formulations would have agreed with Muhammad that Jesus was a man, not God, even though they held that he had a unique task and afterwards a unique position in heaven (a view that the Qur’an does not accept). The designation ‘God’s Son’ involves no metaphysical, let alone physical relationship with God, but may in this connection best be understood in ‘adoptionist’ terms: God promoted Jesus to the status of his (metaphorical) ‘son’. The designation ‘God’s son’ had of old been applied to kings who were thought to have a God-given task. It is no coincidence that Psalm 2, quoted in Acts 13, originally echoes an enthronement ceremony at the royal court in Jerusalem. Long before Acts was written, Paul cited a formula according to which Jesus ‘was declared (or: appointed) to be Son of God with power according to the Spirit of holiness by resurrection from the dead’ (Rom. 1.4), even though Paul’s letters also show signs of a ‘Christology from above’, in which God sends his pre-existent Son into the world. According to Paul, Jesus will carry out his actual task as ‘God’s Son’ in the (near) future: Christians ‘wait for God’s Son from heaven, whom he raised from the dead – Jesus who rescues us from the wrath that is coming’ (1. Thess. 1.9–10). After having conquered the hostile spirit powers which now reign in the world, Christ will surrender his reign and be subjected to God ‘so that God may be all in all’ (1 Cor. 15.28). It is hardly possible to express a relationship of subordination in clearer terms than this.

302

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

Here Jesus’ work is placed into a theocentric eschatological perspective. He had a role to play in God’s plan for the future of the world; he carried out his God-given task as the chosen one. But the urgent end-time expectation could not be sustained in generation after generation. The interpretation of Jesus’ mission came to be separated from the end-time framework; typically, concrete expectation practically fades away precisely in the Gospel of John. There the emphasis lies on reflections concerning the person of Jesus. The author of this gospel takes steps along the road that will lead ‘from Jewish Prophet to Gentile God’.29 It is this process of deification (which continued into the following centuries) that is opposed by the Qur’an. By ignoring the Qur’anic portrait of Jesus, the church has also repressed an aspect of its own history, and thus of itself. The Qur’an’s strictly monotheistic picture of Jesus reminds one of the early stage when the Jesus movement was still a Jewish movement with a clear monotheistic theology and a subordinationist Christology. There are historical links between an archaic stage of Christianity and Islam. One thinks here of that branch of Jewish Christianity which, after the two failed rebellions of Jews against Rome (66–70 and 132–135 CE), came to be more or less isolated from the development of the rest of Christianity. These conservative Christians honoured Jesus as God’s servant, the last prophet and the authoritative interpreter of the Law. They held fast to (most of) the Old Testament law and criticized (or even hated) Paul for his liberal, law-free practice. Their Christology is reminiscent of that of the Qur’an. Such Jewish Christian groups may have provided Muhammad with a blueprint for the Qur’anic portrait of Jesus. In any case, the theological parallels between the Qur’an and the old Christology are unmistakable. It is with good reason that Hans Küng maintains that Islam poses a challenge to Christians as a reminder of their own past. Küng emphasizes that he himself can fully understand and accept ‘the Hellenistic development of Christology’. He does not think that Christians ought to start from scratch, to become Jewish Christians again, as it were. Nevertheless, he asks whether a Christian should really require a Muslim to accept the decisions of Christian councils. ‘What would the Jew Jesus of Nazareth have done?’ he asks. Would he have understood the Christology of the councils? 30 The question is patently rhetorical. Küng points out that if Christians who spelled out their thoughts on Christ before the council of Nicea (325 CE) were to be measured against the statements of this council, then not only Jewish Christians, but also nearly all the Greek church fathers before that time would be heretics, for they taught, in a self-evident fashion, that the Son was subordi-

29 

The title of a book on Jesus by the British New Testament scholar Maurice Casey (1991). Christianity, 129.

30 Küng,

Chapter 17: How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other

303

nate to the Father.31 So why not regard the theology of the councils as a situation-bound contextualization of the Christian message which at another time in another situation can be replaced with other models? Many will think that Küng’s theological steps are too bold, but in fact several Christian theologians have drawn more radical conclusions. To name just one, John Hick (1922–2012) took up the archaic adoptionist Christology and suggested that the later notion of incarnation (which sees Jesus as God become ‘flesh’, a human being) should be understood as a myth in the sense of a poetic truth, or as a metaphor. The talk of incarnation can be understood as a poetic way of underlining the significance of the man Jesus.32 If Christians reclaimed the adoptionist component of their Christological heritage, new possibilities might arise for interfaith dialogue. In fact, the book The Myth of God Incarnate, which Hick once edited (1977), has caught the attention of Muslims and many of them appreciate this approach. Thus, the Muslim participants in a Christian-Muslim dialogue group stated some years ago that Islam could tolerate any metaphorical interpretation of the title ‘Son of God’, but the Christian members would not accept a metaphorical understanding.33 The wish to bring about a dialogue is, of course, in itself no reason to revise one’s doctrines. But the situation is different, if a revision has already begun for internal reasons. And there certainly are pressures from within. Ordinary Christians often have difficulties with the sophisticated christological ideas set forth by theologians – for good reason. In The Myth of God Incarnate Maurice Wiles (1923–2005), a leading patristic scholar, argued that the church has never managed to put forward a consistent or convincing picture of Jesus as both fully human and fully divine. Usually it is his humanity that has suffered.34 Thus even in this case the criticism from outside converges with problems which have been noticed within the religion.

3. Relativizing Absolute Truths Both Christians and Muslims have had a keen sense of the weaknesses in the other’s position: the standard Muslim view of the Qur’an has been aptly criticized by Christians and the standard Christian Christology by Muslims. The question is whether one is able to take seriously the other’s criticism – and there31  H. Küng, Der Islam: Geschichte, Gegenwart, Zukunft (Serie Piper Religiöse Situation der Zeit; München: Piper, 2006), 596–97. 32  J. Hick, ‘Jesus and the World Religions’, in J. Hick (ed.), The Myth of God Incarnate (London: SCM, 1977), 167–85, esp. p.  177–79. 33  Muslim-Christian Research Group, The Challenge of the Scriptures: The Bible and the Qur’an (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1989), 80. 34  M. Wiles, ‘Christianity without Incarnation?’, in Hick (ed.), Myth, 1–10, esp. p.  4 –5.

304

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

by also those dissenters within one’s own tradition who have already put forward self-critical questions. A dialogue on such a basis would mean a certain relativizing of the highest claims of both religions – not for the sake of the dialogue, but simply because a more modest position does better justice to the evidence. The problems are aggravated, when ethical criticism is allowed to join historical criticism. For has not the possession of the Truth proved to be especially dangerous? High Christology has gone hand in hand with anti-Judaism. This fatal development in church history can partly be traced back to the polemical portrait of ‘the Jews’ in the Gospel of John which, within the New Testament, makes the highest claims for Jesus. In John those Jews who did not accept that Jesus was divine (that is, the vast majority) are branded as children of the devil (John 8.44). Belief in the possession of the Truth helped to legitimate several centuries of colonialism by the Christian West. But belief in the possession of the Truth also threatens to destroy life, when one attempts to elevate the Islamic sharia to the constitution of a society or when religious arguments are used to motivate violence and war. The more each side learns to see even its own tradition from a historical-critical and ethical-critical perspective, as the result of a development which cannot be changed but which can be reassessed, the better are the chances that adherents of different religions may meet in a truly ecumenical spirit. But the price is a relativization of the sacred core of one’s own tradition. Therefore it is much more likely that such a self-critical dialogue will remain the task of minorities which some might call ‘elitist’. One can only hope that on all sides the internal pressure will grow strong enough to challenge absolute truths and the self-satisfaction connected with them. The dialogue as here conceived would be a dialogue between minorities, but it could nonetheless be the beginning of something important.

Chapter 18

The Bible among Scriptures 1. Defining ‘Scripture’ ‘Scripture’, written mostly with a capital S and often used in plural, is a term that often denotes the Jewish or Christian Bible. It can, however, also be used in a generic sense, synonymous with ‘Holy Book’ or ‘Holy Writ’, to designate ‘texts that are revered as especially sacred and authoritative in all major and many other religious traditions’.1 Such texts are believed to point to a realm beyond the everyday world of experience and are so highly esteemed by a religious community that no other writings can be compared to them. This wider meaning of the term is adopted here. It is tempting to view other scriptures through lenses provided by Christian notions of the Bible.2 This tendency is reflected in everyday usage: not so long ago a dictionary could state that the word ‘Bible’ may denote ‘any collection or book of writings sacred to a religion’ so that, for instance, ‘the Koran is the Moslem Bible’.3 Yet such identity, or similarity of function, should not be taken for granted, and in what follows I shall try to highlight some distinctive features of the Christian Bible4 as compared to the scriptures of other present-day religions, in particular to the Qur’an. This attempt is bound to remain very provisional, as comparative study of scripture as a general phenomenon is still in its infancy.5 Inevitably, I shall work with generalizations; there is no room in a short sketch for qualifications which would be needed at every point. 1  W. A. Graham, ‘Scripture’, in M. Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion. Vol. 13 (New York: Macmillan, 1987), 133. 2  ‘It has been customary for historians and phenomenologists of religion to regard Christianity as a scriptural religion and even to represent it as a paradigm among the major religious traditions of what it means to be a scriptural religion’ (H. Y. Gamble, ‘Christianity: Scripture and Canon’, in F. M. Denny & R. L. Taylor (eds.), The Holy Book in Comparative Perspective [Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1985], 36–62, esp. p.  36). 3  Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language (Second college edition; New York: Simon & Schuster, 1970). 4  I will use the term ‘Bible’ of the Christian Bible, as distinct from the (Hebrew) ‘Jewish Bible’. 5  A good introduction is Graham, ‘Scripture’, 133–45. The most important writings are presented by G. Lanczkowski, Sacred Writings: A Guide to the Literature of Religions (London: Collins, 1961) and by U. Vollmer & H.-J. Klimkeit, ‘Schriften: Heilige’, TRE 30 (1999): 499–511. For more comprehensive recent accounts, see F. M. Denny & R. L. Taylor (eds.), Holy

306

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

The most important scriptures still in use today include the Jewish and the Christian Bible, the Muslim Qur’an, the Vedas of the Hindus, a large corpus of Buddhist literature (the core of which consists of the Tripitaka), and the Chinese classics of Tao and Confucianism. 6 Where the line should be drawn is debatable: should the Talmud be considered scripture alongside the Jewish Bible, or the Mahabharata alongside the Vedas? The far-reaching observation on the Talmud and the Mahabharata below (p.  316) pertains to this issue, which may be left open at this point. Scripture is a ‘relational concept’: a work cannot function as scripture without a community which considers it holy.7 But the relationship of a community to its scripture(s) is subject to historical change. With regard to the the relationship of Christians to the Bible, three different periods may be distinguished: (1) early Christianity, comprising the first two centuries; (2) classical Christianity from the 3rd to the 18th century; and (3) modern Christianity from the Enlightenment on. 8 In Judaism, too, one can distinguish between the early, classical and modern periods. By contrast, the Muslim attitude to the Qur’an has remained relatively constant so that a periodization seems unnecessary here. In Buddhism, to distinguish between different schools of thought than between different periods may be more relevant. Authoritative traditions in many communities have been transmitted orally. This is self-evident in non-literate cultures, but even the recording of the Vedas met with longstanding opposition. It is claimed that the Vedas were handed down orally for three millennia.9 Oral and written traditions differ substantialBook in Comparative Perspective (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1984); W. A. Graham, Beyond the Written Word: Oral Aspects of Scripture in the History of Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987). A. C. Bouquet, Sacred Books of the World (London: Penguin Books, 1967), provides a comprehensive selection of translations, ranging from ‘primitive’ rain rituals to modern Anglican psalms. J. Leipoldt & S. Morenz, Heilige Schriften: Betrachtungen zur Religionsgeschichte der antiken Mittelmeerwelt (Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 1953), offer a phenomenological account of ancient scriptures. F. Heiler, Erscheinungsformen und Wesen der Religion (Die Religionen der Menschheit 1; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1961), 339–64, provides a wide-ranging phenomenological survey with a universalist-theological accent. W. C. Smith’s What Is Scripture? A Comparative Approach (London: SCM, 1993) also develops a kind of universalist ‘theology of scripture’; the preaching tone of the work may irritate, but it contains a wealth of interesting ideas. The cognitive nature of holy texts is discussed by S. Biderman, Scripture and Knowledge: An Essay of Religious Epistemology (SHR 69; Leiden: Brill, 1995), and I. Pyysiäinen, ‘Holy Book – A Treasury of the Incomprehensible: The Invention of Writing and Religious Cognition’, Numen 46 (1999): 269–90. 6  Scriptures that were once important include the Avesta, the Egyptian Book of the Dead, and the Book of Mani. 7  Graham, ‘Scripture’, 134; id., Beyond the Written Word, 5 ff.; cf. Smith, What Is Scripture?, 17–18. 8  E. von Dobschütz draws a full picture of the role of the Bible in Christianity through the centuries in his work The Influence of the Bible on Civilization (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1914). 9 Smith, What Is Scripture?, 138, compares the prohibition to write down the Vedas to the

Chapter 18: The Bible among Scriptures

307

ly. Oral tradition is flexible and open to change; if some part of it is not in use, it will sooner or later be forgotten. By contrast, matters stored in an authoritative book will never be forgotten, even if no attention is paid to them for a long time.10 A scripture can contain ‘frozen’ elements, as it were, which may seem insignificant at a given moment, but which can be ‘unfrozen’ and exploited by later interpreters. ‘The history of scripture as a world process’ appears to have had ‘three seemingly independent origins’: (1) in central Asia, carried to India with the Indo-European invasions; (2) in the Semitic and Egyptian Near East; and (3) in China.11 The scriptures rooted in the Ancient Near East have influenced each other: the Jewish Bible has profoundly influenced the Christian Bible (of which it even became a part in the form of the ‘Old Testament’),12 and both have had an impact on the Qur’an. Apparently as a reaction to the Christian mission, even adherents to the religious traditions of India and of the Far East have begun to emphasize the importance of written texts.13

2. The Esteem and Status of Scriptures How do various religions view the origin and status of their scriptures? There are four main possibilities.14 First, a human recipient receives the scripture directly from a god (or some other supernatural being), either verbally or by way of dictation (the Torah,15 the Qur’an, the religious Tao) or even as a concrete prohibition of ‘graven images’ in ancient Israel and in Islam. He also notes (139) that the Rig-Veda was turned into a book for the first time by Max Müller, the pioneer of comparative religion, who began to publish a series of ‘the sacred texts of the East’. 10  Pyysiäinen, ’Holy Book’, esp. p.  281, calls attention to this phenomenon. 11 Smith, What Is Scripture?, 201–2. 12  The Jewish Bible is not, of course, the same as the Christian Old Testament in that the order of the writings differs significantly, the Apocrypha (which belong to the canon of many Christian communities) are missing and, most importantly, everything else is interpreted in light of the first part, the Torah. 13 Smith, What Is Scripture?, 202. 14  Cf. Graham, ‘Scripture’, 142; Denny & Taylor, ‘Introduction’, in Holy Book, 2–3. 15  A significant milestone in the history of the idea of scripture in Judaism and Christianity is the book of Deuteronomy, which bears traces of the importance of the scribal guild to the process. See T. Veijola, ‘Die Deuteronomisten als Vorgänger der Schriftgelehrten’, in id., Moses Erben: Studien zum Dekalog, zum Deuteronomismus und zum Schriftgelehrtentum (BWANT 149; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2000), 192–240. In the religious world of Deuteronomy, the temple and the cult are replaced by a written text that demands constant study and interpretation. Yahweh himself acts as a heavenly scribe who twice writes the Decalogue on stone (Deut. 5.22; 10.4) and orders the storage of the tablets in a special wooden ark; cf. T. Veijola, Das 5. Buch Mose, Deuteronomium: Kapitel 1,1–16,17 (ATD 8,1; Göttingen: Van­ denhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), 230. Gradually, the written Torah grew round this core; it came to be thought that this Torah as a whole had been revealed to Moses by Yahweh. In fact, however, older legislation is collected in Deuteronomy, but is radically reinterpreted. The notion

308

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

object (the Decalogue as tablets of stone, the Book of Mormon as gold plates). Secondly, the scripture may go back to a message which a god has inspired in the mind of the recipient (the prophets of Israel; the ‘sending down of the Qur’an to Muhammad has also been interpreted in this way). Thirdly, sacred texts derive from the transcendent experience or insight of ancient sages who have ‘seen’ eternal truths or grasped ultimate reality (the seers of Veda,16 the Buddha, the philosophical Tao). The fourth category is different: the holy texts are understood as human testimonies to God’s action in both the distant and recent past. This was the early Christian view of the writings that came to comprise the New Testament. Christians believed that God had revealed himself, not in written texts17 (indeed the authors of the gospels took remarkable liberties in modifying the work of each other) but in the person and work of Jesus, his ‘son’. The preface of Luke’s gospel makes the point clearly: ‘after investigating everything,’ the author has undertaken ‘to write an orderly account’ (Luke 1.1–4). The term ‘Word’ in John 1.1 refers to Jesus himself, not to John’s story about him. The difference from the Qur’an is clear: the Qur’an, not the gospels, presents itself as direct divine speech. In fact, the Qur’an is ‘the most metatextual, most self-referential holy text known in the history of world religions. There is no other holy text which would refer so often to its own textual nature and reflect so constantly and pervasively its own divine origin.’18 Of the writings of the New Testament, only the Revelation of John comes close to the first (or second?) category, being presented as a vision given to the seer by God through Jesus and an angel.19 To be sure, the early Christians did have a scripture which was regarded as especially inspired, but that was the Jewish Bible (more precisely: the Septuagint!) which they – unlike the rest of the Jewish community – read as a book that pointed to and prophesied about Jesus. It was only later that the ‘church fathers’ began to regard the New Testament writings, too, as especially in-

of a text given by the deity seems influenced by the older oriental notion of destiny-books held in heaven and passing into the possession of the king at his enthronement: G. Widengren, Religionsphänomenologie (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1969), 546–50, followed by Graham, ‘Scripture’, 135; id., Beyond the Written Word, 50 ff., and Smith, What Is Scripture? 59–60; cf. also Veijola, 5. Buch Mose, 140. 16 See, for example, H. von Stietencron, ‘Hindu Perspectives’, in H. Küng et al. (eds.), Christianity and the World Religions (London: HarperCollins, 1987), 148–50. S. S. Vivekananda, All About Hinduism (Shivanandanagar: The Divine Life Society, 1988), 13, speaks of ‘direct intuitional revelations’ that are ‘entirely superhuman, without any author in particular’. 17  ‘In fact, the idea of a distinctively Christian scripture was entirely remote from the early Christian mind’ (Gamble, ‘Christianity’, 38). 18  S. Wild, ‘“We have sent down to Thee the Book with Truth…”’, in S. Wild et al. (eds.), The Qur’an as Text, (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 137–53, esp. p.  140. 19  Yet for centuries the authority of this very writing was controversial.

Chapter 18: The Bible among Scriptures

309

spired,20 different from all other writings.21 The Lutheran orthodoxy in the seventeenth century pushed this view to its limits: the Christian Bible came to be seen as dictated by God. The Bible had started from the ‘bottom of the scale’, so to speak, from our group Four, from which it has now been elevated to the very first group as a kind of Christian Qur’an, dictated word by word by God. This was not, however, the original view. Many scriptures are regarded as eternal. According to an old Jewish view, God consulted the pre-existent Torah when he created the world (Philo, Mos. 2.14; Pesahim 54a). The Qur’an is based on a primordial book in heaven, from where its parts were little by little ‘sent down’. For Hindus, the Veda has always existed: it has no human author. When the scriptures are not eternal, they at least tend to be age-old (the Avesta, the five classics of China).22 The Christians, too, appealed to the antiquity of their scripture, the Jewish Bible, but the New Testament is different: it came to exist at a certain moment in the recent past as an authoritative testimony to Jesus and his significance. Moreover, religious communities generally understand their scriptures to be unified wholes. The authoritative character of a scripture is clearest when it provides the legal basis of communal life. This is evident not only in Judaism and Islam, but also in Buddhist monasticism which is based on a section of the Tripitaka.23 In classical Christianity, from the age of Constantine to the 17th or 18th century, the Bible also played such a role. The special sanctity of a scripture is seen in the veneration shown to it as an object. Magnifically adorned Torah scrolls are enshrined in a special cabinet in the synagogue. Neither a Torah scroll nor a copy of the Qur’an can be placed on the floor, or even below any other book. Recitation of the Qur’an requires ritual purification. In Orthodox liturgy, the gospels are brought forward in a procession to be recited. The veneration of scripture as an artefact is brought to a head in the Sikh community: the book of Granth is preserved in the grand temple of Amritsar from which it is carried every evening in a solemn procession to a palace on the ‘lake of immortality’.24 Often the language of the scripture is sacred too. The only true language of the Veda is Sanskrit. The Torah is recited in Hebrew. For Muslims, the language 20  This conception was modelled on Philo’s view of the inspiration of the Torah, which in turn relied on Plato’s idea of the inspiration of Greek poets; Leipoldt & Morenz, Heilige Schriften, 34–35. 21  Cf. Gamble, ‘Christianity’, 45: ’It is clear that over a period of four centuries Christianity evolved from a non-scriptural religion into a fully scriptural religion possessing a canon of specifically Christian texts’; ibid., 50: ‘This altered the basic conception of the nature and authority of scripture: instead of being the church’s tradition of testimony to the revelation, the scripture is now seen as God’s revelation to the church…’ 22  Graham, ‘Scripture’, 142. 23  Ibid., 141. 24  Ibid., 141; Heiler, Erscheinungsformen, 355 (with additional examples).

310

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

of the Qur’an is beyond comparison. It can contain no linguistic error; God has spoken in Arabic and he makes no mistakes.25 Even though the great majority of Muslims are non-Arabs, the Qur’an cannot really be translated; editions in other languages are regarded as mere commentaries. By contrast, early Christians knew that the New Testament was written in ordinary or even vulgar Greek; for educated believers this was something of a problem.26 Not surprisingly, translating scripture has not been a problem for Christians (nor for the Buddhists). Still, a translation has sometimes gained so high a status that later attempts to revise or replace it have met with fierce opposition; in particular, this has been the case in the English-speaking world with the King James Version of 1611. The early Christians, then, did not regard the Bible as a copy of a heavenly book, dictated by God. The point has often been made that what corresponds in Christianity to the position of the Qur’an is Islam is not the Bible, but Jesus.27 What the Qur’an means for Muslims, Jesus means for Christians. Conversely, the closest Islamic counterpart to the Bible is not the Qur’an, but the traditions about the Prophet, the hadiths. While they are held in high esteem, they are nevertheless stories told by humans and can be assessed critically. Similarly, the position of the Torah in Judaism may be viewed as analogous to that of Christ in Christianity. Whereas the Qur’an and the Torah are thought to have existed before all time, in Christianity such a status belongs to the Logos of John 1.1. This ‘Word’ which was in the beginning ‘with God’ is not a book, but the pre-existent Christ; the scripture only points to Christ. In a similar manner, Buddhist scriptures in Mahayana Buddhism are compared to a finger pointing to the moon: once you see the moon, the finger is no longer of great significance.28 Wilfred Cantwell Smith, a Christian scholar of comparative religion, concludes that there are several scriptures to which the community treasuring them gives ‘a higher metaphysical status’ than Christians give to the Bible: most notably the Qur’an, the Vedas and the Torah. Smith concludes: ‘If one were to insist with rigour on a single level of conceptual loftiness to demarcate the scope of our term [scripture], one would find oneself pushed into leaving the Christian Bible out of consideration of what truly constitutes the class of scriptures in our world.’29 One could accept this somewhat surprising conclusion with regard to 25 

J. van Ess, ‘Islamic Perspectives’, in Küng et al. (eds.), Christianity, 16. Leipoldt & Morenz, Heilige Schriften, 83. 27  E.g., Smith, What Is Scripture?, 46: ‘Both sophisticated Muslim thinkers and comparativist Western scholars are beginning to accept this: that the genuine parallel is between the Qur’an and Christ, as the two paramount motifs. Qur’an is to Muslims what Christ is to Christians.’ Smith suggested this in the 1950s, but later discovered that the idea had been presented earlier by Nathan Söderblom (Smith, ibid., 261 n.  2). 28 Heiler, Erscheinungsformen, 356; Smith, What is Scripture?, 162–63. 29 Smith, ibid., 210. 26 

Chapter 18: The Bible among Scriptures

311

modern Christianity on one hand, and to the earliest phase of the religion on the other. Yet, as stated above, the status of the Bible has been subject to changes in Christian history. From the 4th to the 18th century the Bible held a central position in Christian societies and people had such high notions of its nature that even classical Christianity can be regarded as a book religion, and even today it is so regarded by fundamentalist groups. For the Lutheran orthodoxy of the 17th century, God was the actual author of the Bible; each word and each syllable was equally of divine origin and even the Hebrew vowels, God-given. Not even Islam has gone this far: according to Muslim interpreters, only the consonantal text of the Qur’an is of divine origin. Regarding the vowels, there are several reading traditions, none of which have been canonized at the expense of others.30

3. On the Functions of Scriptures Scriptures are largely cultic books, used in worship. Many scriptures have emerged from the oral use of the ‘texts’ in cultic recitation.31 One way of categorizing scriptures is to distinguish between their ‘performative’ and ‘informative’ use and to ask which of these functions is in the dominant position. It is thought that the performative function dominates the use of the Vedas, the texts of religious Tao, the Torah and the Qur’an, while the informative function predominates in Christianity, Confucianism and Buddhism.32 The case of the Qur’an is of particular interest. Much as Islam emphasizes that the Word of God has become a book, the full significance of the Qur’an only comes to light when attention is paid to its recitation. Recitation of the Qur’an is the most important ritual of Islam. Recited in Arabic, the Qur’an sounds quite different from any translation. Its rhyme prosa, including the numerous repetitions, possesses a fascinating acoustic quality. One has spoken of an ‘inimitable symphony, the very sounds of which move men to tears and ecstasy.’33 Reciting the Qur’an in Arabic has a special significance in the Muslim world, even where Arabic is a foreign language not understood.34 In listening to Qur’anic recitation, a devout Muslim can feel the presence of God in a special way. Islam has no sacraments, but the recitation and memorizing of the Qur’an are events the meaning of which resembles the meaning of the 30  J. van Ess, ‘Verbal Inspiration? Language and Revelation in Classical Islamic Theology’, in Wild et al. (ed.), The Qur’an as Text, 177–94, esp. p.  180. 31  On Vedic recitation, see Graham, Beyond the Written Word, 70–75. 32  Denny & Taylor, ‘Introduction’, 7–8. 33  Thus the translator of the Qur’an, M. M. Pickthall, quoted by N. Robinson, Discovering the Qur’an: A Contemporary Approach to a Veiled Text (London: SCM, 1996), 17. 34 Graham, Beyond the Written Word, 102–9.

312

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

Eucharist for Christians.35 One Muslim scholar states the recitation of the Qur’an is ‘a spiritual event and a ritual act’. God becomes present, the hearer is placed before the face of God. This ritual significance of the Qur’an is one reason why Muslims shrink from any kind of critical analysis of its text. ‘They fear that the Qur’an would become what the Bible is: an inspired book about God, but no longer the speech of God.’36 One might say: they fear that, if analysed critically, the Qur’an actually becomes the ‘Muslim Bible’, that Western dictionaries claim it to be! The importance of the recitation has crucially shaped education in the Islamic world. Traditional elementary schools focus only on memorizing and reciting the Qur’an. It is not unusual that young schoolchildren learn the entire Qur’an by heart. The performative function of scripture here by far overrules the informative one. Reading the Bible holds, of course, a central place in Christian worship, and its texts are recited in Orthodox liturgy. Historically, recitation of the Bible in Syrian churches may even have served as a model for the Islamic conception of the Qur’an as scripture. Nevertheless, collective reading of and listening to Scripture receives less emphasis in Christianity than in Islam. To be sure, in Protestant Christianity the ‘Word of God’ does possess a quasi-sacramental character. In mainstream Protestantism, it is a question of the proclaimed word rather than of the written text, but in some revivalist movements, the Bible (which the preacher may swing over his head) becomes an almost independent agent, believed to mediate divine power.37 In the Catholic and Orthodox churches, where the Bible is regarded as an organic part of the ecclesiastical tradition, the Bible carries somewhat less weight than in Protestantism. The Bible may, then, be counted among those scriptures whose informative function tends to be emphasized. Yet all scriptures are believed to provide knowledge. This knowledge pertains to spiritual matters, but quite often deals with the proper handling of everyday affairs as well. The decrees of the Qur’an (and the tradition that interprets them) have made their mark on family life and civil justice in Islamic countries. In some countries, the sharia, thought to be based on the Qur’an, has now been made the law of the state. In the classical time of Christianity the Bible, too, served as the basis even of legislation, but today its informative function (if any) seems to be limited to spiritual matters. Yet the times when the informative value of the Bible in all walks of life was trusted have left strong traces on our culture. The church even taught the people to read, since it emphasized the informative significance of the Bible (and of other ecclesiastical books) and that people ought to 35 Smith,

What Is Scripture?, 70. N. H. Abu Zaid, Ein Leben mit dem Islam (Freiburg: Herder, 1999), 19–21. 37  See N. Smart, The Phenomenon of Christianity (London: Collins, 1979), 95, 97. 36 

Chapter 18: The Bible among Scriptures

313

be able to consult these sources independently. In this, the church followed in the wake of Judaism, which has always emphasized the importance of literacy.

4. Interpretation and Study of Scriptures Given the antiquity and complexity of scriptures, someone must interpret them. Interpreters have had to adapt the contents of the texts to new situations, sometimes to new ideals as well. One may have felt that the world-view of a scripture (say, its view of the origins of the world) is antiquated, or even that its moral is problematic (as in some stories of divine war in the Jewish Bible). To respond to such challenges, interpreters have developed innovative strategies. Symbolic or allegorical interpretations have in many cases been helpful. Scriptural descriptions of external matters have received internalizing or even mystical explanations; Jewish, Muslim and Christian mystics closely resemble each other as interpreters of scriptures. The development of science has been a challenge to which one has responded in various ways (even within one religion). Some have emphasized that the Bible, or the Qur’an, does not intend to set forth scientific truths. Others have claimed that their scripture anticipates the results of modern science (some Buddhist movements; a branch of Islam finds in the Qur’an references to microbes, space trips, etc.).38 Yet others have appealed to the Bible or to the Qur’an to oppose scientific claims concerning the origin of the world or of humans (Christian creationists and their Muslim counterparts). Mainstream Christianity has, however, ceased to regard the Bible as a source of scientific truths. In new social situations one has also found new potential in scriptures; the Bible (and sometimes the Qur’an) has been invoked to support of liberation in the third world.39 Although religious communities tend to think that their scriptures form a theological unity, they are mostly collections; writings have been collected and combined over long periods of time (the Vedas, the Torah, the Bible, the Buddhist and Chinese texts). Once again, the role of the interpreter becomes all-important. As the Qur’an consists of revelations mediated by one prophet only, it is an unusually unitary scripture, but even it contains different layers. Christianity is peculiar in that its Bible includes the scripture of another religion, the Jewish Bible, which Christians call the ‘Old Testament’; in the earliest church the Old Testament was more authoritative than those writings which were to form the New Testament. This situation provokes difficult questions: How do 38  See on this ‘modernist’ branch of Qur’anic interpretation my Marcion, Muhammad and the Mahatma: Exegetical Perspectives on Cultures and Faiths (London: SCM, 1997), 120–23. 39  On liberationist use of the Qur’an, see F. Esack, Qur’an, Liberation and Pluralism: An Islamic Perspective on Interreligious Solidarity against Oppression (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 1998).

314

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

the parts relate to each other? Any reader can see that they are different. One may even ask has God changed his mind – for the Mosaic law, which is eternally in force according to the Old Testament, seems abrogated in the New Testament. The problem of abrogation is well-known to learned interpreters of the Qur’an as well, for various parts of the book display different attitudes, say, to the use of wine (in the early parts it is praised as a divine gift, in the late parts it is prohibited) or to non-Muslims (the early parts recommend peaceful debate, some later passages call for confrontation). The interpreters had to work out a particular theory: a revelation which was sent down later abrogates the content of an earlier one (but the abrogated parts nevertheless preserve their status as God’s speech).40 This imbues the interpreter with a lot of power: the text is all divine, yet it is the task of the human interpreter to tell which parts of it are in force as a norm to be followed. The role of the authoritative interpreter is significant in all religions which have a scripture. Consequently, it is in the interests of those in power to control interpretations. In the Middle Ages, church leaders tried to prevent lay people from reading the scripture. Studying the Bible became a matter for experts alone. In Hinduism, knowledge and interpretation of scriptures has been the monopoly of the caste of Brahmins. In Judaism, the rabbis, and in Islam, the legal experts apply the scripture. The higher the status of the scripture in question, the greater is the power of the interpreter. Protestant Reformers once demanded a return from tradition to the Bible. The new technology of the printing press made their thoughts accessible to the masses. Vernacular translations put the Bible into the hands of the people, but when individuals began to read the Bible for themselves, the result was division: even new-born Protestantism was split.  Readers did not always find in the scripture those things they were supposed to find. Appealing to the Bible, some denied infant baptism, the Trinity, original sin, predestination, and justification by faith. Such response caused Luther and his followers to step back: they now tried to make people read not so much the Bible itself, but the catechism, which contained the suitable biblical passages correctly interpreted.41 But the genie was now out of the bottle, and individual readings have flourished to this day, giving birth to a large number of new communities on Protestant soil. Ever new ‘frozen’ parts of the scripture have been ‘unfrozen’ for consumption. One fruit of individualist Bible reading is the critical investigation of scripture. It was partly driven by external influences, as the world-view began to change, but observations on the texts themselves also played a very important 40 

See, for example, Robinson, Discovering, 64–69; Räisänen, Marcion, 126–27, 133–34. Gawthrop & G. Strauss, ‘Protestantism and Literacy in Early Modern Germany’, Past and Present 104 (1984): 31–55, esp. p.  34–35, 37–38. 41  R.

Chapter 18: The Bible among Scriptures

315

role. In the 18th century, some bold individuals began to read the Bible like any other book, taking seriously the fact that manuscripts differed on a number of points, as did different versions of the same episodes in different gospels. Acute readers could observe even theological discrepancies between New Testament writings. In a moderate form, critical research is now accepted in the mainstream churches, at least in principle. As a result, modern mainstream Christianity has given up the view, cherished by classical Christianity, that the Bible is the direct word of God. The Bible is often considered both the word of God and the word of humans. In this way, modern Christianity has moved closer to the early Christians’ view that the Bible consists of testimonies of witnesses. Such a self-critical step is rare in the world of religions, but not unique; in modern Judaism, a critical approach to the Jewish Bible has been integrated with Jewish piety even more profoundly than biblical criticism within Christianity.42 Only Orthodox Judaism, which finds itself in a minority position, represents today the literal view of the Torah as the pre-existent Truth revealed to Moses on Mount Sinai. Other movements admit the legitimacy of critical research and acknowledge a human dimension to the Torah. Some regard the Jewish Bible in its entirety as a human book, but this need not prevent them from following its precepts as an essential part of their religious life. Some amount of critical interpretation of one’s own scriptures is found in Buddhism as well.43 Still, Ninian Smart finds that, even compared to Buddhism, in subjecting their scripture to historical analysis, Christian scholars have ‘created a new dimension of religious self-criticism.’44 By contrast, critical study of the Qur’an by Muslims is extremely rare, although the case of the abrogated verses could have provided a starting-point for it. One does not draw critical conclusions from internal differences in the Qur’an, nor is critical comparison of variant readings acceptable. The ideal is rather to learn the Qur’an by heart. To be sure, observers report that beneath the surface there is pressure towards a more critical approach, anticipated in the writings of a few Muslim scholars.45 A 19th-century Indian lawyer, Sayyed Amir Ali, made it clear that he regarded the Qur’an as Muhammad’s words and teachings (very noble teachings).46 More cautious (though from the traditional Islamic point of view, quite radical) interpreters, such as Fazlur Rahman, have suggested that the Qur’an is God’s word whose actual shape is influenced by the

42  Historically speaking, the critical project was spearheaded by Jewish thinker Baruch Spinoza. 43  See L. O. Gómez, ‘Buddhist Literature, Exegesis and Hermeneutics’, in M. Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion. Vol. 2 (New York: Macmillan, 1987), 529–40. 44 Smart, Phenomenon, 304. 45  See Räisänen, Marcion, 118–36, and above, ch.­ 17 in this volume. 46  A. Ali, The Spirit of Islam (London: Methuen, 1965), 150–52, 197–98, etc.

316

Part Three: Interreligious Issues

person of the Prophet. Yet in the present world situation, a critical approach to the Qur’an on the part of Muslims meets with severe obstacles.47

5. The Real Status of Scriptures Writings that are in theory inferior may in practice be more important than those that are in principle esteemed most. In popular Indian piety, the old and difficult Vedas play a much smaller role than the epic Mahabharata, a central part of which is the Bhagavadgita.48 The sunna, the tradition allegedly based on the life of the Prophet, is in Islam a more important source of legal practice than the Qur’an itself. One can also claim that in Judaism, the Talmud, whose core consists of the Mishnah, is in fact more important than the Jewish Bible.49 It has been said that the relationship of the Mishnah to the Torah corresponds roughly to the relationship of the New Testament to the Old Testament in Christianity.50 Cantwell Smith notes that, until quite recently, Jews have almost always read their Bible ‘through commentaries’; it was seldom even printed without a commentary.51 He goes on to ask: ‘Could we say that the [Jewish] Bible has not been important in Jewish life so much as has the idea of the Bible?’52 Perhaps one could say that the Torah is the holy book of the cult (with a largely performative function),53 while the Talmud is the most important scripture as far as the informative function is concerned. In practice, the authoritative status belongs to the interpreter, so much so that Jacob Neusner can speak of the rabbi as the incarnation of the Torah.54 The decisions of the rabbi acquire more weight than normal human speech, because they are associated with the authority that in principle belongs to the scripture. Similarly, the Islamic court applying the sharia wields an authority that actually depends on the esteemed enjoyed by the Qur’an. In Protestant Christianity, the Bible is, in principle, the basis of life and doctrine. In practice, some parts are more important than others, and the special traditions of the Confession in question often seem superior to the scripture. 47  But see the bold attempt of Canadian Muslim journalist Irshad Manji to initiate an Islamic reformation: The Trouble with Islam: A Wake-up Call for Honesty and Change (Toronto: Random House Canada, 2003), and her website: www.irshadmanji.com. 48  For example, Smith, What is Scripture?, 124–30. 49 Smith, ibid., 113–19. 50  J. Neusner, ‘Mishnah and Tosefta’, in M. Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion. Vol. 9 (New York: Macmillan, 1987), 560; Smith, What is Scripture?, 114. 51 Smith, What is Scripture?, 117. 52 Smith, ibid., 118 (my italics). Smith even toys with the suggestion that ‘the Bible has not been important in Jewish religious life except symbolically’ (118–19). 53  The weekly reading aloud of the Torah in the synagogue serves to imbue the Torah with a special sanctity; cf. Smith, ibid., 120. 54  J. Neusner, Foundations of Judaism (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1989), 120–21.

Chapter 18: The Bible among Scriptures

317

Perhaps the ‘idea of the Bible’ is in this case, too, more important than the book itself; the authority of the scripture tacitly shifts to its interpreters. The crucial significance of scripture may reside less in either its performative or in its informative function, but rather in its symbolic role.

6. Scriptures and the Coexistence of Peoples Both the Jewish and Christian Bible and the Qur’an underscore the importance of social responsibility and care for one’s neighbours. On the other hand, each of the three contains a fair portion of intolerance. The consequences can be seen, for example, in today’s Middle East. All three scriptures contain different passages: some incite to violence, otherss promote mutual understanding and respect. Interpreters must make their choice. This is a tremendous challenge to those responsible for interpretation and application. Whether one explains the Jewish Bible in Israel, the Qur’an in Iran or the Bible in the United States, the interpreter’s attitude to scripture can be a matter of life and death. The interpreter should not be allowed to hide behind the authority of a scripture, but should take responsibility for his or her interpretation: does it serve life or death? A tradition which does not elevate its scripture on too high a pedestal should be able to bear such a responsibility. We have seen that ‘the metaphysical status’ of the Bible in Christianity is lower than that of the Vedas in Hinduism or of the Qur’an in Islam. In official ecclesiastical statements, the Bible is seen as a combination of divine and human speech; an individual Christian may regard it as a set of (profound) human interpretations of ultimate reality. Such a relatively low profile corresponds to the view of Christians in the early times, before Classical Christianity developed into a ‘book religion’. The vision of the Bible or of the Torah in the more liberal branches of modern Christianity and Judaism contains a rare self-critical element which could be of help in a threatening global situation.

Bibliography Abu Zaid, N. H. Ein Leben mit dem Islam. Freiburg: Herder, 1999. –. Gottes Menschenwort: Für ein humanistisches Verständnis des Koran. Freiburg: ­Herder, 2008. Aejmelaeus, L. & A. Mustakallio (eds.). The Nordic Paul: Finnish Approaches to Pauline Theology. LNTS 374; London: T&T Clark, 2008. Aland, B. ‘Marcion (ca. 85–160)/Marcioniten’, TRE 22 (1992): 89–101. Ali, A. The Spirit of Islam. London: Methuen, 1965. Alles, G. ‘The Study of Religion: the last fifty years’, in J. R. Hinnels (ed.), The Routledge Companion to the Study of Religion. London: Routledge, 22010. 39–55. Allison, D. C. Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998. Althaus, P. Paulus und Luther über den Menschen: Ein Vergleich. Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1963. Andrae, T. Muhammed, hans liv och hans tro. Stockholm: Natur och Kultur, 1930. Antes, P. ‘Religionswissenschaft und Theologie: Abgrenzung – aber wie?’, BThZ 29 (2012): 20–31. Arberry, A. J. The Koran Interpreted. The World’s Classics; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986. Arkoun, M. Lectures du Coran. Paris: G.-P. Maisonneuve et Larose, 1982. Armstrong, K. A History of God. London: Vintage Books, 1994. Aune, D. E. Revelation 6–16. WBC 52B; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1998. –. Revelation 17–22. WBC 52C; Nashville: Word Books, 1998. Avery-Peck, A. J. ‘Death and Afterlife in the Early Rabbinic Sources: The Mishnah, Tosefta, and Early Midrash Compiations’, in A. J. Avery-Peck & J. Neusner (eds.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part 4: Death, Life After Death, Resurrection and the World-to-Come in the Judaisms of Antiquity. HO 1: Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten 49; Leiden: Brill, 2000. 243–266. Baljon, J. M. S. Modern Muslim Koran Interpretation. Leiden: Brill, 1968. Balla, P. Challenges to New Testament Theology: An Attempt to Justify the Enterprise. WUNT 2:95; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997. Barclay, J. Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora from Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE–117 CE). Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996. Barlow, P. L. Mormons and the Bible: The Place of Latter-Day Saints in American Religion. New York: Oxford University Press, 1991. Barr, J. Fundamentalism. London: SCM, 1977. Barrett, C. K. A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians. BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1971. –. A Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans. BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1973. –. The Second Epistle to the Corinthians. BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1973.

320

Bibliography

Barth, H.-M. Dogmatik. Evangelischer Glaube im Kontext der Weltreligionen. Güters­ loh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 22002. Baumgarten, J. Paulus und die Apokalyptik. WMANT 44; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1975. Baumgartner, F. J. Longing for the End: A History of Millennialism in Western Civilization. New York: Palgrave, 1999. Bauschke, M. Jesus im Koran. Köln et al.: Böhlau, 2001. Beare, F. W. A Commentary on the Epistle to the Philippians. BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1959. Becker, J. Das Evangelium nach Johannes: Kapitel 11–21. ÖTK 4/2; Gütersloh: Mohn, 1981. –. Paulus: Der Apostel der Völker. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1989. –. Jesus von Nazaret. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1996. –. ‘Das Verhältnis des johanneischen Kreises zum Paulinismus: Anregungen zur Belebung einer Diskussion’, in D. Sänger & U. Mell (Hrsg.), Paulus und Johannes. Exege­ tische Studien zur paulinischen und johanneischen Theologie und Literatur. WUNT 198; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006. 473–95. Beker, J. C. Paul the Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984. Berger, K. Theologiegeschichte des Urchristentums: Theologie des Neuen Testaments. UTB, Grosse Reihe; Tübingen & Basel: Francke, 21995. Berlinerblau, J. The Secular Bible: Why Nonbelievers Must Take Religion Seriously. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Bernstein, A. E. The Formation of Hell: Death and Retribution in the Ancient and Early Christian Worlds. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993. Best, E. The First and Second Epistles to the Thessalonians. BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1977. Biderman, S. Scripture and Knowledge: An Essay of Religious Epistemology. SHR 69; Leiden: Brill, 1995. Black, M. The Book of Enoch or 1 Enoch: A New English Edition with Commentary and Textual Notes. SVTP 7; Leiden: Brill, 1985. Blackman, E. C. Marcion and His Influence. London: SPCK, 1948. Bosch, D. J. Transforming Mission: Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1991. Boslooper, T. The Virgin Birth. London: SCM, 1962. Bosworth, D. A. ‘“The Battle Hymn of the Republic”: The Kingdom of God in American Politics’. A paper read at the SBL Annual Meeting in Washington, DC, November 18, 2006. Bouman, J. Das Wort vom Kreuz und das Bekenntnis zu Allah. Die Grundlehren des Korans als nachbiblische Religion. Frankfurt a. M.: Lembeck, 1980. Bouquet, A. C. Sacred Books of the World. London: Penguin Books, 1967. Bousset, W. & H. Gressmann. Die Religion des Judentums im späthellenistischen Zeitalter. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1926. Bovon, F. Luke 1: A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 1:1–9:50. Hermeneia; Minnea­ polis: Fortress, 2002. Boyarin, D. A Radical Jew: Paul and the Politics of Identity. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994.

Bibliography

321

Brandon, S. G. F. Man and His Destiny in the Great Religions: An Historical and Comparative Study Containing the Wilde Lectures 1954–1957. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1962. Breytenbach, C. (Hrsg.). Religionswissenschaft – Theologie: Erkundungen einer strittigen Zuordnung. BThZ 29 (2012). –. ‘Erwägungen zu einer Geschichte der Religion des Urchristentums’, in C. Breytenbach & J. Frey (eds.), Reflections on the Early Christian History of Religion. AGAJU 81; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2013. 1–25. Breytenbach, C., & J. Frey (Hrsg.). Aufgabe und Durchführung einer Theologie des Neuen Testaments. WUNT 205; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007. Brown, D. Tradition and Imagination: Revelation and Change. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. –. Discipleship and Imagination: Christian Tradition and Truth. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Brown, R. E. The Virginal Conception and Bodily Resurrection of Jesus. New York: Doubleday, 1973. –. The Birth of the Messiah: A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in Matthew and Luke. New York: Doubleday, 1977. –. The Community of the Beloved Disciple. New York: Paulist, 1979. Brown R. E. et al. Mary in the New Testament: A Collaborative Assessment by Protestant and Roman Catholic Scholars. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1978. Bruce, F. F. ‘Review of H. Räisänen, Die Mutter Jesu im Neuen Testament’, Erasmus 23 (1969): 672–73. Bultmann, R. Theology of the New Testament. 2 vols. New York: Scribners, 1952–55. –. Theologie des Neuen Testaments. UTB 630; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 81980. Burkett, D. R. An Introduction to the New Testament and the Origins of Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Bushman, R. L. Joseph Smith: Rough Stone Rolling. New York: Knopf Doubleday, 2007. Byrskog, S. ‘En teori om urkristen religion: Reflektioner kring Gerd Theißens bok A Theory of Primitive Christian Religion’, STK 79 (2003): 42–50. –. ‘Räisänen through Theissen: A Program and a Theory’, in T. Penner & C. Vander Stichele (eds.), Moving beyond New Testament Theology? Essays in Conversation with Heikki Räisänen. PFES 88; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005. 197–220. Caird, G. E. B. The Revelation of St. John the Divine. BNTC; London: Adam & Charles Black, 1966. –. New Testament Theology. Oxford: Clarendon, 1994. Campenhausen, H. von. Die Jungfrauengeburt in der Theologie der alten Kirche. SHAW; Heidelberg: Winter, 1962. –. The Formation of the Christian Bible. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984. Camporesi, P. The Fear of Hell: Images of Damnation and Salvation in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991. Casey, M. From Jewish Prophet to Gentile God: The Origins and Development of New Testament Christology. Cambridge: Clarke, 1991. Cavallin, H. C. C. Life After Death: Paul’s Argument for the Resurrection of the Dead in 1 Cor 15. Part 1: An Enquiry into the Jewish Background. ConBNT 7:1; Lund: Gleerup, 1974.

322

Bibliography

Charles, R. H. A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Revelation of Saint John. Vol. 2. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1920. Charlesworth, J. H. (ed.). The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. 2 vols. New York: Hendrickson, 1983. Chester, A. ‘Jewish Messianic Expectations and Mediatorial Figures and Pauline Christology’, in M. Hengel & U. Heckel (eds.), Paulus und das antike Judentum. WUNT 58; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991. Church of England Doctrine Commission. The Mystery of Salvation, The Story of God’s Gift. A Report by the Doctrine Commission of the General Synod of the Church of England. London: Church House, 1995. Clines, D. J. A. Interested Parties: The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the Hebrew Bible. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995. –. ‘Job’s Fifth Friend: An Ethical Critique of the Book of Job’, BibInt 12 (2004): 233–50. Cobb, J. ‘Beyond “Pluralism”’, in G. D’Costa (ed.), Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered: The Myth of a Pluralistic Theology of Religions. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1990. 81–95. Collins, J. J. ‘Sibylline Oracles’, in J. H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. Vol 1. New York: Hendrickson, 1983. 317–472. –. ‘The Afterlife in Apocalyptic Literature’, in A. J. Avery-Peck & J. Neusner (eds.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part 4: Death, Life After Death, Resurrection and the Worldto-Come in the Judaisms of Antiquity. HO 1: Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten 49; Lei­ den: Brill, 2000. 119–139. –. 1 Enoch 1. A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch, Chapters 1–36; 81–108. Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001. –. ‘The Zeal of Phinehas: The Bible and the Legitimation of Violence’, JBL 122 (2003): 3–21. Colwell, E. C. The Study of the Bible. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1964. Conzelmann, H. Die Mitte der Zeit: Studien zur Theologie des Lukas. BHTh 17; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 41962. –. Der erste Brief an die Korinther. KEK 5; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969. –. Grundriss der Theologie des Neuen Testaments. UTB 1446; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 4 1987. Crossley, J. G. Jesus in an Age of Terror: Scholarly Projects for a New American Century. London: Routledge, 2008. D’Costa, G. (ed.). Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered: The Myth of a Pluralistic Theology of Religions. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1990. Davenport, F. M. Primitive Traits in Religious Revivals: A Study in Mental and Social Evolution. New York: Macmillan, 1905; repr. 1972. Davies, D. J. An Introduction to Mormonism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Davies, P. R. ‘Death, Resurrection, and Life after Death in the Qumran Scrolls’, in A. J. Avery-Peck & J. Neusner (eds.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part 4: Death, Life After Death, Resurrection and the World-to-Come in the Judaisms of Antiquity. HO 1: Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten 49; Leiden: Brill, 2000. 189–211. Delling, G. ‘παρθένος’, TDNT 5 (1967): 826–36. Denny, F. M., & R. L. Taylor (eds.). Holy Book in Comparative Perspective. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1984.

Bibliography

323

Desjardins, M. Peace, Violence and the New Testament. The Biblical Seminar 46; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997. Dibelius, M. ‘Jungfrauensohn und Krippenkind: Untersuchungen zur Geburtsgeschichte Jesu im Lukas-Evangelium’, in id., Botschaft und Geschichte. Vol. 1: Zur Evangelienforschung. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1953. 30–35. Dobschütz, E. von. The Influence of the Bible on Civilization. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1914. –. Die Thessalonicher-Briefe. KEK 10; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1974. Dodd, C. H. The Epistle of Paul to the Romans. MNTC; London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1947. Downing, F. G. ‘An Iconological Argument’, in G. J. Brooke (ed.), The Birth of Jesus: Biblical and Theological Reflections. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000. 101–10. Drane, J. W. Paul, Libertine or Legalist? A Study in the Theology of the Major Pauline Epistles. London: SPCK, 1975. Drewermann, E. Das Matthäusevangelium. Bilder der Erfüllung. Teil 1. Olten: Walter, 1992. Duff, P. B. Who Rides the Beast? Prophetic Rivalry and the Rhetoric of Crisis in the Churches of the Apocalypse. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Dunderberg, I. ‘New Testament Theology and the Challenge of Practice’, in I. Dunderberg, Gnostic Morality Revisited. WUNT 347; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015. 169–89. Dunn, J. D. G. Romans 1–8. WBC 38A; Dallas, TX: Word Books, 1988. –. Christology in the Making: An Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation. London: SCM, 1989. –. Jesus, Paul and the Law. London: SPCK, 1990. –. Unity and Diversity in the New Testament: An Inquiry into the Character of Earliest Christianity. London: SCM, 1990. –. The Theology of Paul the Apostle. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998. –. Jesus Remembered. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003. –. ‘Not so much “New Testament Theology” as “New Testament Theologizing”’, in C. Breytenbach & J. Frey (Hrsg.), Aufgabe und Durchführung einer Theologie des Neuen Testaments. WUNT 205; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007. 225–46. –. New Testament Theology: An Introduction. LBT; Nashville: Abingdon, 2009. –. ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, RBL 01 (2011). Elliott, M. A. The Survivors of Israel: A Reconsideration of the Theology of Pre-Christian Judaism. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000. Engberg-Pedersen, T. Paul and the Stoics. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000. –. Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Esack, F. Qur’an, Liberation and Pluralism: An Islamic Perspective on Interreligious Solidarity Against Oppression. Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 1998. Eskola, T. Beyond Biblical Theology: Sacralized Culturalism in Heikki Räisänen’s Hermeneutics. BINS 123; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2013. Ess, J. van. ‘Verbal Inspiration? Language and Revelation in Classical Islamic Theology’, in S. Wild (ed.), The Qur’an as Text. Leiden: Brill, 1996. 177–94. Evans, E. (ed. and trans.). Tertullian: Adversus Marcionem, Books I–V. Oxford Early Christian Texts; Oxford: Clarendon, 1972. Fee, G. D. God’s Empowering Presence: The Holy Spirit in the Letters of Paul. Peabody: Hendrickson, 1994.

324

Bibliography

Fitzmyer, J. A. Romans. AB 33; New York: Doubleday, 1993. Foerster, W. ‘ἀήρ’, TWNT 1 (1933): 165. Frankemölle, H. ‘Hölle III. Neues Testament’, RGG4 3 (2000): 1847–48. Franzmann, M. Jesus in the Nag Hammadi Writings. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996. Frenschkowski, M. Heilige Schriften der Weltreligionen und religiösen Bewegungen. Wiesbaden: Marix, 2007. Funk, R. W., & R. W. Hoover. The Five Gospels: The Search for the Authentic Words of Jesus. New York: Macmillan, 1993. Fyzee, A. A. A. A Modern Approach to Islam. Bombay: Asia Publishing House, 1963. Gager, J. G. The Origins of Anti-Semitism: Attitudes toward Judaism in Pagan and Christian Antiquity. New York: Oxford University Press, 1983. –. Reinventing Paul. New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Gamble, H. Y. ‘Christianity: Scripture and Canon’, in F. M. Denny & R. L. Taylor (eds.), The Holy Book in Comparative Perspective. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1985. 36–62. Gaston, L. Paul and the Torah. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1987. Gaventa, B. R. Mary: Glimpses of the Mother of Jesus. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1999. Gawthrop, R. & G. Strauss. ‘Protestantism and Literacy in Early Modern Germany’, Past and Present 104 (1984): 31–55. Gerhardsson, B. ‘Illuminating the Kingdom: Narrative Meshalim in the Synoptic Gospels’, in H. Wansbrough (ed.), Jesus and the Gospel Tradition. JSNTSup 64; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991. 266–309. Getty, M. A. ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, CBQ 74 (2012): 395–397. Givens, T. L. By the Hand of Mormon: The American Scripture that Launched a New World Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Gnilka, J. Theologie des Neuen Testaments. HTKNTSup 5; Freiburg et al.: Herder, 1994. –. Bibel und Koran. Was sie verbindet, was sie trennt. Freiburg: Herder, 2004. Gold, V. R. (ed.). New Testament and Psalms: An Inclusive Version. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995. Gómez, L. O. ‘Buddhist Literature, Exegesis and Hermeneutics’, in M. Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion. Vol. 2. New York: Macmillan, 1987. 529–40. Goodacre, M. Goulder and the Gospels: An Examination of a New Paradigm. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996. Goppelt, L. Theologie des Neuen Testaments. UTB 850; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 31978. Goulder, M. Luke: A New Paradigm. JSNTS 20; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989. –. A Tale of Two Missions. London: SCM, 1994. Grabbe, L. L. ‘Eschatology in Philo and Josephus’, in A. J. Avery-Peck & J. Neusner (eds.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part 4: Death, Life After Death, Resurrection and the World-to-Come in the Judaisms of Antiquity. HO 1: Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten 49; Leiden: Brill, 2000. 163–185. Graham, W. A. Beyond the Written Word: Oral Aspects of Scripture in the History of Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. –. ‘Scripture’, in M. Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion. Vol. 13. New York: Macmillan, 1987. 133–45.

Bibliography

325

Grimme, H. Mohammed. Bd.  2: Einleitung in den Koran. System der koranischen Theo­ logie. Münster: Aschendorff, 1895. Grundmann, W. Das Evangelium nach Markus. THKNT 2; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1980. Guelich, R. A. Mark 1–8:26. WBC 34A; Dallas: Word Books, 1989. Guillaume, A. Islam. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1968. Guthrie, D. New Testament Theology. Leicester: InterVarsity, 1981. Haenchen, E. Der Weg Jesu: Eine Erklärung des Markus-Evangeliums und der kanoni­ schen Parallelen. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1968. Hägerland, T. ‘Review of T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus in Continuum’, SEÅ 79 (2014): 174–76. Hahn, F. Theologie des Neuen Testaments. 2 vols. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002. Hakola, R. Identity Matters: John, the Jews and Jewishness. NovTSup 118; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2005. Harnack, A. von. Marcion: Das Evangelium vom fremden Gott: Eine Monographie zur Geschichte der Grundlegung der katholischen Kirche; Neue Studien zu Marcion. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1996, first edition, 1921; the enlarged second edition of 1924 repr. 1996. Haufe, G. ‘Individuelle Eschatologie des Neuen Testaments’, ZTK 83 (1986): 436–63. Hays, R. B. The Moral Vision of the New Testament: A Contemporary Introduction to New Testament Ethics. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997. Heckel, T. K. ‘Neuere Arbeiten zum Neutestamentlichen Kanon (I)’, TRu 68 (2003): 286–312. Hedenius, I. Helvetesläran. Stockholm: Bonnier, 1972. Heiler, F. Erscheinungsformen und Wesen der Religion. Die Religionen der Menschheit 1; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1961. Heim, S. M. Salvations: Truth and Difference in Religion. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1995. Hendriksen, W. New Testament Commentary: Exposition of the Gospel according to Matthew. Grand Rapids: Baker, 1982. Hengel, M. Judaism and Hellenism: Studies in Their Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period. Vol. 1. London: Macmillan, 1981. –. ‘“Setze dich zu meiner Rechten!” Die Inthronisation Christi zur Rechten Gottes und Psalm 110,1’, in M. Philonenko (ed.), Le Trône de Dieu. WUNT 69; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993. 108–94. Héring, J. The First Epistle of Saint Paul to the Corinthians. London: Epworth, 1969. Hick, J. ‘Jesus and the World Religions’, in J. Hick (ed.), The Myth of God Incarnate. London: SCM, 1977. 167–85. –. (ed.). The Myth of God Incarnate. London: SCM, 1977. –. ‘The Non-Absoluteness of Christianity’, in Hick, J. & P. F. Knitter (eds.), The Myth of Christian Uniqueness. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1988. 16–36. –. The Metaphor of God Incarnate. London: SCM, 2005. Hick, J. & P. F. Knitter (eds.). The Myth of Christian Uniqueness. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1988. Hill, C. The English Bible and the Seventeenth-Century Revolution. London: Allen Lane, 1994. Hill, C. E. ‘Paul’s Understanding of Christ’s Kingdom in 1 Corinthians 15:20–28’, NovT 30 (1988): 297–320.

326

Bibliography

Hillert, S. Limited and Universal Salvation: A Text-Oriented and Hermeneutical Study of Two Perspectives in Paul. ConBNT 31; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1999. Hock, K. ‘Zu diesem Heft’, BThZ 27 (2010): 3–13. Hoffmann, P. Die Toten in Christus. Eine religionsgeschichtliche und exegetische Untersuchung zur paulinischen Eschatologie. NTAbh NS 2; Münster: Aschendorff, 1969. Hoffmann, R. J. Marcion: On the Restitution of Christianity. An Essay on the Development of Radical Paulinist Theology in the Second Century. AAR, Academy Series, 46; Chico: Scholars Press, 1984. Holleman, J. Resurrection and Parousia. A Traditio-Historical Study of Paul’s Eschatology in 1 Corinthians 15. NovTSup 84; Leiden: Brill, 1996. Holtz, T. Der erste Brief an die Thessalonicher. EKKNT 13; Zürich: Benziger, 1986. Höpfl, H. The Christian Polity of Jean Calvin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, (Nachdruck). Houlden, J. L. The Pastoral Epistles. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1976. –. Jesus: A Question of Identity. London: SPCK, 1992. –. The Public Face of the Gospel: New Testament Ideas of the Church. London: SCM, 1997. –. ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, Conversations in Religion and Theology 8 (2010): 103–4. Hübner, H. Gottes Ich und Israel: Zum Schriftgebrauch des Paulus in Römer 9–11. FRLANT 136; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984. –. The Law in Paul’s Thought. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1984. –. Biblische Theologie des Neuen Testaments. 3 Bde; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ru­ precht, 1990–1995. Hullinger, R. N. Mormon Answer to Scepticism: Why Joseph Smith Wrote the Book of Mormon. St Louis: Clayton, 1980. Hultgren, A. The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000. Hurtado, L. W. Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003. Huttunen, N. ‘Greco-Roman Philosophy and Paul’s Teaching on Law’, in L. Aejmelaeus & A. Mustakallio (eds.), The Nordic Paul: Finnish Approaches to Pauline Theology. LNTS 374; London: T&T Clark, 2008. 74–89. Jansen, J. J. G. The Interpretation of the Koran in Modern Egypt. Leiden: Brill, 1980. Jervell, J. Luke and the People of God: A New Look at Luke–Acts. Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1972. –. Die Apostelgeschichte. KEK 3; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998. Jewett, R. The Captain America Complex: The Dilemma of Zealous Nationalism. Santa Fe: Bear, 1984. –. Romans: A Commentary. Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006. Johnson, E. E. The Function of Apocalyptic and Wisdom Traditions in Romans 9–11. SBLDS 109; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989. –. ‘Romans 9–11: The Faithfulness and Impartiality of God’, in D. M. Hay & E. E. Johnson (eds.), Pauline Theology. Vol. 3: Romans. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995. 211–39. Johnson, L. T. ‘The New Testament’s Anti-Jewish Slander and the Conventions of Ancient Polemic’, JBL 108 (1989): 419–41. Juntunen, S. Horjuuko kirkon kivijalka? Helsinki: Kirjapaja, 2002. Käsemann, E. Jesu letzter Wille nach Johannes 17. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1966. Kehl, M. Eschatologie. Würzburg: Echter, 1986.

Bibliography

327

Kiilunen, J. Das Doppelgebot der Liebe in synoptischer Sicht: Ein redaktionskritischer Versuch. AASF, B 250; Helsinki: Suomalainen tiedeakatemia, 1989. –. ‘Sanoma kääntymyksestä: Luukkaan toimintaohjelma kirkolle’, in L. Aejmelaeus (ed.), Aimo annos eksegetiikkaa. FS A. T. Nikolainen; Helsinki: Kirjapaja, 1992. 103– 24. King, K. L. What is Gnosticism? Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2003. Klauck, H.-J. ‘Das Sendschreiben nach Pergamon und der Kaiserkult in der Johannesoffenbarung’, Bib 73 (1992): 153–82. Klein, G. ‘Gesetz III. Neues Testament’, TRE 13 (1984): 58–75. Klinghardt, M. Gesetz und Volk Gottes: Das lukanische Verständnis des Gesetzes nach Herkunft, Funktion und seinem Ort in der Geschichte des Urchristentums. WUNT 2:32; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988. Knitter, P. F. No Other Name? A Critical Survey of Christian Attitudes toward the World Religions. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1985. Knox, J. The Humanity and Divinity of Christ: A Study of Pattern in Christology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967. Koch, D.-A. Die Schrift als Zeuge des Evangeliums: Untersuchungen zur Verwendung und zum Verständnis der Schrift bei Paulus. BHTh 69; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1986. Kovacs, J. & C. Rowland. Revelation: The Apocalypse of Jesus Christ. Blackwell Bible Commentaries; Oxford: Blackwell, 2004. Kraemer, H. The Christian Message in a Non-Christian World. London: Edinburgh House Press, 1938. Kraft, H. Die Offenbarung des Johannes. HNT 16a; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1974. Kränkl, E. Jesus der Knecht Gottes: Die heilsgeschichtliche Stellung Jesu in den Reden der Apostelgeschichte. BU 8; Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1972. Kreitzer, L. J. Jesus and God in Paul’s Eschatology. JSNTSup, 19; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1987. Küng, H. Christ sein. München: Piper, 81976. –. ‘Eine christliche Antwort’, in H. Küng et al., Christentum und Weltreligionen: Hinführung zum Dialog mit Islam, Hinduismus und Buddhismus. München: Piper, 1984. –. ‘Christianity and World Religions: The Dialogue with Islam as one Model’, Muslim World 77 (1987): 80–95. –. Christianity and the World Religions: Paths of Dialogue with Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism. New York: Orbis Books, 1987. –. Der Islam: Geschichte, Gegenwart und Zukunft. München & Zürich: Piper, 2006. Kuss, O. Der Römerbrief 3. RNT; Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1978. Kuula, K. The Law, the Covenant and God’s Plan. Vol. 1: Paul’s Polemical Treatment of the Law in Galatians. PFES 72; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999. –. The Law, the Covenant and God’s Plan. Vol. 2: Paul’s Treatment of the Law in Romans. PFES 85; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003. Laato, T. Paulus und das Judentum: Anthropologische Erwägungen. Åbo: Åbo Akademis förlag, 1991. –. Paul and Judaism: An Anthropological Approach. South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism 115; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995.

328

Bibliography

Laeuchli, S. Das Spiel vor dem dunklen Gott: ‘Mimesis’. Ein Beitrag zur Entwicklung des Bibliodramas. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1987. Lampe, G. W. H. ‘The Lucan Portrait of Christ’, NTS 2 (1955–56): 160–75. Lanczkowski, G. Sacred Writings: A Guide to the Literature of Religions. London: Collins, 1961. Lane Fox, R. Pagans and Christians. New York: Knopf, 1989. Lang, B. ‘Hölle IV. Kirchengeschichtlich’, RGG4 3 (2000): 1849–50. Lang, F. G. 2. Korinther 5,1–10 in der neueren Forschung. BGBE 16; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1973. Lawrence, J. S. & R. Jewett. The Myth of the American Superhero. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002. Lehtipuu, O. Kuva kuolemanjälkeisestä elämästä Luukkaan vertauksessa rikkaasta miehestä ja Lasaruksesta (Lk 16,19–31). Unpublished licentiate thesis; University of Helsinki, 1998. –. The Afterlife Imagery in Luke’s Story of the Rich Man and Lazarus. NovTSup 123; Leiden: Brill, 2007. Leipoldt, J. & S. Morenz. Heilige Schriften: Betrachtungen zur Religionsgeschichte der antiken Mittelmeerwelt. Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 1953. Levenson, J. ‘Is There a Counterpart in the Hebrew Bible to New Testament Antisemitism?’ JES 22 (1985): 242–60. Lietzmann, H. An die Korinther I–II. HNT 9; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1949. Lincoln, A. Paradise Now and Not Yet. SNTSMS 43; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981. Lindemann, A. ‘Zur “Religion” des Urchristentums’, ThR (2002): 246–61. Lindeskog, G. Das jüdisch-christliche Problem: Randglossen zu einer Forschungsepoche. Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis; Historia Religionum 9; Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1986. Lohmeyer, E. Die Offenbarung des Johannes. HNT 16; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1953. Löhr, G. (Hrsg.). Die Identität der Religionswissenschaft. Frankfurt a. M.: Lang, 2000. Lüdemann, G. Paul: The Founder of Christianity. Amherst: Prometheus Books, 2002. Luomanen, P. Entering the Kingdom of Heaven: A Study on the Structure of Matthew’s View of Salvation. WUNT 2:101; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998. Luz, U. Das Geschichtsverständnis des Paulus. BevT 49; München: Kaiser, 1968. –. ‘Das Neue Testament’, in R. Smend & U. Luz, Gesetz. Kohlhammer Taschenbücher 1015; Stuttgart & Berlin: Kohlhammer, 1981. 58–139. –. ‘Der Antijudaismus im Matthäusevangelium als historisches und theologisches Problem’, EvTh 53 (1993): 310–27. –. Matthew in History: Interpretation, Influence, and Effects. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994. –. Das Evangelium nach Matthäus. Bd.  1 (Matt. 1–7). 5. Völlig neubearbeitete Auflage, 2002; Bd.  2 (Matt. 8–17), 1990; Bd.  3 (Matt. 18–25), 1997; Bd.  4 (Matt. 26–28), 2002. EKK 1; Benziger: Düsseldorf & Zürich; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. –. ‘Der frühchristliche Christusmythos: Ein Gespräch mit Gerd Theißen zu seinem Verständnis der Religion des Urchristentums’, ThLZ 128 (2003): 1244–58. –. ‘The Contribution of Reception History to a Theology of the New Testament’, in C. Rowland & C. Tuckett (eds.), The Nature of New Testament Theology. FS R. Morgan; Oxford: Blackwell, 2006. 123–34.

Bibliography

329

Madsen, T. G. (ed.). Reflections on Mormonism: Judeo-Christian Parallels. Provo: BYU Religious Studies Center, 1978. Maier, H. O. ‘The President’s Revelation: The Apocalypse, American Providence, and the War on Terror’, Word and World 25 (2005): 294–307. Maier, J. Jesus von Nazareth in der talmudischen Überlieferung. EdF 82; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978. Malina, B. J. & J. H. Neyrey. Portraits of Paul: An Archaeology of Ancient Personality. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996. Manji, I. The Trouble with Islam: A Wake-up Call for Honesty and Change. Toronto: Random House Canada, 2003. Mannermaa, T. ‘Eksegetiikka ja raamattuteologia’ (Exegese und Bibeltheologie), TAik 90 (1985): 479–90. Maqsood, R. The Separated Ones. London: SCM, 1991. Marcus, J. Mark 1–8. AB 27; New York: Doubleday, 2000. Marshall, I. H. New Testament Theology: Many Witnesses, One Gospel. Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2004. Martin, G. M. Sachbuch Bibliodrama: Praxis und Theorie. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001. Martinson, M. ‘Teologi, filosofi och bibeltolkning: Postkristna perspektiv från Nietzsche, Hedenius och Badiou’, in L. Hartman et al. (eds.), Vad, hur och varför? Reflektioner om bibelvetenskap. FS I. Ljung; Uppsala: Elanders Gotab Stockholm, 2006. 191–202. Martyn, J. L. History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel. Nashville: Abingdon, 21979. Matera, F. J. New Testament Theology: Exploring Diversity and Unity. Louisville & London: Westminster John Knox, 2007. Matlock, B. ‘Review of van Spanje, Inconsistency in Paul?’, RBL (2000). Matthews, R. J. ‘A Plainer Translation’. Joseph Smith’s Translation of the Bible: A History and a Commentary. Provo: BYU Press, 1980. May, G. ‘Ein neues Markionbild?’, ThRu 51 (1986): 404–12. –. Markion: Gesammelte Aufsätze. Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2005. May, G. & K. Greschat (eds.), Marcion und seine kirchengeschichtliche Wirkung / Marcion and His Impact on Church History. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002. McArthur, H. K. ‘“Son of Mary”’, NovT 15 (1973): 38–58. McDermott, G. R. ‘Edwards, Jonathan’, RGG4 2 (1999): 1063–64. McGrath, A. E. Christian Theology: An Introduction. Oxford: Blackwell, 2011. Mensching, G. Die Religion. Erscheinungsformen, Strukturtypen und Lebensgesetze. Stuttgart: Curt E. Schwab, 1959. Merkel, H. Widersprüche zwischen den Evangelien: Ihre polemische und apologetische Behandlung in der Alten Kirche bis zu Augustin. WUNT 13; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1971. Milikowski, C. ‘Which Gehenna? Retribution and Eschatology in the Synoptic Gospels and in Early Jewish Texts’, NTS 34 (1988): 238–49. Mitchell, M. ‘“A variable and many-sorted man”: John Chrysostom’s Treatment of Pauline Inconsistency’, JECS 6 (1998): 93–111. Mitternacht, D. Forum für Sprachlose: Eine kommunikationspsychologische und epistolär-rhetorische Untersuchung des Galaterbriefs. ConBNT 30; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1999.

330

Bibliography

Mohler, R. A. Jr. ‘Modern Theology: The Disappearance of Hell’, in C. W. Morgan & R. A. Peterson (eds.), Hell Under Fire: Modern Scholarship Reinvents Eternal Punishment. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2004. 15–41. Montefiore, C. G. The Synoptic Gospels. London: Macmillan, 1909. Moo, D. J. ‘The Theology of Romans 9–11: Response to E. Elizabeth Johnson’, in D. M. Hay & E. E. Johnson (eds.), Pauline Theology. Vol. 3: Romans. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995. 240–58. Moore, G. F. Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era: The Age of Tannaim. Vol. 2. New York: Schocken, 1971. Moorhead, J. H. ‘Apocalypticism in Mainstream Protestantism, 1800 to the Present’, in S. J. Stein (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism. Vol. 3. New York: Continuum, 2000. 72–107. Morgan, R. ‘Theology, New Testament’, ABD 6 (1992): 473–83. Moser, T. Gottesvergiftung. ST 533; Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1980. Müller, M. ‘Luke – the Fourth Gospel? The “Rewritten Bible” Concept as a Way to Understand the Nature of the Later Gospels’, in S.-O. Back & M. Kankaanniemi (eds.), Voces Clamantium in Deserto. FS K. Syreeni; Abo: Abo Akademi University, Faculty of Theology, 2012. 231–42. Murphy, R. E. ‘Death and Afterlife in the Wisdom Literature’, in A. J. Avery-Peck & J. Neusner (eds.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part 4: Death, Life After Death, Resurrection and the World-to-Come in the Judaisms of Antiquity. HO 1: Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten 49; Leiden: Brill, 2000. 101–116. Muslim-Christian Research Group, The Challenge of the Scriptures: The Bible and the Qur’an. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1989. Mußner, F. Der Galaterbrief. HTKNT 9; Freiburg et al.: Herder, 41981. Nagel, T. Der Koran. Einführung – Texte – Erläuterungen. München: Beck, 1983. Nanos, M. D. The Mystery of Romans: The Jewish Context of Paul’s Letter. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996. Nasr, S. H. ‘Response to Hans Küng’s Paper on Christian-Muslim Dialogue’, Muslim World 77 (1987): 95–105. Neale, D. A. None But the Sinners: Religious Categories in the Gospel of Luke. JSNTSup 58; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991. Nelson-Pallmeyer, J. Is Religion Killing Us? Violence in the Bible and the Quran. Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2003. Neusner, J. ‘Mishnah and Tosefta’, in M. Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion. Vol. 9. New York: Macmillan, 1987. ––. Foundations of Judaism. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1989. Newman, B. M. (ed.). Holy Bible: Contemporary English Version. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995. Nickelsburg, G. W. E. ‘Judgment, Life-after-Death, and Resurrection in the Apocrypha and the Non-Apocalyptic Pseudepigrapha’, in A. J. Avery-Peck & J. Neusner (eds.), Judaism in Late Antiquity. Part 4: Death, Life After Death, Resurrection and the World-to-Come in the Judaisms of Antiquity. HO 1: Der Nahe und Mittlere Osten 49; Leiden: Brill, 2000. 141–162. ––. Resurrection, Immortality, and Eternal Life in Intertestamental Judaism and Early Christianity. HTS 56; Cambridge: Harvard University Press for Harvard Theological Studies, 2006.

Bibliography

331

Nöldeke, T. & F. Schwally. Geschichte des Qorans. 2 Bde; Leipzig: Dieterich’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 21909/21919. Norden, E. Die Geburt des Kindes: Geschichte einer religiösen Idee. Studien der Bibliothek Warburg 3; Leipzig & Berlin: Teubner, 1924. O’Neill, J. C. The Recovery of Paul’s Letter to the Galatians. London: SPCK, 1972. –. Paul’s Letter to the Romans. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1975. Ollilainen, V. Jesus and the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Åbo: Åbo Akademi, 2008. Otto, R. Das Heilige. Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen. Gotha: Leopold Klotz, 151926. Pannenberg, W. Grundzüge der Christologie. Gütersloh: Mohn, 21966. Paret, R. Der Koran. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 21980. –. Mohammed und der Koran: Geschichte und Verkündigung des arabischen Propheten. UTB 32; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 51980. Patte, D. Paul’s Faith and the Power of the Gospel: A Structural Introduction to the Pauline Letters. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983. –. ‘Preface’, in id. (ed.), The Cambridge Dictionary of Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Peacocke, A. ‘DNA of Our DNA’, in G. J. Brooke (ed.), The Birth of Jesus: Biblical and Theological Reflections. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000. Pearson, B. A. ‘1 Thessalonians 2.13–16: A Deutero-Pauline Interpolation’, HTR 64 (1971): 79–94. Penner, T. & C. Vander Stichele (eds.), Moving beyond New Testament Theology? Essays in Conversation with Heikki Räisänen. PFES 88; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005. Pernveden, L. The Concept of the Church in the Shepherd of Hermas. Studia Theologica Lundensia 27; Lund: Gleerup, 1966. Pesch, R. Das Markusevangelium. Teil 2. HTKNT, 2/2; Freiburg: Herder, 1977. Pesonen, A. Luke, the Friend of Sinners. Helsinki, 2009. E-thesis: http://urn.fi/URN:ISBN:978–952–10–5440–2. Pinnock, C. ‘The Destruction of the Finally Impenitent’, CTR 4 (1990): 243–59. Pitzele, P. Scripture Windows: Toward a Practice of Bibliodrama. Los Angeles: Alef Design Group, 1998. Plevnik, J. ‘The Taking Up of the Faithful and the Resurrection of the Dead in 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18’, CBQ 46 (1984): 274–83. Pohlmann, K.-F. Die Entstehung des Korans: Neue Erkenntnisse aus Sicht der histo­r ischkritischen Bibelwissenschaft. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2012. Pöhlmann, W. ‘σχῆμα’, EWNT 3 (1983): 760–61. Pokorný, P. Theologie der lukanischen Schriften. FRLANT 174; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998. Powys, D. ‘Hell’: A Hard Look at a Hard Question: The Fate of the Unrighteous in New Testament Thought. Carlisle: Paternoster, 1998. Prior, M. The Bible and Colonialism. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997. Pyysiäinen, I. ‘Holy Book – A Treasury of the Incomprehensible: The Invention of Writing and Religious Cognition’, Numen 46 (1999): 269–90. Radl, W. Das Lukas-Evangelium. EdF 261; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1988. Rahman, F. Islam. New York: Doubleday, 1968.

332

Bibliography

Räisänen, H. Die Mutter Jesu im Neuen Testament. AASF B 158; Helsinki 1969; AASF B 247, 21989. –. Das koranische Jesusbild: Ein Beitrag zur Theologie des Korans. Schriften der Finnischen Gesellschaft für Missiologie und Ökumenik 20; Helsinki: Finnische Gesellschaft für Missiologie und Ökumenik, 1971. –. The Idea of Divine Hardening: A Comparative Study of the Notion of Divine Hardening, Leading Astray and Inciting to Evil in the Bible and the Qur’an. PFES 25; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 1972, 21976. –. Die Parabeltheorie im Markusevangelium. PFES 26; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 1973. –. Paul and the Law. WUNT 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1983, 21987. –. ‘Joseph Smith und die Bibel: Die Leistung des mormonischen Propheten in neuer Beleuchtung’, ThLZ 109 (1984): 81–92. –. ‘Katedraali vai kiviraunio?’ (Kathedrale oder Steinruine?), TAik 91 (1986): 193–204. –. ‘Römer 9–11: Analyse eines geistigen Ringens’, ANRW II.25.4 (1987): 2891–939. –. ‘Paul, God, and Israel: Romans 9–11 in Recent Research’, in J. Neusner et al. (eds.), The Social World of Formative Christianity and Judaism. FS H. C. Kee. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988. 178–206. –. Beyond New Testament Theology: A Story and a Programme. London: SCM, 1990, 2 2000. –. The Messianic Secret in Mark’s Gospel. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1990. –. Jesus, Paul and Torah. JSNTSup 43; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992. –. ‘Luukkaan vertaus tuhlaajapojasta’, TAik 97 (1992): 177–83. –. ‘The Prodigal Gentile and His Jewish Christian Brother: Lk 15,11–32’, in F. Van Segbroeck et al. (eds.), The Four Gospels 1992. FS F. Neirynck; BETL 100; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1992. 1617–36. –. ‘The New Testament in Theology’, in P. Byrne & L. Houlden (eds.), Companion Encyclopedia of Theology. London & New York: Routledge, 1995. 122–41. –. ‘Romans 9–11 and the “History of Early Christian Religion”’, in T. Fornberg & D. Hellholm (eds.), Texts and Contexts. FS L. Hartman; Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1995. 743–65. –. Marcion, Muhammad and the Mahatma: Exegetical Perspectives on the Encounter of Cultures and Faiths. London: SCM, 1997. –. ‘Review of Dieter Sänger, Die Verkündigung des Gekreuzigten und Israel: Studien zum Verhältnis von Kirche und Israel bei Paulus und im frühen Christentum’, JBL 116 (1997): 374–75. –. Neutestamentliche Theologie? Eine religionswissenschaftliche Alternative. SBS 186; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2000. –. ‘På väg mot en etisk bibelkritik’, SEÅ 65 (2000): 227–42. –. ‘Biblical Critics in the Global Village’, in id., Challenges to Biblical Interpretation: Collected Essays 1991–2001. BINS 59; Leiden: Brill, 2001. 283–309. –. ‘Comparative Religion, Theology, and New Testament Exegesis’, StudTheol 52 (1998): 116–29. (= Challenges to Biblical Interpretation. BibInt 59; Leiden: Brill, 2001.) –. ‘The “Effective History” of the Bible: A Challenge to Biblical Scholarship?’, in id., Challenges to Biblical Interpretation: Collected Essays 1991–2001. BINS 59; Leiden: Brill, 2001. 263–82.

Bibliography

333

–. ‘Marcion and the Origins of Christian Anti-Judaism: A Reappraisal’, in H. Räisänen, Challenges to Biblical Interpretation: Collected Essays, 1991–2001. BibInt 59; Leiden: Brill, 2001. 191–205. –. ‘The Nicolaitans: Apoc 2; Acta 6’, ANRW II.26.2 (1995): 1602–44. = Challenges to Biblical Interpretation: Collected Essays 1991–2001. BINS 59; Leiden et al.: Brill, 2001. 141–89. –. ‘Paul’s and Qumran’s Judaism’, in id., Challenges to Biblical Interpretation: Collected Essays 1991–2001. BINS 59; Leiden et al.: Brill, 2001. 111–39. –. ‘Did Paul Expect an Earthly Kingdom?’, in A. Christophersen et al. (eds.), Paul, Luke and the Graeco-Roman World. Essays in Honour of A. J. M. Wedderburn; JSNTS 217; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002. 2–20. –. ‘Vad kristendom och islam kunde lära sig av varandra: Ett exegetiskt perspektiv på en mödosam religionsdialog’, SvTK 78 (2002): 154–63. –. ‘Doppelte Prädestination im Koran und im Neuen Testament?’, in H.Schmid et al. (Hrsg.), Heil in Christentum und Islam. Erlösung oder Rechtleitung? Hohenheimer Protokolle 61; Stuttgart: Akademie der Diözese Rottenburg-Stuttgart, 2004. 139–59. –. ‘How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other’, A paper based on H. Räisänen, ‘Critical Exegesis and the Christian-Muslim Encounter’, in H. Juusola et al. (eds.), Verbum et Calamus. Semitic and Related Studies in Honour of the Sixtieth Birthday of Professor Tapani Harviainen. Studia Orientalia 99; Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society, 2004. 253–67. –. ‘Marcion’, in A. Marjanen & P. Luomanen (eds.), A Companion to Second-Century Christian ‘Heretics’. VCSup 76; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2005. 100–24. –. ‘Matthäus und die Hölle. Von Wirkungsgeschichte zur ethischen Kritik’, in M. Mayordomo (Hrsg.), Die prägende Kraft der Texte: Hermeneutik und Wirkungsgeschichte des Neuen Testaments. Ein Symposium zu Ehren von Ulrich Luz; SBS 199; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2005. 103–24. –. ‘What I Meant and What It Might Mean: An Attempt at Responding’, in T. Penner & C. Vander Stichele (eds.), Moving Beyond New Testament Theology? Essays in Conversation with Heikki Räisänen. PFES 88; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005. 400–433. –. ‘What’s Happening in New Testament Theology?’, in A. Mustakallio (ed.), Lux Humana, Lux Aeterna. FS L. Aejmelaeus; PFES 89; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005. 439–58. –. ‘Das lukanische Jesusbild und der Dialog mit dem Islam. Eine christologische Skizze zur Theozentrik des Gebets’, in H. Schmid et al. (Hrsg.), “Im Namen Gottes…” Theo­ logie und Praxis des Gebets in Christentum und Islam. Regensburg: F. Pustet, 2006. 227–37. –. ‘Kristendomen och islam: den ömsesidiga intellektuella utmaningen’, in Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitets Akademien Årsbok. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitter­hets­ akademien, 2007. 105–17. –. ‘Begotten by the Holy Spirit’, in M. Nissinen & R. Uro (eds.), Sacred Marriages: The Divine-Human Sexual Metaphor from Sumer to Early Christianity. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2008. 321–41. –. ‘The Bible among Scriptures’, in A. Voitila & J. Jokiranta (eds.), Scripture in Transition: Essays on Septuagint, Hebrew Bible, and Dead Sea Scrolls in Honour of Raija Sollamo. Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism 126; Leiden: Brill, 2008. 687–702.

334

Bibliography

–. ‘A Controversial Jew and His Conflicting Convictions: Paul, the Law and the Jewish People Twenty Years After’ in F. E. Udoh (ed.), Redefining First-Century Jewish and Christian Identities. FS E. P. Sanders; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008. 319–35. –. ‘Matthew in Bibliodrama’, in P. Lampe, M. Mayordomo & M. Sato (eds.), Neutestamentliche Exegese im Dialog: Hermeneutik – Wirkungsgeschichte – Matthäusevangelium. FS U. Luz; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2008. 183–95. –. ‘Torn Between Two Loyalties: Romans 9–11 and Paul’s Conflicting Convictions’, in L. Aejmelaeus & A. Mustakallio (eds.), The Nordic Paul: Finnish Approaches to Pauline Theology, LNTS 374. London: T&T Clark, 2008. 19–39. –. ‘Revelation, Violence, and War: Glimpses of a Dark Side’, in W. J. Lyons & J. Okland (eds.), The Way the World Ends? The Apocalypse of John in Culture and Ideology. The Bible in the Modern World 19. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2009. 151–65. –. ‘Eine Kathedrale aus dem Chaos? Ein Gespräch mit Gerd Theißen über Einheit und Vielfalt der urchristlichen Religion’, in P. Lampe & H. Schwier (Hrsg.), Neutestamentliche Grenzgänge: Symposium zur kritischen Rezeption der Arbeiten Gerd Theißens. NTOA 75. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010. 51–64. –. ‘How Christianity and Islam Challenge Each Other’, Fourth R 23:6 (2010): 5–10. –. ‘Joseph Smith as a Creative Interpreter of the Bible’, Dialogue 43:2 (2010): 64–85. –. The Rise of Christian Beliefs: The Thought World of Early Christians. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010. –. ‘Are Christians Better People? On the Contrast between “Us” and “Them” in Early Christian Rhetoric’, A paper read in a symposium ‘Christianity and the Roots of Morality’ in Helsinki 2011. –. ‘Marcion as a Reader of Paul’, in S. Westerholm (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to Paul. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011. 301–15. (Original title: Marcion.) –. ‘A Plea for Pluralism: Reflections on Mission Studies by a Biblical Scholar’, Swedish Missiological Themes 99 (2011): 395–417. –. ‘Jesus and Hell’, in T. Holmén (ed.), Jesus in Continuum. WUNT 289; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012. 355–83. –. ‘The Prodigal Son in a Far Country: Finnish Scholars Read Luke’s Parable’, in S.-O. Back & M. Kankaanniemi (eds.), Voces Clamantium in Deserto. FS K. Syreeni; Åbo 2012. 267–80. –. ‘Resurrection for Punishment? The Fate of the Unrighteous in Early Christianity and in “New Testament Theology”’, in G. Van Oyen & T. Shepherd (eds.), Resurrection of the Dead: Biblical Traditions in Dialogue. BETL 240; Leuven: Peeters, 2012. 361–81. –. ‘A Religious Studies Alternative to New Testament Theology: Reflections on a Controversial Enterprise’. An introductory lecture prepared for a conference ‘Facing Early Christianity: Theology and Religious Studies a Century after Georg Heinrici’, Leipzig, September 2015. Reasoner, M. ‘Review of Kari Kuula, The Law, the Covenant and God’s Plan. Vol. 2: Paul’s Treatment of the Law in Romans’, CBQ 68 (2006): 151–52. Regul, J. Die antimarcionitischen Evangelienprologe. Vetus Latina, Aus der Geschichte der lateinischen Bibel 6; Freiburg: Herder, 1969. Reiser, M. Die Gerichtspredigt Jesu: Eine Untersuchung zur eschatologischen Verkündigung Jesu und ihrem frühjüdischen Hintergrund. NTA, N.F. 23; Münster: Aschendorff, 1990. Reumann, J. Philippians. AB 33 B; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008.

Bibliography

335

Riddle, D. W, ‘The Jewishness of Paul’, JR 23 (1943): 240–44. Robbins, V. K. ‘Review of Timo Eskola, Beyond Biblical Theology’, RBL 10 (2014). Robinson, N. Discovering the Qur’an: A Contemporary Approach to a Veiled Text. London: SCM, 1996. Rohrbaugh, R. The New Testament in Cross-Cultural Perspective. Eugene: Cascade Books, 2006. Röhser, G. Prädestination und Verstockung. Untersuchungen zur frühjüdischen, pauli­ nischen und johanneischen Theologie. TANZ 14; Tübingen & Basel: Francke, 1994. Rosenstock, H.-J. & R. Rosenstock. Bibliodrama Bibliographie: Personen – Themen – Bibeltexte. Bibliodrama Kontexte 2; Schenefeld: EB-Verlag, 2003. Roux, R. ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, TRev 106 (2010): 387– 89. Rowell, G. Hell and the Victorians. Oxford: Clarendon, 1974. Rowland, C. Christian Origins: An Account of the Setting and Character of the Most Important Messianic Sect of Judaism. London: SPCK, 22002. –. ‘The Interdisciplinary Colloquium on the Book of Revelation and Effective History’, in W. J. Lyons & J. Okland (eds.), The Way the World Ends? The Apocalypse of John in Culture and Ideology. The Bible in the Modern World 19; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2009. 289–304. Rowland C. & C. Tuckett (eds.). The Nature of New Testament Theology. FS R. Morgan; Oxford: Blackwell, 2006. Rudolph, K. ‘Jesus nach dem Koran’, in W. Trilling & I. Berndt (Hrsg.), Was haltet ihr von Jesus? Beiträge zum Gespräch über Jesus von Nazaret. Leipzig: St. Benno, 1975. 260–87. –. ‘Texte als religionswissenschaftliche “Quellen”’, in H. Zinser (Hrsg.), Religionswissenschaft: Eine Einführung. Berlin: Reimer, 1988. 38–54. –. Geschichte und Probleme der Religionswissenschaft. SHR 53; Leiden: Brill, 1992. Ruether, R. M. Faith and Fratricide: The Theological Roots of Anti-Semitism. New York: Seabury, 1974. Runesson, A. ‘Review of Heikki Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, SEÅ 77 (2012): 362–65. Salo, K. Luukkaan teologian ydin: Luukkaan evankeliumin ja Apostolien tekojen pelastuskäsitys. PFES 84; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 2003. Sanders, E. P. Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983. –. Jesus and Judaism. London: SCM, 1985. –. Paul. Past Masters; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. –. ‘Sin, Sinners (New Testament)’, ABD 6 (1992): 40–47. –. The Historical Figure of Jesus. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1993. Sanders, E. P. & M. Davies. Studying the Synoptic Gospels. London: SCM, 1992. Sandnes, K. O. ‘Beyond “Love Language”: A Critical Examination of Krister Stendahl’s Exegesis of Acts 4:12’, StudTheol 52 (1998): 43–56. Sänger, D. Die Verkündigung des Gekreuzigten und Israel: Studien zum Verhältnis von Kirche und Israel bei Paulus und im frühen Christentum. WUNT 75; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994. Schaberg, J. The Illegitimacy of Jesus: A Feminist Theological Interpretation of the Infancy Narratives. The Biblical Seminar 28; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995. Schelkle, K. H. Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Vol. IV/1. Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1974.

336

Bibliography

Schlieter, J. U. ‘Methodologie als Shibboleth? Methodische und theoretische Differenzen zwischen theologischer und religionswissenschaftlicher Religionsforschung’, BThZ 29 (2012): 73–96. Schlunk, M. Die Weltreligionen und das Christentum: Eine Auseinandersetzung vom Christentum aus. Frankfurt a. M.: Anker, 1953. Schmid, U. Marcion und sein Apostolos: Rekonstruktion und historische Einordnung der marcionitischen Paulusbriefausgabe. ANTF 25; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995. Schmidt-Leukel, P. ‘Der methodische Agnostizismus und das Verhältnis der Religionswissenschaft zur wissenschaftlicher Theologie’, BThZ 29 (2012): 48–72. Smith, J. ‘New Translation’ of the Bible, with Introduction by F. H. Edwards. Independence, Mo.: Herald House, 1970. Schnelle, U. Wandlungen im paulinischen Denken. SBS 137; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk 1989. –. Paulus: Leben und Denken. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003. –. Theologie des Neuen Testaments. UTB 2917; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007. Schoedel, W. R. Ignatius of Antioch: A Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch. Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985. Schottroff, L. ‘Das Gleichnis vom verlorenen Sohn und die Theologie des Lukas’, ZTK 68 (1971): 27–52. Schramm, T. ‘Bibliodrama und Exegese’, in A. Kiehn et al. (Hrsg.), Bibliodrama. Stuttgart: Kreuz, 1987. 116–35. Schröder, C. Glaubenswahrnehmung und Selbsterkenntnis: Jonathan Edwards’ theologia experimentalis. FSÖT 81; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998. Schüssler Fiorenza, E. Revelation: Vision of a Just World. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991. –. Rhetoric and Ethic: The Politics of Biblical Studies. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999. Schweitzer, A. Die Mystik des Apostels Paulus. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1954. Schweizer, E. Das Evangelium nach Matthäus. NTD 2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1973. Schwemer, A. M. ‘Himmlische Stadt und himmlisches Bürgerrecht bei Paulus (Gal 4,26 und Phil 3,20)’, in M. Hengel, S. Mittmann & A. M. Schwemer (eds.), La cité de Dieu. WUNT 129; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2000. 195–243. Seeley, D. Deconstructing the New Testament. BINS Series 5; Leiden: Brill, 1994. Sellin, G. ‘Lukas als Gleichniserzähler: die Erzählung vom barmherzigen Samariter’, ZNW 65 (1974): 166–89; ZNW 66 (1975): 19–60. Sharpe, E. Comparative Religion: A History. London: Duckworth, 21986. Shaw, G. The Cost of Authority: Manipulation and Freedom in the New Testament. London: SCM, 1983. Simon, M. Verus Israel: A Study of the Relations between Christians and Jews in the Roman Empire. Transl. H. McKeating; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986. Smart, N. The Phenomenon of Christianity. London: Collins, 1979. –. The World’s Religions: Old Traditions and Modern Transformations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Smith, W. C. What Is Scripture? A Comparative Approach. London: SCM, 1993. Sparn, W. ‘Hölle V. Dogmatisch’, RGG4 3 (2000): 1850–52. Spencer, H. Islam and the Gospel of God: A Comparison of the Central Doctrines of Christianity and Islam. Delhi et al.: SPCK, 1956.

Bibliography

337

Stark, R. The Rise of Christianity: How the Obscure, Marginal Jesus Movement Became the Dominant Religious Force in the Western World in a Few Centuries. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1997. Stauffer, E. Jesus: Gestalt und Geschichte. Dalp-Taschenbücher 332; Bern: Francke, 1957. Stegemann, H. ‘“Die des Uria”: Zur Bedeutung der Frauennamen in der Genealogie von Mt 1,1–17’, in G. Jeremias et al. (Hrsg.), Tradition und Glaube: Das frühe Christentum in seiner Umwelt. FS K. G. Kuhn; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972. 246–76. Stegemann, W. ‘Much Ado about Nothing? Sceptical Inquiries into the Alternatives “Theology” or “Religious Studies”’, in T. Penner & C. Vander Stichele (eds.), Moving Beyond New Testament Theology? Essays in Conversation with Heikki Räisänen. PFES 88; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005. 221–42. Stemberger, G. Der Leib der Auferstehung. Studien zur Anthropologie und Eschatologie des palästinischen Judentums im neutestamentlichen Zeitalter. AnBib 56; Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1972. Stendahl, K. ‘The Sermon on the Mount and Third Nephi’, in T. G. Madsen (ed.), Reflections on Mormonism: Judeo-Christian Parallels. Provo: BYU Religious Studies Center, 1978. 139–54. Reprinted in K. Stendahl, Meanings: The Bible as Document and as Guide. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984. –. Meanings: The Bible as Document and as Guide. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984. –. ‘Quis et Unde – Who and Whence? Matthew’s Christmas Gospel’, in K. Stendahl, Meanings: The Bible as Document and as Guide. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984. Stenström, H. ‘Fair Play? Some Questions Evoked by Heikki Räisänen’s Beyond New Testament Theology’, in T. Penner & C. Vander Stichele (eds.), Moving Beyond New Testament Theology? Essays in Conversation with Heikki Räisänen. PFES 88; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005. 105– 32. Stietencron, H. von, ‘Hindu Perspectives’, in H. Küng et al. (eds.), Christianity and the World Religions. London: HarperCollins, 1987. Stowers, S. K. A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994. Strathmann, H. ‘πόλις κτλ.’, TWNT 6 (1959): 516–35. Strecker, G. Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1996. Stuhlmacher, P. Der Brief an die Römer. NTD 6; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989. –. Biblische Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Vol. 1: Grundlegung: Von Jesus zu Paulus. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992. –. Biblische Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Vol. 2: Von der Paulusschule bis zur Johannesoffenbarung. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999. Sugirtharajah, R. S. (ed.). The Postcolonial Bible. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998. Syreeni, K. ‘Review of Georg Baudler, Jesus im Spiegel seiner Gleichnisse’, TAik 92 (1987): 344. –. ‘Matthew, Luke, and the Law: A Study in Hermeneutical Exegesis’, in T. Veijola (ed.), The Law in the Bible and in its Environment. PFES 51; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 1990. 126–55. –. ‘Jeesuksen vertausten jumalakuva’, in R. Saarinen & R. Uro (eds.), Jumalakuvakirja. Kirkon tutkimuskeskus A 54; Pieksämäki: Kirkon tutkimuskeskus, 1991. 19–36. Re-

338

Bibliography

printed in K. Syreeni, Uusi testamentti ja hermeneutiikka: Tulkinnan fragmentteja. PFES 61; Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society, 1995. 193–215. Szceszny, G. Zukunft des Unglaubens. München: List, 1958. Teeple, H. M. How Did Christianity Really Begin? A Historical-Archaeological Approach. Evanston: Religion and Ethics Institute, 1992. Theißen, G. A Theory of Primitive Christian Religion. London: SCM, 1999. –. Die Religion der ersten Christen: Eine Theorie des Urchristentums. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 22001. –. ‘Röm 9–11 – eine Auseinandersetzung des Paulus mit Israel und mit sich selbst: Versuch einer psychologischen Auslegung’, in I. Dunderberg et al. (eds.), Fair Play: Diversity and Conflicts in Early Christianity. FS H. Räisänen; SNT 103; Leiden: Brill, 2002. 311–41. –. ‘Widersprüche in der urchristlichen Religion: Aporien als Leitfaden einer Theologie des Neuen Testaments’, EvTh 64 (2004): 187–200. –. ‘Kirche oder Sekte?’, ThG 48 (2005): 126–75. –. ‘Theologie und Religionswissenschaft: Gegenseitige Inspiration und Irritation zweier komplementärer Wissenschaften’, NedThT 59 (2005): 124–41. –. ‘Widersprüche; Exegese und Wahrheit: Überlegungen zu einer Interpretationsethik für die Auslegung der Bibel’, in M. Welker & F. Schweitzer (Hrsg.), Zur Neubestimmung der Grenzen zwischen den theologischen Disziplinen. Münster: LIT, 2005. 81– 96. –. ‘Theorie der urchristlichen Religion und Theologie des Neuen Testaments: Ein evolutionärer Versuch’, in A. Wagner (Hrsg.), Primäre und sekundäre Religion als Kategorie der Religionsgeschichte des Alten Testaments. BZAW 364; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006. 227–48. –. Die Entstehung des Neuen Testaments als literaturgeschichtliches Problem. SHAWPH 40; Heidelberg: Winter, 2007. –. Von Jesus zur urchristlichen Zeichenwelt: “Neutestamentliche Grenzgänge” im Dialog. NTOA 78; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011. Theißen, G. & A. Merz. Der historische Jesus: Ein Lehrbuch. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996. Theißen, G. & D. Winter. Die Kriterienfrage in der Jesusforschung: Vom Differenzkriterium zum Plausibilitätskriterium. NTOA 34; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1997. Thielman, F. Theology of the New Testament: A Canonic and Synthetic Approach. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005. Thorsteinsson, R. M. Roman Christianity and Roman Stoicism: A Comparative Study of Ancient Morality. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Tolbert, M. A. ‘When Resistance Becomes Repression: Mark 13:9–27 and the Poetics of Location’, in F. F. Segovia & M. A. Tolbert (ed.), Reading from this Place. Vol. 2: Social Location and Biblical Interpretation in Global Perspective. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995. 331–46. Tuckett, C. M. Q and the History of Early Christianity: Studies on Q. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996. –. ‘The Christology of Luke-Acts’, in J. Verheyden (ed.), The Unity of Luke-Acts. BETL 142; Leuven: Peeters, 1999. 133–64. –. Christology and the New Testament: Jesus and His Earliest Followers. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2001.

Bibliography

339

–. ‘What is “New Testament Study”? The New Testament and Early Christianity’, NTS (2014): 158–70. Tuveson, E. L. Redeemer Nation: The Idea of America’s Millennial Role. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968. Twain, M. Letters from the Earth. Edited by B. DeVoto, New York & Evanston: Fawcett Publications, 1962. Ulrich, J. ‘Selbstbehauptung und Inkulturation in feindlicher Umwelt. Von den Apologeten bis zur “Konstantinischen Wende” 1. Theologische Entwicklungen’, in D. Zeller (Hrsg.), Christentum I: Von den Anfängen bis zur Konstantinischen Wende. RM 28; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2002. 223–462. Uro, R. ‘Rezension von Theißen, Religion’, TAik 108 (2003): 83–85. Vähäkangas, M. ‘Mission Studies, Syncretism and the Limits of Christianity during the Time of the Heretical Imperative’, SMT 98 (2010): 7–22. Van Spanje, T. Inconsistency in Paul: A Critique of the Work of Heikki Räisänen. WUNT 2:110; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999. Veijola, T. ‘Die Deuteronomisten als Vorgänger der Schriftgelehrten’, in T. Veijola, Moses Erben: Studien zum Dekalog, zum Deuteronomismus und zum Schriftgelehrtentum. BWANT 149; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2000. 192–240. –. Das 5. Buch Mose, Deuteronomium: Kapitel 1,1–16,17. ATD 8,1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004. –. ‘Puukko, Antti Filemon (1875–1954)’, DBI 2. Vivekananda, S. S. All About Hinduism. Shivanandanagar: The Divine Life Society, 1988. Vögtle, A. Das Neue Testament und die Zukunft des Kosmos. KBANT; Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1970. Vollenweider, S. ‘Streit zwischen Schwestern? Zum Verhältnis von Exegese und Religionsgeschichte’, ZThK 106 (2009): 20–40. Vollmer, U. & H.-J. Klimkeit. ‘Schriften: Heilige’, TRE 30 (1999): 499–511. Volz, P. Die Eschatologie der jüdischen Gemeinde im neutestamentlichen Zeitalter nach den Quellen der rabbinischen, apokalyptischen und apokryphen Literatur. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1934. Vorgrimler, H. Geschichte der Hölle. München: Wilhelm Fink, 1993. Vos, J. S. ‘Review of Ferdinand Hahn, Theologie des Neuen Testament’, NovT 46 (2004): 198–203. Vries, A. de, Die Kinderbibel. Konstanz: Bahn, 1981. Wainwright, A. W. Mysterious Apocalypse: Interpreting the Book of Revelation. Nashville: Abingdon, 1993. Walker, D. P. The Decline of Hell: Seventeenth-Century Discussions of Eternal Torment. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964. Walter, N. ‘Zur Interpretation von Römer 9–11’, ZThK 81 (1984): 172–95. –. ‘“Hellenistische Eschatologie” im Neuen Testament’, in E. Grässer & O. Merk (Hrsg.), Glaube und Eschatologie. FS W. G. Kümmel; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1985. 335–56. –. ‘Hellenistische Eschatologie bei Paulus?’, TQ 176 (1996): 53–64. Wansbrough, J. Quranic Studies: Sources and Methods of Scriptural Interpretation. London Oriental Series 31; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977. Watson, F. Paul, Judaism, and the Gentiles: A Sociological Approach. SNTSMS 56; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986.

340

Bibliography

Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language. Second college edition; New York: Simon & Schuster, 1970. Wedderburn, A. J. M. Beyond Resurrection. Peabody: Hendrickson, 1999. –. A History of the First Christians. London & New York: T&T Clark, 2004. Weiser, A. Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Vol. 2: Die Theologie der Evangelien. Stuttgart et al.: Kohlhammer, 1993. Weiss, J. Erster Korintherbrief. KEK 5; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910. –. Die drei älteren Evangelien. SNT 1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1917. –. Earliest Christianity: A History of the Period AD 30–150. Vol. 2. New York: Harper, 1959 (1937). Wenham, J. Facing Hell: An Autobiography. London: Paternoster, 1998. Werner, M. Die Entstehung des christlichen Dogmas. Bern: Haupt, 1941. Wernle, P. The Beginnings of Christianity. Vol. 2. London: Williams & Norgate; New York: Putnam, 1904. –. The Beginnings of Christianity. Vol. 1. London: Williams & Norgate, 1914. Westerholm, S. Israel’s Law and Church’s Faith: Paul and His Recent Interpreters. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988. Wickham, L. ‘Review of H. Räisänen, The Rise of Christian Beliefs’, Church Times, 30.4.2010. Widengren, G. Religionsphänomenologie. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1969. Wiebe, D. ‘Religious studies’, in J. R. Hinnels (ed.), The Routledge Companion to the Study of Religion. London: Routledge, 22010. 125–44. Wielandt, R. Offenbarung und Geschichte im Denken moderner Muslime. Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1971. Wilcke, H.-A. Das Problem eines messianischen Zwischenreichs bei Paulus. AThANT 51; Zürich: Zwingli Verlag, 1967. Wilckens, U. Der Brief an die Römer. Bd.  2: Röm 6–11. EKKNT VI/2; Köln: Benziger, 1980. –. Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Bd.  1: Geschichte der urchristlichen Theologie, Teilband 1: Geschichte des Wirkens Jesu in Galiläa. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2002. Wild, S. ‘“We have sent down to thee the Book with the Truth…”’, in S. Wild (ed.), The Qur’an as Text. Leiden: Brill, 1996. 137–53. Wiles, M. The Divine Apostle: The Interpretation of St. Paul’s Epistles in the Early Church. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967. –. ‘Christianity without Incarnation?’, in Hick (ed.), The Myth of God Incarnate. London: SCM, 1977. 1–10. –. ‘Christology – The Debate Continues’, Theol 85 (1982): 324–32. Williams, M. A. Rethinking ‘Gnosticism’: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996. Wilson, S. G. Related Strangers: Jews and Christians, 70–170 C.E. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995. Winninge, M. Sinners and the Righteous: A Comparative Study of the Psalms of Solomon and Paul’s Letters. ConBNT 26; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1995. Wischmeyer, O. ‘Paul’s Religion: A Review of the Problem’, in A. Christophersen et al. (eds.), Paul, Luke and the Graeco-Roman World: Essays in Honour of Alexander J. M. Wedderburn. JSNTSup 217; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002. 74–93.

Bibliography

341

Wisse, F. ‘The Use of Early Christian Literature as Evidence for Inner Diversity and Conflict’, in C. W. Hedrick & R. Hodgson (eds.), Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism, and Early Christianity. Peabody: Hendrickson, 1986. 177–90. Witherington, B. III. Jesus, Paul and the End of the World. A Comparative Study in New Testament Eschatology. Exeter: Paternoster, 1992. Wolf, E. ‘Edwards, Jonathan’, RGG3 2 (1986): 309–10. Wolff, C. Der zweite Brief des Paulus an die Korinther. THKNT 8; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1989. Wolter, M. ‘“Gericht” und “Heil” bei Jesus von Nazareth und Johannes dem Täufer: Semantische und pragmatische Beobachtungen’, in J. Schröter & R. Brucker (Hrsg.). Der historische Jesus: Tendenzen und Perspektiven der gegenwärtigen Forschung. BZNW 114; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002. 365–72. –. ‘Lk 15 als Streitgespräch’, ETL 78 (2002): 25–56. Wrede, W. ‘Das theologische Studium und die Religionsgeschichte’, in id., Vorträge und Studien. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1907. 64–83. –. ‘The Tasks and Methods of “New Testament Theology”’, in R. Morgan (ed.), The Nature of New Testament Theology: The Contribution of William Wrede and Adolf Schlatter. London: SCM, 1973. 68–116. –. Über Aufgabe und Methode der sogenannten Neutestamentlichen Theologie (1897), in G. Strecker (Hrsg.), Das Problem der Theologie des Neuen Testaments. WdF 367; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1975. 81–154. Wright, N. T. The New Testament and the People of God. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992. Yarbro Collins, A. Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse. Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984. Young, F. M. From Nicaea to Chalcedon. A Guide to the Literature and Its Background. London: SCM, 1983. Zeller, D. Der Brief an die Römer. RNT; Regensburg: F. Pustet, 1985. –. ‘Einführung’, in D. Zeller (Hrsg.), Christentum I: Von den Anfängen bis zur Konstantinischen Wende. RM 28; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2002. –. ‘Konsolidierung in der 2./3. Generation’, in D. Zeller (Hrsg.), Christentum I: Von den Anfängen bis zur Konstantinischen Wende. Die Religionen der Menschheit 28; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2002. Ziesler, J. Paul’s Letter to the Romans. TPINTC; London: SCM, 1989. Zwi Werblowsky, R. J. ‘On Studying Comparative Religion: Some Naïve Reflections of a Simple- Minded Non-Philosopher’, RS 11 (1975): 145–56.

Index of Ancient Sources 1. Hebrew Bible and Septuagint Genesis 1.2 93 3.16 102 3.24 128 5.1–2 233 5.44–45 233 6 97 6.6–7 232 18.1–22 210 18.14 92 Exodus 4.22f 87 6.3 231 7.14 232 9.34 232 10.1 232 10.20 232 10.27 232 17.11–13 211 33.23 231 40.35 92 Leviticus 18.5 234 Deuteronomy 5.22 307 10.4 307 32.21 77 Joshua 10.12–14 211 15.8 119 18.16 119

1 Samuel 15.11 232 16.14 232 2 Samuel 7.14 87 2 Kings 23.10 119 2 Chronicles 28.3 119 33.6 119 Psalms 2 256, 301 2.7 87–88, 282 8 58 110 58 Isaiah 6 264, 275 7.14 95 19.15 57 31.9 119 45.7 211 49.1 77 53 284 63 196 63.1–6 196 65 63 66 120, 127, 139 66.23–24 126 66.24 119, 135, 140 Jeremiah 7.31 119

344 7.32 119 19.2–5 119 19.6–7 119 Ezekiel 37 122 Daniel 12.2 159 Hosea 11.1 87 Zechariah 9.9 230 Tobit 8.6 88 13–14 120 14.7 120 Judith 16.14 93 16.17 127

Index of Ancient Sources

Wisdom of Solomon 2.17f 87 14.12 180 14.22–31 180 14.24–26 180 Sirach 7.17 127 24.19–22 172 51 172 51.1 169 51.23–29 172 51.23–27 169 2 Maccabees 7.14 121 1 Esdras 4.15–16 88 4 Maccabees 9.9 128 12.12 128 13.14–15 128

2. Other Jewish Literature m. ʾAbot 1.5 120, 129 5.19 120, 129 5.20 129 Apocalypse of Abraham 15.6 121 31 121 31.2 121 31.5 121 Apocalypse of Zephaniah 2.8–9 128 4.7 128 6.2 128 10 128 11 128 15–16 128

2 Baruch (Syriac Apocalypse) 30.1 127 30.4–5 127 44.12 127 44.15 127 48.43 127 51.6 127 59.2 127 59.10–11 127 59.10 119 78.6 129 83.8 129 85.12–13 128 3 Baruch (Greek Apocalypse) 4.16 129 b. Berakot 28b 130

Index of Ancient Sources

Dead Sea Scrolls CD 2.5–7 120 1QpHab 13 120 1QS 2.4–10 188 2.7–8 120 3.13–4.26 276 4.9–14 188 4.12–14 120, 125–126 5.13 120 4Q174 (4QFlor  1.10–11) 87 4Q212 122 m. ʿEduyyot 2.10 126 1 Enoch (Ethiopic Apocalypse) 1.1 129 1.9 120 5.6 120 5.7 120 10.6 127 10.12 127 10.13 127 10.14 127 21.7–10 127 22 127 22.10 127 22.13 127 27.1–3 119 27.2–3 127 37–71 124 46.6 125 48.8–10 126 48.9–10 124 51.1–2 125 53.2 124 53.4–5 125 54.1–2 124 56.1–4 124 56.8 124 61.5 124 62.11 124 63.1 124 63.5–8 124

63.6 124 63.10 124 69.28 125 89–90 122 90 121 90.24 122 90.25 122 90.26–27 119 90.26 122 91 122 91.9a 122 91.9b 122 91.14 122 91.15 122 92–105 123 94.6–10 123 96.6 123 96.8 123 98.3 123 98.10–13 123 98.10 123 98.14 123 99.1 123 99.9 123 99.11 123 99.16 123 100.9 123 102.1 123 102.3 124 103 139 103.7–8 123 108 124, 139 108.1 124 108.3 124 108.5 124 108.14 124 2 Enoch (Slavonic Apocalypse) 10 128 40.12–13 128 41.2 128 42.2 128 71.1–2 97 71.30–31 97 4 Ezra 7.36 119, 126 7.38 126

345

346

Index of Ancient Sources

7.61 126 7.75–76 126 7.80 126 7.84 126 8.59 126 Genesis Rabbah 1.17 121 Joseph and Aseneth 12.11 121 Josephus Jewish Antiquities 18.1.3 128 Jewish War 2.8.14 128 Jubilees 7.29 125 22.22 125 30.22 125 36 125 36.10 125 Liber antiquitatum biblicarum (Pseudo-Philo) 3.10 126 15.5 126 16.3 126 18.12 126 23.6 126 38.4 126 44.6 126 63.4–5 126 Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah 4.14–18 133 11.1–16 102 Odes of Solomon 7.4–7 100 19 102 19.6–11 100 41.11–15 100 Pesaḥim 54a 309

Philo On the Cherubim 2 125 40–52 96 On the Embassy to Gaius 91 125 On the Life of Moses 2.14 309 On the Posterity of Cain 39 125 On the Preliminary Studies 57 125 Questions and Answers on Genesis 3.18 96 3.56 96 On Rewards and Punishments 69 125 On the Virtues 182 182 Psalms of Solomon 2.34 123 3.11–12 122 3.12 122 13.11 122 14.9 123 15.10–13 123 b. Roš Haššanah 16b–17a 120, 126 Shemoneh Esre 12 121 Sibylline Oracles 1.100–103 129 1.103 119, 129 2.283–310 129 2.291 119 2.308 129 2.330–338 133 3.34–347 129 3.252–338 129 4.179–190 121 4.182 121 4.184–186 121 4.185 120 4.188 121

Index of Ancient Sources

Testament of Joseph 2.2 129

4.43 121 Testament of Abraham 11.10 133 11.11 133 12.18 136

Testament of Reuben 5.5 129 Testament of Zebulun 10.3 121

Testament of Adam 3.1 235 Testament of Asher 6.5 128

3. New Testament Matthew 1 284 1.2–16 94 1.18 94 1.20 88, 94 1.21 247, 250 1.23 172 1.25 95 2 94 2.13–15 91 2.15 99, 172 3.17 99 4.23 174 5–7 223, 280 5.6 224–25 5.17–20 250 5.18–19 172 5.19 172, 174 5.20 135, 173 5.21–22 141, 173 5.22 135–136, 148 5.28 135 5.29–30 136, 141, 148, 161, 173 5.43–48 160, 162, 189 6.9–15 280 7.12 173, 189 7.13 132–133 7.15–23 145 7.21–23 173 7.23 161 8.12 134, 139, 148 8.28 230

9.13 173 10.28 132, 139–140, 173 10.32–33 162 10.40–42 175, 189 11 175 11.25–30 166, 169 11.25 172, 233 11.27 99 11.28–30 172–73 11.30 167 12.7 173 12.30 157 12.31–32 145 13 151 13.42 136, 148 13.43 136 13.49–50 173 13.50 136, 148 13.55 89 16.4 182 16.18 137 17.5 99 18.6–10 175 18.8–9 135, 148, 173 18.21–35 250 18.34–35 136 18.34 148 21 106, 230 21.2 230 21.5 230 21.7 230 21.28–31 106

347

348

Index of Ancient Sources

21.37 99 21.38 99 22.13–14 173 22.13 136, 148 22.14 151 22.34–40 173 23 136, 164, 172–73, 204, 255 23.1 230 23.2 230 23.4 172–73 23.15 136 23.33 136, 189 24–25 160 24.33 232 24.34 232 24.36 99 24.51 136, 148 25 149–50, 153, 156, 176 25.1–13 161 25.30 136, 148 25.31–46 118, 136, 147, 149, 153, 157, 159, 163, 175, 189, 250 25.34 137 25.40 162 25.41 147, 173 25.46 133, 148, 153, 173 26.29 250 27.24–25 145, 162–63 27.5 229 27.25 152 27.44 230 28.2 229 28.19–20 250 28.19 99 Mark 1.10–11 88 1.15 249 2.17 246 3.20–21 89 3.21 102, 166 3.22–30 90 3.31–35 89, 166 4.11–12 275 5.2 230 6.3 89–90 6.4 89 8.38 182

9.43–48 118, 148, 249 9.43–47 141 9.43 135, 150 9.44 135 9.45 135 9.46 135 9.47 135 9.48 117, 135, 150 10.17–20 246 10.21 249 10.45 250–51, 283 11.2 230 11.7 230 11.25 249 12 106 12.1–12 106 13 43 13.26–27 56 13.27 57, 134 14.24 250 15.32 230 16.3 229 Luke 1–2 283 1 284 1.1–4 27, 308 1.6 247 1.27 92 1.32–33 92, 283 1.34–35 99 1.34 92, 94 1.35 88, 92, 99, 101, 282, 285 1.36 92–93 1.37 92, 99, 284 1.39–40 93 1.42–45 93 1.48 93 1.54–69 283 1.56 93 1.57 93 1.77 247 2 91, 93 2.1–20 93 2.5 93 2.11 282 2.18 102 2.22–40 93

Index of Ancient Sources

2.27 93 2.33 93–94 2.41–52 94 2.41 94 2.48 94 2.51 102 3.1 99 3.14 195 3.17 (Q) 135 3.21–22 280 3.22 88, 99, 282, 285 3.23 94 4.1 99, 285 4.14 99, 285 4.22 89 4.36 99, 285 5.16 280 5.17 99, 285 6.12 280 6.21 225 6.27–28 189 6.31 189 7.16 283 7.41–43 114 7.47 251 8.19–21 102, 166 8.21 210 9.28–29 280 9.35 282 10.15 (Q) 137 10.21–22 169 10.21 99, 285 10.25–37 189 10.25–28 250 10.29–37 114 10.37 250 11.1 280 11.4 246, 249 11.20 254 11.27–28 210 11.29 182 11.50 255 12.4–5 (Q) 132, 134, 140 12.5 137 12.8–9 (Q) 132, 162, 249 12.16–21 114 12.32 249 13.28 (Q) 134, 137, 141, 148

13.33–35 250 14.26 249 15.1–2 111–12 15.7 284 15.10 284 15.11–32 251, 284 15.13 105 16 134 16.1–9 114 16.16 283 16.19–31 109, 114, 189, 211 16.23 137 16.24 137 16.28 137 16.29 251 16.31 251 17.3–4 249 18.9–14 114 19.10 284 22.19–20 284 22.27 284 22.37 284 22.38 195 22.41–43 280 23.34 255 23.40–43 230 23.42–43 251 23.47 284 24.4 229 24.46–47 251 24.46 284 24.49 99 John 1.1 308, 310 1.3 257 1.19 231 2.1–11 102 3.16–21 275 3.16 131 3.18 131 3.32 257 5.24 43 5.25–29 131 6.37 276 6.39 276 6.41 276 6.42 91

349

350 6.44 275–76 6.65 276 7.17 275 7.42 100 8.21–24 249 8.26 257 8.38 257 8.41 90 8.44 218, 276, 304 9.22 276 10.8 218 10.18 257 10.30 300 11.41–42 280 12.27–30 280 12.37–40 275 12.42 276 12.49 257 13.33 233 15.6 131 16.2 276 16.8–9 249 17 280 19.26–27 102 20.12 229 Acts 1.8 99 1.14 90 1.18 229 2 98, 254 2.22–36 47, 87, 256 2.22–24 281 2.22 254, 282, 287 2.23 282 2.27 137 2.31 137 2.33 283 2.36 87, 256, 282, 301 2.38 247, 251, 284 3.13–15 47 3.13 283, 301 3.14 282 3.18 283, 301 3.20 282, 301 3.26 251, 283, 301 4 287 4.12 244–45, 251, 285

Index of Ancient Sources

4.24 287 4.25 283 4.26 301 4.27 283, 287, 301 4.30 283, 287 5.31 251, 282 7 286 7.9–52 283 8.32–33 284 9.3f 66 10–11 115, 222 10 247 10.35 251 10.38 88, 99, 281, 285, 301 12.5 287 13 301 13.17–25 283 13.26–33 47 13.32–33 256, 301 13.32 87 13.33 282, 285 13.38–39 251 13.48 232 15 115, 222 16.25 287 17 245 17.26–31 115 17.31 282 20.28 284 21 79 21.21 80 21.28 80 22.6 66 23.16 90 24.14 222 26.4–5 222 26.13 66 26.23 286 28.23–28 113 Romans 1–3 247 1–2 81, 247 1 180, 184–85 1.2 282 1.3–4 47, 87, 101, 255, 282 1.3 88, 100 1.4 88, 101, 301

Index of Ancient Sources

1.8 287 1.16–18 214 1.16–17 214 1.18–3.20 70 1.18–32 247 1.18–21 115 1.18 180, 214 1.23 180 1.26–27 180 1.29–31 180 1.29 180 1.32 131 2 25, 247 2.1 131 2.3–11 219 2.3 131 2.6–16 185 2.6 250 2.9–10 247 2.12 130 2.14–15 185 2.14 247 2.16 209 2.17–29 247 2.17–24 185 2.21 213 2.26–27 185, 247 3.9 185, 247–48 3.19 131 3.31 83, 218 4 219, 234 5–8 247 5 131 5.9 65 5.13 236 5.17 59 5.20 218 6 180, 237 6.14 187, 211 6.20 180 6.22 180 7 83, 181, 215, 247 7.1–6 69 7.5 180, 236–37 7.6 180 7.7–25 180 7.7–11 236 7.7 218

351

7.8 237 7.9–10 237 7.10 215, 247 7.11 237 7.12 218 7.14–25 215, 237, 247 7.14 180 7.15 181, 238 7.18 215 7.19 181 7.22–23 181 7.22 181 7.24 181 7.25 238 8 3, 51–53, 64, 66, 180, 187, 237–38 8.3 215 8.4–8 180 8.4 186, 248 8.5–11 181 8.9–11 186, 248 8.11 64 8.15–17 99 8.18–27 53 8.18–21 63 8.19–25 53–54 8.19–23 64 8.22–30 60 8.28–30 270 9–11 3, 68–69, 71–72, 80–85, 214, 219, 270–71 9–10 79 9 73, 75–76, 79, 81–82, 262, 270, 274, 277 9.1–5 72–74, 271 9.1–3 79 9.2–4 73–74 9.2–3 73 9.4–5 76 9.5 100 9.6–29 75, 271 9.6–23 74–75, 82 9.6–13 74 9.6 76, 271 9.7–13 74, 271 9.12 82 9.14 82 9.15–16 271

352

Index of Ancient Sources

9.15 74 9.17–23 84 9.17–18 74, 271 9.18 75, 261 9.19 75 9.21 271 9.22–23 75, 271 9.22 75, 130 9.24–29 75–76 9.24 75 9.30–10.21 76–78, 82, 271–72 9.30–33 76 9.32–33 76 10 80, 274 10.1 73 10.4 76, 218 10.8 34 10.9–13 82 10.13 76 10.21 76, 272 11 73, 75, 79–81, 83, 85, 131, 214, 272, 274 11.1–36 76–81, 271 11.1–2 76, 81 11.1 76, 272 11.6 77 11.7–8 214 11.7 77 11.8 77 11.9 77 11.10–11 79 11.11–32 70, 79 11.11–12 77 11.12 77 11.13–24 71 11.13 77 11.14 77 11.15 77 11.16 77 11.17 78 11.18 78 11.13–24 71–72 11.17–24 77 11.20 78, 80, 273 11.22–23 273 11.22 78 11.23 78, 80 11.25–36 82, 273

11.25–32 52, 81 11.25–27 79 11.25–26 77 11.25 78 11.26–27 78 11.28 77 11.29 78, 273 11.30–32 273 11.31 80 11.32 81–82 11.33–36 273 12 190 12.3–13 190 12.14–21 190 13 44, 65, 190, 195 13.8–10 186, 248 13.11–14 62, 64 14–15 71–72 1 Corinthians 1.4 287 1.18 130 2.8 66 2.10–3.4 187 3.1–4 187 3.16 187 4.8 59 4.9 213 4.12 79 5.1–6.20 187 5.1–5 187 5.9–13 187 6.1–11 187 6.2–3 59 6.12–20 187 7.29 232 7.31 59 8.4 214 8.5 214 9.20 79–80 15 51, 55, 59, 61–62, 78, 131 15.3 252 15.18 131 15.20–28 52–53, 57 15.22 57–58 15.23–24 57 15.23 58, 131 15.24f. 53

Index of Ancient Sources

15.24 51, 57–58, 131, 213–14 15.25–26 58 15.25 58, 213–14 15.26 58 15.28 256, 301 15.42 54 15.44 98 15.48f 66 15.49 59 15.50 54 15.51–55 58 15.52 59 15.53–54 60 15.54 58 15.56 236 16.22 287 2 Corinthians 2.15 130 3–4 274 3 214 3.11 218 3.13 218 3.14 274 3.15 264 3.16 274 4 214, 274 4.3–4 82 4.3 130 4.4 214, 274 4.14 60 4.16–5.10 60 4.18 60 5 60–62, 64, 66 5.1–10 60 5.1–5 53, 60 5.1–2 60 5.3 61 5.4 60–61 5.6–10 60–61, 63–64 5.6–8 60 5.7 62 5.8 61 5.10 60–61 11 79 11.13–15 212 11.14 214 12 66

12.2–4 66 12.2 56 12.8 287 12.20–21 187 13.4 60 Galatians 1–2 219 1.6–9 209, 212 1.11 212 1.15–16 77 2.4 212 2.11–14 43, 213 2.19 70 2.21 252 3–4 72 3 219, 234 3.6–9 217 3.10–13 69, 216 3.10 236 3.13 214, 218, 236 3.14a 217 3.15–25 217 3.15–18 72, 217 3.19 70, 216–17, 236 3.20 70 3.21 234 3.22 82, 216–17 3.24 217 4.3–5 217 4.4 88 4.6–7 99 4.9–10 217 4.18 79 4.21–31 72, 217 4.24–25 73, 217 5.11–12 217 5.13–15 187 5.14–16 186, 248 5.19–21 182 5.22–24 182 5.25 187 6.16 73 Ephesians 2.1ff 43 2.15 213–14 4.17–19 183

353

354

Index of Ancient Sources

4.26 211

6.15–16 231

Philippians 1 60, 62–64, 66 1.20–26 62 1.21 62 1.23–24 62 1.23 60, 62 1.28 130 2.6–11 256 2.7 215 2.9 256 2.10–11 256 3.4–6 218 3.8 218 3.9 218 3.19 130 3.20–21 62 4.8 186

2 Timothy 3.16 209

Colossians 1.15–18 256 1.15b–16 219 3.5–8 183 1 Thessalonians 1.2 287 1.9–10 57, 65, 301 2.14–16 78–79 2.16b 79 4 51–53, 56–57, 59, 78 4.3–8 187 4.13–18 56 4.16 131 4.17 56, 66 5.1–11 57, 59 5.2 52 5.3 130 5.10 57, 252 2 Thessalonians 1.7–9 131 1.9 164 2.1 57 1 Timothy 1.8–9 222 2.4 262

Titus 3.3 183 Hebrews 7.12 218 7.14 100 7.18–19 218 9.26 232 1 Peter 1.22 190 2.12 183 2.17 190 3.16 183 4.3–4 183 4.15 183 2 Peter 2.17 138 2.22 204 1 John 2.1 231 3.9 231 4.12 231 Jude 13 138 Revelation 2–3 138 2.23 198 4–22 201 6.15–17 202 9.20–21 183, 201 12.5 56 13 149 14 138 14.5 201 14.9–11 137–138 14.9–10 194 14.19 198 16.19–21 201

Index of Ancient Sources

19 198 19.6 195 19.11–21 195 19.11–18 184 19.11 195 19.13 195 19.14 195 19.15 195–96 19.17–18 195 19.20 137, 195

19.21 195 20 138, 149–50 20.10–15 137 20.10 137, 148 20.14 138 20.15 137–138, 148 21.3 56 21.8 183 22.15 138, 183 22.20 287

4. Other Early Christian Literature Athenagoras Legatio pro Christianis 31 139 Book of Thomas 141.30–34 139 142.2 139 142.32–143.1 139 1 Clement 7.4 253 7.5 234, 253 14.2 132 14.4 132 14.5 132 21.1 132 22.6 132 26.1 132 28.1 132 32.4 234, 253 57.7 132 59.2 132 2 Clement 5.4 134 6.7 139 7.6 139 10.5 139 15.1 139 15.5 139 17.1 139 17.5–7 139 18.1 139

18.2 139 Concept of Our Great Power 46–47 133 Dialogue of the Savior 127.16–17 134 Didache 16.5 131 16.7 131–132 Diognetus 10.7 139 Epiphanius Refutation of All Heresies 30.2.2 102 30.14.2 102 69.23.1 102 Gospel of Philip 55.23–27 102 55.33–36 102 66.27–67.1 139 68.7 139 Gospel of Thomas 70 131 105 91

355

356 Ignatius To the Ephesians 7.2 101 16.2 139 18.2 101 19.1 101 To the Smyrnaeans 1.1 88, 101 To the Trallians 9.1 88, 101 Irenaeus Against Heresies 1.27.3 211 Justin First Apology 8.4 139 12.1–2 139 17.4 139 19.6 140 21.6 139 28.1 140 45.5 139 52.3–9 140 Second Apology 1.2 139 2.2 139 7.5 139 44.5 139 60.8 139 Dialogue With Trypho 16.2 221 19.6–20.1 221 35.8 139 45.4 139 47.4 139 48.4 88, 102 67 98 67.2 88 100.4–6 102 117.5 139 120.5 139 130.2 140

Index of Ancient Sources

Martyrdom of Polycarp 2.3 139 11.2 139 22.3 57 Origen Against Celcus 1.32 91 1.37 98 Commentarium in evangelium Matthaei 16.12 102 Revelation of Peter 78.23–25 138 Secret Book of John 25.16–27.30 133 26.33–27.11 133 Shepherd of Hermas Mandate(s) 12.2 132 Similitude(s) 4.4 132 6.2.4 132 6.3–5 132 6.4.4 132 9.18.2 132 9.19.1 132 9.20.4 132 9.23.4 132 Visions(s) 3.7.2 132 Tertullian Against Marcion 1.1 210 1.19 209 4.14–16 211 Testimony of Truth 45.6–18 103

Index of Ancient Sources

5. Greco-Roman Literature Diogenes Laertius Vitae philosophorum 3.2 96, 98 Philostratus Vita Apollonii 1.4 98 Plato Gorgias 523–527 120 Republic 10.614–621 120 Pliny the Younger Epistulae 10.96 183

Plutarch Alexander 2.2–4 96 Numa 4 98 Quaestionum convivialum libri IX 8.1 96 8.1, 2 98 Suetonius Claudius 25.3 183 Nero 16.2 183 Tacitus Annales 15.4 183

6. Qur’an 2.26 268 2.87 285 2.253 285 3.45–47 284 3.46 282 3.47 99 3.59 100, 284 3.106 268 4.40 263 4.88 268 4.89 268 4.157 286 4.171 100 5.110 281, 285 6.77 265 6.85 282 6.125 261, 266 7.43 265 7.174 267 7.176 267 7.177 267 7.179 267 7.180 268

9.67–68 268 9.87 268 10.99–100 267 13.27 265 14.27 265 15.29 100 15.39–43 264 16.106–108 266 17.18–19 265 18 264 18.29 261 18.57 264 19.16–33 284 19.30 283 19.31–32 281 20.44 263 20.82 264 21.91 100 23.73–74 263 26.3–5 264 26.20–21 265 29.9 263 30.29 266

357

358 32.10 267 32.12 267 32.13–14 267 35.8 266 37.57 264 39.36–37 266 39.41 266 40 266 40.28 266

Index of Ancient Sources

40.34 266 40.35 266 41.46 263 42.8 266 42.13 265 53.43–48 263 66.12 100 88.23–24 263 90.13–20 263

Index of Modern Authors and Persons Abu Zaid, N. H.  291–92, 295, 312 Aejmelaeus, Lars  68 al-Khuli, A.  291–92 Aland, B.  207, 210 Ali, A.  294–95, 297, 315 Ali, T.  295 Alles, G.  16–17 Allison, D. C.  141 Alt, A.  15 Althaus, P.  238 Andrae, T.  270 Annas, J.  190 Antes, P.  19 Arberry, A. J.  100 Arkoun, M.  292 Armstrong, K.  153 Aune, D. E.  126, 195 Avery-Peck, A. J.  129–30 Baetke, W.  16 Baez, J.  196 Baljon, J. M. S.  294 Balla, P.  2, 27 Balode, D.  147 Barclay, J.  180 Barlow, P. L.  227–29, 231–32 Barr, J.  226, 228 Barrett, C. K.  59, 66, 184 Barth, H.-M.  151 Barth, K.  16 Baumgarten, J.  64 Baumgartner, F. J.  194 Baur, F. C.  213 Bauschke, M.  281, 285–87 Beare, F. W.  186 Becker, J.  41, 55, 63, 65, 78, 141, 280 Beker, J. C.  69 Berger, K.  21, 39 Berlinerblau, J.  11, 295–96

Bernstein, A. E.  122, 124, 130–31, 135, 137–38, 160, 164 Best, E.  55–56, 123, 131 Biderman, S.  306 Black, M.  122, 127 Blackman, E. C.  210 Bosch, D. J.  243, 245–46, 255 Boslooper, T.  97 Bosworth, D. A.  196–97 Bouman, J.  270 Bouquet, A. C.  306 Bourdieu, P.  25 Bousset, W.  23, 122–24, 126 Bovon, F.  92, 98 Boyarin, D.  68, 70–72, 80–81, 85 Brandon, S. G. F.  262 Breytenbach, C.  22–23, 25–27, 31 Brown, D.  69–71, 159 Brown, R. E.  90–91, 95, 97, 99, 276 Bruce, F. F.  4 Bultmann, R.  20, 28, 32, 34, 71, 73, 85, 148 Burkett, D. R.  25–26 Bush, G. W.  158, 197, 200, 202 Bushman, R. L.  227 Byrskog, S.  39 Caird, G. E. B.  138, 149 Campenhausen, H. von  101–102, 220 Camporesi, P.  155 Casey, M.  302 Cavallin, H. C. C.  122–125, 128 Charles, R. H.  195–96, 201–202 Charlesworth, J. H.  235 Chester, A.  63, 65 Clines, D. J. A.  146–47 Cobb, J.  244 Collins, J.  196 Collins, J. J.  123–124, 129, 133, 194

360

Index of Modern Authors and Persons

Colwell, E. C.  226 Conzelmann, H.  57–58, 149, 280, 285–86 Crossley, J. G.  116 Czachesz, I.  35 Darwin, C.  11, 295 Davenport, F. M.  154 Davies, D. J.  224, 228–29 Davies, M.  53, 60 Davies, P. R.  120, 126 Delling, G.  98 Denny, F. M.  307, 311 Desjardins, M.  194, 201 Dibelius, M.  96 Dobschütz, E. von  54, 56, 66, 306 Dodd, C. H.  84, 184 Downing, F. G.  100 Drane, J. W.  217 Drewermann, E.  158–60, 163 Duff, P. B.  201 Dunderberg, I.  25, 28 Dunn, J. D. G.  23, 30, 32, 34–35, 53–55, 61, 63, 67–69, 71, 74, 76, 81, 87, 90, 99, 140, 179, 180–81, 185–86, 250, 256–57 Edwards, J.  153–54 Eliade, M.  16 Elliott, M. A.  122 Engberg-Pedersen, T.  67–68, 70, 85, 182, 189 Esack, F.  313 Eskola, T.  2, 4, 21–28, 30, 33, 35, 67, 74–75 Ess, J. van.  298, 310–11 Evans, E.  208 Fee, G. D.  187 Filson, F. V.  184 Fitzmyer, J. A.  92, 97, 184 Foerster, W.  55–56 Frankemölle, H.  151 Franzmann, M.  102–103 Frenschkowski, M.  1, 11 Freud, S.  295 Funk, R. W.  140–41 Fyzee, A. A. A.  294, 297 Gager, J. G.  69–70, 74, 79, 85, 221

Gamble, H. Y.  305, 308–309 Gaston, L.  74, 79 Gaventa, B. R.  94, 102 Gawthrop, R.  314 Gerhardsson, B. 110 Getty, M. A.  35 Givens, T. L.  227, 229, 233 Giversen, S.  103 Gnilka, J.  149–50, 262, 269, 277, 280, 286 Goethe, J. W. von  152 Gómez, L. O.  315 Goodacre, M.  111 Goppelt, L. 149 Görtz, H.-J.  26 Goulder, M.  70, 109, 111–112 Grabbe, L. L.  128 Graham, W. A.  305–309, 311 Grant, R. M.  71 Gressmann, H.  122–24, 126 Grundmann, W.  135 Grimme, H.  263 Guelich, R. A.  89 Guillaume, A.  295 Guthe, H.  15 Guthrie, D.  88, 90, 118, 150–51 Haenchen, E.  141 Hägerland, T.  6 Hahn, F.  19, 29, 32–34, 38 Hakola, R.  276 Harnack, A. von.  207, 210–11, 213–15, 217–19 Haufe, G.  59–60 Hays, R. B.  150 Heckel, T. K.  27 Hedenius, I.  153, 154, 156–58, 176 Heiler, F.  306, 309–10 Heim, S. M.  244 Hendriksen, W.  229 Hengel, M.  55, 123 Héring, J.  57–58 Hick, J.  9, 243–44, 253–55, 257, 287, 303 Hill, C.  226 Hill, C. E.  51, 58–59 Hillert, S.  68 Hock, K.  19 Hoffmann, P.  55–56, 60, 62

Index of Modern Authors and Persons

Hoffmann, R. J.  207, 209–13, 217, 220–221 Holl, K.  213 Holleman, J.  57–58 Holmén, T.  5 Holtz, T.  55–56 Holtzmann, H. J.  84 Hoover, R. W.  140–41 Höpfl, H.  271 Houlden, J. L.  23, 83, 222, 258 Howe, J. W.  196 Hübner, H.  69, 73–76, 79, 82, 149, 271 Hullinger, R. N.  234 Hultgren, A.  115 Hurtado, L. W.  89–90 Huttunen, N.  185–86 Isenberg, W. W.  102 Jansen, J. J. G.  291 Jeremias, J.  107 Jervell, J.  222, 281 Jewett, R.  7, 75, 77–78, 82, 84, 181, 186, 193–94, 196, 198–203 Johnson, E. E.  68, 75–76 Johnson, L. T.  188, 190 Joyce, J.  156 Juntunen, S.  47–48 Käsemann, E.  275 Kehl, M.  151 Khalafallah, M.  291 Kiilunen, J.  5, 105–109, 112–113 King, K. L.  133 King, M. L.  196 Kittel, R.  15 Klauck, H.-J.  43 Klein, G.  69 Klimkeit, H.-J.  305 Klinghardt, M.  110 Knitter, P. F.  9, 243–45, 253–54, 257, 260 Knox, J.  34–35, 216, 256 Koch, D.-A.  225 Kolakowski, L.  152 Kovacs, J.  7, 193–96, 199, 201, 204–205 Kraemer, H.  262 Kraft, H.  137, 196 Kränkl, E.  281–84

361

Kreitzer, L. J.  52 Küng, H.  22, 35, 259, 279, 286–87, 290, 293, 296, 300, 302–303 Kuss, O.  72, 75, 80–82, 262 Kuula, K.  68, 70–76, 78, 80, 82–83, 186, 217 Laato, T.  71, 181 Laeuchli, S.  175 Lampe, G. W. H.  256, 280 Lanczkowski, G.  305 Lane Fox, R.  184 Lang, B.  151 Lang, F. G.  60 Lauha, A.  15 Lawrence, J. S.  7, 193–94, 196, 198–203 Lehtipuu, O.  109–11, 114, 120, 127, 134, 137–38, 251 Leipoldt, J.  306, 309–10 Leopardi, G.  155 Levenson, J.  217 Lietzmann, H.  57 Lincoln, A.  53, 55–56 Lindemann, A.  39 Lindeskog, G.  254, 287 Lohmeyer, E.  196 Lüdemann, G.  73, 75, 81 Luomanen, P.  160, 225 Luz, U.  6, 39, 46–48, 54–55, 58–60, 72, 95–96, 132, 134, 136–37, 140–41, 145–48, 152, 155–57, 159–64, 172–77, 184, 204 Maier, H. O.  197, 200, 202 Maier, J.  91 Mäkisalo, A.-K.  6, 165–68, 170 Malina, B. J.  69 Manji, I.  296–97, 316 Mannermaa, T.  46–48 Maqsood, R.  299–300 Marcus, J.  89 Marjanen, A.  28 Marshall, I. H.  28, 38, 118 Martin, G. M.  165, 167 Martinson, M.  176 Martyn, J. L.  72, 276 Marx, K.  11, 295 Matera, F. J.  20, 38

362

Index of Modern Authors and Persons

Matlock, B.  69 Matthews, R. J.  228–29, 231–33, 237–38 May, G.  207–208, 213, 216, 219, 221 McArthur, H. K.  90 McDermott, G. R.  153 McGrath, A. E.  244, 253 Meeks, W. A.  188 Mensching, G.  262 Merkel, H.  45, 230 Merz, A.  150 Milikowski, C.  134 Mitchell, M.  69 Mitternacht, D.  70–71 Mohler, R. A. Jr.  118 Montefiore, C. G.  117, 135, 162–63, 189, 255 Moo, D. J.  85 Moore, G. F.  130 Moorhead, J. H.  198–99 Morenz, S.  306, 309–10 Morgan, R.  18–19, 26 Moser, T.  152, 156, 158, 161 Müller, M.  10, 307 Murphy, R. E.  127 Mußner, F.  44 Nagel, T.  269 Nanos, M. D.  70, 74, 78–79 Nasr, S. H.  293–94 Neale, D. A.  112 Nelson-Pallmeyer, J.  194 Neusner, J.  316 Neyrey, J. H.  69 Nickelsburg, G. W. E.  123, 126–27 Nietzsche, F.  295 Nikolainen, A. T.  107-108 Nineham, D.  34, 254 Nissinen, M.  4 Nöldeke, T.  263 Norden, E.  98 O’Neill, J. C.  75, 220 Ollilainen, V.  4–5, 105–11, 113–15 Otto, R.  16, 270 Paine, T.  227 Pannenberg, W.  100, 254, 258 Paret, R.  261, 269, 281, 285–86

Patte, D.  69, 246 Peacocke, A.  103 Pearson, B. A.  78, 103 Pernveden, L.  132 Pesch, R.  141 Pesonen, A.  106, 111–13, 115 Pfleiderer. O.  84 Pickthall, M. M.  311 Pinnock, C.  118 Pitzele, P.  166, 176 Plevnik, J.  57 Pohlmann, K.-F.  298 Pöhlmann, W.  59 Pokorný, P.  110 Powys, D.  118, 120, 122–23, 125–27, 134–35, 137–38 Prior, M.  146 Puukko, A. F.  15 Pyysiäinen, I.  306–307 Radl, W.  284 Rahman, F.  292–94, 315 Räisänen, H.  1–11, 16–17, 19, 21–22, 25–27, 29–30, 32–35, 37–39, 43, 47, 49, 67–69, 71, 73, 80, 83–85, 89, 92, 99, 102, 105–11, 113–16, 146, 175–76, 179, 186, 210, 218, 220–23, 229, 236–37, 244–46, 249, 252, 255, 259, 262, 270, 273, 275–276, 279, 291–92, 300, 313–15 Reasoner, M.  68, 71 Regul, J.  218–19 Reiser, M.  119–121, 123–26, 129 Reumann, J.  186 Riddle, D. W.  79–80 Rigdon, S.  228–29 Robbins, V. K.  23 Robinson, N.  263, 311, 314 Robinson, S. E.  235 Rohrbaugh, R.  5, 106, 115–16 Röhser, G.  270, 275 Roosevelt, T.  201 Rosenstock, H.-J.  165 Rosenstock, R.  165 Roux, R.  23, 29, 35 Rowell, G.  159 Rowland, C.  7, 43, 193–96, 199, 201, 204–205 Rudolph, K.  15–17, 19, 27, 279

Index of Modern Authors and Persons

Ruether, R. M.  80–81, 253 Runesson, A.  21, 31–33 Rushdie, S.  295 Salmi, M.  165 Salo, K.  106, 109–10, 113 Sanders, E. P.  52–53, 56, 58, 60, 62, 64–70, 72, 78, 80–81, 83, 85, 133, 184–85, 215, 218, 247–48, 255 Sandnes, K.O.  245 Sänger, D.  76, 79, 80 Schaberg, J.  90, 96–97 Schelkle, K. H.  150 Schlieter, J. U.  19–20 Schlunk, M.  262 Schmid, U.  217, 219 Schmidt-Leukel, P.  20, 25 Schnelle, U.  20, 33–35, 38, 54, 61, 64–65, 69, 77–78, 81 Schoedel, W. R.  101 Schoeps, H.-J.  84 Schopenhauer, A.  156 Schottroff, L.  105, 109, 111, 114 Schramm, T.  166 Schröder, C.  154 Schüssler Fiorenza, E.  146, 183–84 Schweitzer, A.  51, 56–57, 63–64 Schweizer, E.  132 Schwemer, A. M.  54–55, 62 Seeley, D.  285 Sellin, G.  111, 114 Sharpe, E.  16 Shaw, G.  185 Simon, M.  217 Smart, N.  21–22, 312, 315 Smith, J.  8, 223–24, 226–39 Smith, W. C.  11, 16, 306–308, 310, 312, 316 Smith, W. R.  11, 295 Söderblom, N.  310 Sparn, W.  151 Spencer, H.  262 Stark, R.  189 Stauffer, E.  89 Stegemann, H.  95 Stegemann, W.  18–19, 26–27, 38 Stemberger, G.  125

363

Stendahl, K.  8–9, 17, 95, 99, 223–26, 244–45 Stenström, H.  24 Stietencron, H. von.  308 Stowers, S. K.  70, 79 Strathmann, H.  62 Strauss, G.  314 Strecker, G.  33, 79, 148 Stuhlmacher, P.  52–53, 60, 64, 149 Syreeni, K.  5, 10, 105–107, 113, 116, 251 Szceszny, G.  16 Taylor, R. L.  307, 311 Teeple, H. M.  97–98, 150–51 Theißen, G.  2–3, 21–22, 24, 27, 37–50, 70, 81, 140, 148, 150 Thielman, F.  38, 118 Thorsteinsson, R. M.  7, 189–90 Tolbert, M. A.  146–47 Troeltsch, E.  27 Tuckett, C. M.  17, 87, 113–15, 140, 256, 279, 282–83 Tuveson, E. L.  7, 193, 196–200, 202, 204 Twain, M.  117–118, 161 Ulrich, J.  45 Uro, R.  4, 28, 42 Vähäkangas, M.  259 Van Spanje, T.  2, 69 Veijola, T.  15, 307–308 Vivekananda, S. S.  308 Vögtle, A.  63 Vollenweider, S.  17, 25 Vollmer, U.  305 Volz, P.  121–26, 128, 138 Vorgrimler, H.  153–55, 158, 163 Vos, J. S.  19–20, 29, 32–34 Vries, A. de  235–36 Wainwright, A. W.  196, 198 Walker, D. P.  152–53, 159 Walter, N.  54, 56, 60–61, 64, 79, 81 Wansbrough, J.  264 Watson, F.  69 Weber, M.  27, 277 Wedderburn, A. J. M.  44, 61 Weinel, H.  84

364

Index of Modern Authors and Persons

Weiser, A.  284 Weiss, J.  51–52, 57, 62, 117, 135, 157, 216 Wellhausen, J.  11, 295 Wenham, J.  118 Werner, M.  236 Wernle, P.  34, 248 Westerholm, S.  67–68 Wickham, L.  23 Widengren, G.  308 Wiebe, D.  17, 21 Wielandt, R.  291 Wilcke, H.-A.  52 Wilckens, U.  20, 24, 38, 79 Wild, S.  308 Wiles, M.  34–35, 236–37, 257–58, 303 Williams, M. A.  212 Wilson, S. G.  212, 216, 221, 257 Wilson, W.  203 Winninge, M.  246, 248

Winter, D.  140 Wischmeyer, O.  214 Wisse, F.  44, 188 Witherington, B. III.  53, 58, 61–62, 141 Wolf, E.  153 Wolff, C.  61 Wolter, M.  115, 129, 134 Wrede, W.  1, 17–18, 21, 23–24, 27, 30, 37–39, 40 Wright, N. T.  53, 71, 73, 75, 78 Yarbro Collins, A.  201 Young, F. M.  35, 45 Zeller, D.  21, 28, 35, 63, 72, 96–97 Ziesler, J.  63, 238 Zinser, H.  20 Zwi Werblowsky, R. J.  16, 26