The Gospels and Their Stories in Anthropological Perspective: Herausgegeben:Verheyden, Joseph; Kloppenborg, John S. 9783161563089, 9783161563096, 3161563085

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

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The Gospels and Their Stories in Anthropological Perspective edited by

Joseph Verheyden and John S. Kloppenborg

Mohr Siebeck

Joseph Verheyden, born 1957, is professor of New Testament Studies at the University of Leuven. orcid.org/0000-0002-8646-5233 John S. Kloppenborg, born 1951, is professor of religion at the University of Toronto.

ISBN 978-3-16-156308-9 / eISBN 978-3-16-156309-6 DOI 10.1628/978-3-16-156309-6 ISSN 0512-1604 / eISSN 2568-7476 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2018 Mohr Siebeck Tübingen. www.mohrsiebeck.com This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by Martin Fischer in Tübingen using Minion typeface, printed on non-­ aging paper by Gulde Druck in Tübingen, and bound by Großbuchbinderei Spinner in Otters­ weier. Printed in Germany.

Table of Contents Joseph Verheyden and John S. Kloppenborg Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Bodies, Demons, and Magic Giovanni B. Bazzana Beelzebul vs Satan: Exorcist Subjectivity and Spirit Possession in the Historical Jesus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Laura Feldt Monster Theory and the Gospels: Monstrosities, Ambiguous Power and Emotions in Mark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Sarah E. Rollens From Birth Pangs to Dismembered Limbs: The Anthropology of Bodily Violence in the Gospel of Mark . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Brigidda Bell Discerning the False Prophets: An Embodied Approach to Prophetic Testing in Matthew and the Didache . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 William Arnal Textual Healing: Magic in Mark and Acts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87

Practices Zeba A. Crook Religion’s Coercive Prayers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Martin Ebner Der Wanderprediger und sein Anhang als „Lehrer“ und „Schüler“: Jesus und seine Jünger im Rahmen der römischen Lehrertopographie . . . . 147

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Spaces Halvor Moxnes Secrecy in the Gospel of Matthew from an Anthropological Perspective: Creation of an Alternative World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 Daniel A. Smith Excursion, Incursion, Conquest: A Spatial Approach to Mission in the Synoptics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191

Visions Santiago Guijarro The Visions of Jesus and His Disciples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217 Jan N. Bremmer Ghosts, Resurrections, and Empty Tombsin the Gospels, the Greek Novel, and the Second Sophistic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233 Pieter F. Craffert Re-Visioning Jesus’ Resurrection: The Resurrection Stories in a Neuroanthropological Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253

Response Simon Coleman Being Undisciplined: An Anthropologist’s Response . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285 List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303 Index of Biblical References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309 Index of Inscriptions, Papyri, and Other References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317 Index of Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323

Abbreviations AGAJU AncB ANRW APA ARA BBB BETL BibInt BiTS BTB BThSt BWANT BZNW CQ CSCO DDD DJD DNP EdF EKK FRLANT FzB GNT HBS HTR ITQ IESS JAAR JBL JBLMS JECS JHS JJS JLH JRS JSHJ JSNT JSSR LCL

Arbeiten zur Geschichte des Antiken Judentums und Urchristentums The Anchor Bible Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt American Philosophical Association Annual Review of Anthropology Bonner biblische Beiträge Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium Biblical Interpretation Biblical Tools and Studies Biblical Theology Bulletin Biblisch-theologische Studien Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft The Classical Quarterly Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium K. van der Toorn, B. Becking, P. W. van der Horst, Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible (Leiden: Brill, 1995) Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Der Neue Pauly Erträge der Forschung Evangelisch‐Katholischer Kommentar Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Forschung zur Bibel Grundrisse zum Neuen Testament Herders biblische Studien Harvard Theological Review Irish Theological Quarterly International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences Journal of the American Academy of Religion Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Biblical Literature. Monograph Series Journal of Early Christian Studies The Journal of Hellenic Studies Journal of Jewish Studies The Journal of Library History Journal of Roman Studies Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion Loeb Classical Library

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Abbreviations

Library of New Testament Studies H. G. Liddell, R. Scott, H. S. Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996) LTK Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche MAAR Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome MEFR (A) Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Antiquité MTSR Method and Theory in the Study of Religion Neot Neotestamentica NT Novum Testamentum NTA Neutestamentliche Abhandlungen NTOA / ​StUNT Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus/ Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments NTS New Testament Studies NTTSD New Testament Studies, Tools, and Documents ÖBS Österreichische biblische Studien QD Quaestiones Disputatae R&T Religion & Theology REA Revue des Études Anciennes RRR Review of Religious Research SBAB Stuttgarter biblische Aufsatzbände SBB Stuttgarter biblische Beiträge SBLDS SBL Dissertation Series SBLSP SBL Seminar Papers SBS Stuttgarter Bibelstudien SNTSMS Society of New Testament Studies. Monograph Series STAC Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christitanity SupplJSNT Supplements to the Journal for the Study of the New Testament SupplJSOT Supplements to the Journal for the Study of the Old Testament SupplNT Supplements to Novum Testamentum SupplVChr Supplements to Vigiliae Christinae TDNT Theological Dictionary of the New Testament ThGl Theologie und Glaube ThKNT Theologischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament ThPQ Theologisch‐praktische Quartalschrift TWNT Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament TynBull Tyndale Bulletin USQR Union Seminary Quarterly Review VigChr Vigiliae Christianae WUNT Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament ZNT Zeitschrift für Neues Testament ZNW Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche ZPE Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

Introduction Joseph Verheyden and John S. Kloppenborg Christianity originated in a world that in many respects was very different from ours. The differences involve certain practices, beliefs, and on a broader level, worldviews, and the language that is used for expressing one’s convictions. The evidence can be traced through the literary sources and the archaeological remains that have come to us. This conference focused on the literary sources, as they are often thought to present a more direct entrance to the matter. In particular, attention was paid to the New Testament gospels and what they can tell us about these religious practices, beliefs and language. This evidence was studied against the broader background of Greco-Roman literature dealing with identical or similar phenomena and using an approach that is informed by recent research in (historical) anthropology. The conference brought together a number of expert biblical scholars, specialists of ancient Greek and Roman religion, and proponents of an anthropological approach to early Christian and Greco-Roman religious tradition. Several of the speakers are members of the so-called “Context Group” that since several decades has been a leading voice in developing social-scientific approaches for studying early Christianity and that has been instrumental in getting the results trickling down in biblical studies at large. The meeting also offered an opportunity for entering in discussion with colleagues who, while fundamentally interested in the method and its results, have been working with a more classical paradigm of reading the earliest Christian sources against the background of the Greco-Roman sources to discover similarities and dissimilarities in beliefs and practices. The speakers were asked to focus on a particular topic in the field of religious practice or belief that is found in the gospels and in other ancient literature and study this topic in dialogue with recent scholarship and with a specific interest for the insights that can be gained from an anthropological approach. The essays here collected are divided into four sections. The first one is entitled “Bodies, Demons, and Magic” and consists of five studies. Giovanni Bazzana analyses the Beelzebul controversy in Mark and Q focusing on the relationship between (the demon) Beelzebul and Satan, the mysterious reference to “a strong one” who is to be conquered, the type of accusation that is levelled against Jesus as healer and exorcist, and the way the powerful intervention of God is expressed. Laura Feldt continues her research on monstrosity in an essay dealing with

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Mark’s construction of the demoniac as monstrous, but also as ambiguous and as provoking deeply traumatising emotions. Sarah Rollens asks why Mark shows a special interest in developing the motif of assaulting or hurting the bodies of major characters of the story (Jesus and the Baptist, but also the believers) and links it to the genre of Mark as a “mythic” account on identity creation in a particular group. Brigidda Bell studies the topic of the “false prophet” in Matthew (7:15) and the Didache (11:8) from the perspective of a typology of discernment, comparing the ancient sources to the practice of embodied discernment in a contemporary evangelical community in the USA and in ancient Greek religion. William Arnal contributes a lengthy essay on magic in Mark and Acts read against the background of modern socio-anthropological trends in studying ancient magic and the perception of magic in the ancient world itself. Among the New Testament passages to be studied in some detail are Mark 7:32–6 and Acts 16:16–9 and chapter 19. Two essays are listed under the heading “Practices”. Zeba Crook deals with coercive prayers, exploring the relationship between religious and magical practice in using prayer as a tool to obtain something from the divine and the complicated interaction it creates by working with a model of reciprocity to obtain what is asked for all while making sure the gods remain satisfied. Martin Ebner studies the figure of Jesus as a teacher and preacher accompanied by his disciples in the four gospels in comparison with Roman models of the teacher – disciple topos in (primarily) philosophical tradition, thereby focusing on the distinctive features that can be found in each of the gospels with regard to how Jesus’ power and authority are represented. The section entitled “Spaces” contains two essays dealing with space, though in quite different ways. Halvor Moxnes connects the concepts of secrecy and separation as it is developed in Matt 6:1–18, 11:25–7 and chapter 13 with that of identity formation and the creation of another kind of spatial context that allows the group to understand itself as “different” or even as an alternative to the society in which it comes about. Dan Smith is rather more interested in “real” spatial categories as these are linked up with the missionary ambitions of the earliest Christian communities and evidenced in Q and in the synoptic gospels, the oldest of which interprets the move into new territory as incursion, while the two others seem to look upon it as forms of conquering or appropriating. The last section bears the title “Visions” and brings together three essays, the first of which analyses gospel passages depicting visions by Jesus while the other two deal with the resurrection stories. Santiago Guijarro connects visions with specific states of consciousness, situates Jesus’ visions in line with those of Jewish prophets that are told about in Hebrew Scripture, and ends with a brief survey of the visions of the disciples after the resurrection. Jan Bremmer studies resurrection narratives in Luke and Acts against the background of similar stories as told later on in Greek novels and in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius, with special

Introduction

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attention to the issue of the “reality” of what is seen and told. Pieter Craffert proposes to read the resurrection narratives in the gospels in a neuro-anthropological perspective focusing on the particularities of visionary experiences. Simon Coleman was asked to contribute a response to the essays from the perspective of an anthropologist recalling first how anthropology has evaluated some of the claims made in Scripture and in early Christianity about its identity before offering some brief but well-informed comments on each of the essays in this volume. Over the past three or four decades, biblical scholars and scholars of early Christianity have gradually become more aware of the importance of the social sciences for their own field. This has produced a steady flow of studies rooted in work that was done in the fields of religious psychology, group formation psychology, the sociology of emerging groups and movements and the sociology of religion, ethnology, and historical anthropology. The Leuven conference wished to offer an inevitably selective survey of what has been achieved over these years and to reflect on how these efforts should be pursued in the future. It was the explicit purpose not to limit ourselves to purely methodological reflections, but to explore and evaluate how concepts and constructs can be developed and then also checked in applying them to specific cases and topics that are typical and crucial for understanding earliest Christianity.

Bodies, Demons, and Magic

Beelzebul vs Satan: Exorcist Subjectivity and Spirit Possession in the Historical Jesus Giovanni B. Bazzana No scholar denies that “spirit”1 possession played an extremely significant role in the experience of the Jesus groups, beginning already with the historical Jesus, about whom all the sources attest to a rich and successful exorcistic activity. Nevertheless, scholarship almost systematically marginalizes this aspect or tries to “explain it away” in reductionistic fashion. Thus, possession is often attributed either to psychopathology (even today, when large sectors of the field are progressively becoming more and more conscious of the implications of certain representations of disability) or to the need to “vent out” in order to find a momentary relief from the oppressiveness of unequal social and political situations.2 Such a tendency in biblical scholarship cannot be surprising when one takes into account the long-standing aversion of institutional Christian theology towards “mystical” phenomena that are often deemed dangerous for their supposed individualistic and amoral thrust. However, there are in fact deeper reasons behind the inadequate treatments of possession that one encounters in New Testament academic writing. Indeed, the very phenomenon of possession entails aspects that are fundamentally at odds with some of the principles on which critical scholarship has been built since the Enlightenment.3 By definition, possession presupposes a fracture of the modern autonomous and coherent self or results in an embodiment of cultural scripts and idioms that is largely independent from linguistic and textual mediation. Given such premises, it is almost natural that the tools of traditional historical-criticism prove themselves inadequate to 1  I will write “spirit” throughout as a way to acknowledge the fact that using this term to translate the Greek πνεῦμα as it occurs in the New Testament and in other ancient texts imports a dualistic worldview of Platonic origin that was scarcely at home in those writings. 2  The second approach (which has the undeniable advantage to take into consideration the social context of possession) is often carried too far in New Testament scholarship on account of too wooden a reception of the influential (but by now seriously outdated) functionalist paradigm of I. M. Lewis, Ecstatic Religion: A Study of Shamanism and Spirit Possession (London: Routledge, 20033). 3  Such a thought is advanced insightfully already by H. Moxnes, ‘Ethnography and Historical Imagination in Reading Jesus as an Exorcist’, in Neot 44 (2010), 327–41, on the basis of theoretical proposals of Jean and John Comaroff.

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deal with this phenomenon and that consequently most scholars see themselves forced to resort to strategies of reductionism or marginalization. Fortunately, cultural anthropology has also experienced (going back to the very first steps of the discipline in the nineteenth century) a trajectory comparable to that observed in biblical studies in its dealings with possession.4 However, ethnographers enjoy the great advantage of witnessing these episodes first-hand and of interrogating the human subjects involved in them in a way that is simply impossible for those scholars who have only ancient textual reports at their disposal. Thus, by building on an enormously rich treasure of ethnographic accounts, anthropologists have been able in recent years to move beyond the functionalist and structuralist interpretations that had characterized a previous generation of scholarship on possession. The most recent ethnographic literature on the subject shows very compellingly that possession as an embodiment of Otherness is a jarringly traumatic experience for mediums, but also that it can be turned into a very positive cultural impulse when it empowers them to heal, gives them a way to know the mythical as well as historical past of their group, or even provides them with means to reflect on and confront dialectically their socio-cultural conditions. Several theorists, such as Michael Lambek, Janice Boddy, and Adeline Masquelier, have succeeded in illustrating that possession is not merely a mechanistic response to psychological or social conditions, but that it has a strong “productive” role in enabling humans to reflect on their culture, to embody their personal and group history, and to construct new forms of moral agency and subjectivity. For these reasons, I too would like to treat possession as an ordinary phenomenon, moving away from the exoticizing (and thus ultimately marginalizing) note that is usually sounded in the earlier New Testament scholarship that has often associated these phenomena with “magic” and witchcraft. This paper is part of an ongoing attempt to employ the results of ethnographic studies of possession to help the historical imagination when the ancient record of the early Christ groups is lacking in full descriptions of ritual performances or in detailed representation of the intimate relationship between human “hosts” and their “spirits”. After all, in the words of Jean and John Comaroff, “no humanist account of the past or present can (or does) go very far without the kind of understanding that the ethnographic gaze presupposes. To the extent that historiography is concerned with the recovery of meaningful worlds, with the interplay of the collective and the subjective, it cannot but rely on the tools of the ethnographer”.5 This paper constitutes an attempt to apply such an approach 4  For a good, but now slightly outdated, summary of the state of anthropological scholarship on possession, see J. Boddy, ‘Spirit Possession Revisited: Beyond Instrumentality’, in ARA 23 (1994), 407–34. 5  J. Comaroff, J. L. Comaroff, Ethnography and the Historical Imagination (Boulder CO: Westview, 1992), 13–5.

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to the figure of the historical Jesus as a possessed individual.6 Combining traditional historical-critical methodologies and insights drawn from anthropological literature, the examination of a key Gospel pericope (the so-called “Beelzebul accusation”) will show that possession in all likelihood constituted for the historical Jesus a traumatic experience of penetrability and fragmentation of the self, but also a moment of empowerment through the construction of a new subjectivity (one could almost say, an “assemblage”) as exorcist.

I. Beelzebul vs. Satan? It might be convenient to begin this analysis not from the “charge” that Jesus is performing his exorcisms “with the help” of Beelzebul, but from the rather puzzling answer that he gives to his interlocutors (I will come back in due course on the nature of this “alliance” and on the issue whether this pericope was an “accusation” at all in its “original” stages). Mark 3:23: Καὶ προσκαλεσάμενος αὐτοὺς ἐν παραβολαῖς ἔλεγεν αὐτοῖς· πῶς δύναται Σατανᾶς Σατανᾶν ἐκβάλλειν; 24 Καὶ ἐὰν βασιλεία ἐφ᾽ ἑαυτὴν μερισθῇ, οὐ δύναται σταθῆναι ἡ βασιλεία ἐκείνη; 25 Καὶ ἐὰν οἰκία ἐφ᾽ ἑαυτὴν μερισθῇ, οὐ δυνήσεται ἡ οἰκία ἐκείνη σταθῆναι; 26 Καὶ εἰ ὁ Σατανᾶς ἀνέστη εφ᾽ ἑαυτὸν καὶ ἐμερίσθη, οὐ δύναται στῆναι ἀλλὰ τέλος ἔχει. And he summoned them and began to speak to them in parables: “How can Satan drive out Satan? And if a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom is not able to stand. And if a household is divided against itself, that household will not be able to stand. And if Satan has rebelled against himself and he is divided, he is not able to stand, but is at an end”. Q 11:17 Εἰδὼς δὲ τὰ διανοήματα αὐτῶν εἶπεν αὐτοῖς· πᾶσα βασιλεία μερισθεῖσα [καθ᾽] ἑαυτῆ[ς] ἐρημοῦται καὶ πᾶσα οἰκία μερισθεῖσα καθ᾽ ἑαυτῆς οὐ σταθήσεται. 18 Καὶ εἰ ὁ Σατανᾶς ἐφ᾽ ἑαυτὸν ἐμερίσθη, πῶς σταθήσεται ἡ βασιλεία αὐτοῦ; But, knowing their thoughts, he said to them: “Every kingdom divided against itself is left barren, and every household divided against itself will not stand. And if Satan is divided against himself, how will his kingdom stand?”

Despite its apparent straightforwardness, however, the argument Jesus develops here has generated significant exegetical problems. There are basically two options for understanding the final rhetorical question posed by Jesus in the overall context of the entire pericope.7 On the one hand, Jesus is presenting an actual 6 I will assume throughout that the pericope does not only reflect a historical charge leveled at Jesus, but also that he had to be possessed to begin with in order to perform his exorcisms (as it is almost the norm cross-culturally). A similar conclusion is also reached by S. L. Davies, Jesus the Healer: Possession, Trance, and the Origins of Christianity (London: SCM, 1995), 91, and P. F. Craffert, The Life of a Galilean Shaman: Jesus of Nazareth in Anthropological-Historical Perspective (Eugene OR: Cascade, 2008), 231–2. 7 Or one can simply dismiss the verses as done by G. Van Oyen, ‘Demons and Exorcisms in

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scenario, in which the realm of Satan is in turmoil and even threatens to come to its telos. If one adopts this interpretation, then Jesus is admitting that he is performing his exorcisms and healings by virtue of the power of Beelzebul and against that of Satan. On the other hand, one might take Jesus’ final question as a reductio ad absurdum, a rhetorical ploy that depicts an impossible outcome in order to show that the implicit premises of the accusation are logically untenable. In this case, Jesus would prove that Beelzebul does not possess him by showing that it is absurd to assume that Satan’s rule might be divided, since it does not seem to be coming to an end. There is little doubt that the two options present problems, both theological and in the rhetorical construction of the pericope. One of the most accurate readings of this section (which is usually side-stepped by commentators)8 is Joel Marcus’, who compellingly shows that the only two viable positions are those summarized above. Marcus chooses to interpret the last question of Jesus as a reductio ad absurdum. While Marcus’ choice is argued in a very convincing way overall, there are two major points at which he does not seem to provide a completely satisfactory explanation. The first issue concerns the interpretation of the verses immediately following the rhetorical question. Both in Mark (3:27, the burglary of a strong man’s house) and in Q (11:19–20, Jesus’ saying on the exorcisms performed with the “finger of God”), it appears that exorcisms do indeed signal at the very least the beginning of Satan’s downfall and  – more implicitly – of the victory of God’s sovereignty. It is worth emphasizing straight away that, were one to adopt Marcus’ reductio ad absurdum option, one ought to also provide a convincing explanation for this logical contradiction in the space of a few verses. The second problem with the reading of the “divided kingdom” saying as a reductio ad absurdum is that this interpretation is forced to assume that the two names “Beelzebul” and “Satan” refer to the same entity. Most scholars seem to take this assumption for granted, but its historical support is actually quite flimsy. The name “Beelzebul”, in particular, is almost unknown before the time of composition of the gospels and this has generated a significant debate concerning its correct spelling and its etymology.9 Indeed, the lone mention of the name in the Hebrew Bible occurs in 2 Kings 1, where King Ahaziah is injured because of a fall out of a window and sends for the help of “Beel-zebub, the god the Gospel of Mark’, in N. Vos, W. Otten (eds.), Demons and the Devil in Ancient and Medieval Christianity, SupplVChr 108 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 99–116, who summarizes Jesus’ words like this: “So what? What are you worried about? Let me do as I like to do, as long as the outcome will be that Satan will be beaten” (110). 8  For instance, A. Witmer does not even mention these verses in her rather long treatment of the Beelzebul episode (Jesus, the Galilean Exorcist: His Exorcisms in Social and Political Context, LNTS 459 [London: T&T Clark, 2012], 109–29). 9  The scholarly positions and the related evidence are conveniently summarized in W. Herr­ mann, s. v. Baal-zebul, in DDD, 154–6.

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of Ekron”. This action is perceived as an affront to the God of Israel and leads to the opposition of the prophet Elijah and ultimately to the death of the king. It is almost universally accepted that the deity mentioned in 2 Kings is the same that appears in the gospel accounts as “Beelzebul”. The variation in spelling is in all likelihood due to the fact that the Hebrew text plays with the originally honorific name by transforming it into “Lord of the flies”.10 The documents discovered at Ras Shamra have proved that the Gospels preserve the correct spelling of the name as “Beelzebul”, in which the radical zbl means “raised” or “exalted”, so that a more adequate translation of the title ought to be “high Lord”. Nevertheless, as far as the present analysis is concerned, it is noteworthy that the Jesus traditions have preserved this name despite the lack of other chronologically closer attestations.11 The data seems to indicate that – in this case – a mythical and historical tradition has survived in the embodied form of possession better than through the channels of learned textualization. Significantly different is the situation of “Satan”, a name that is equally sparsely attested in the Hebrew Bible, but that seems to have become more relevant in the Second Temple period.12 However, even though one encounters an increased number of occurrences of “satan” in this period, it does not yet seem to have become a personal name, as it was the case in the Hebrew Bible (for example, in Job’s famous opening scene in heaven). For instance, in the handful of occurrences among the Qumran documents “satan” ought clearly to be understood “not as a proper name, but rather as the description of a figure who could also be a human adversary”.13 A possible exception might be 11Q15. However, in this apotropaic prayer “satan” is paralleled with “a spirit of uncleanness”, an association that underscores once more the generic nature of the designation.14 The same conclusions may apply to Jubilees, a text in which “satan” often generically indicates one of the evils that humans might face when they stray from God’s commandments.15 It is important to note that, while Jubilees does indeed know of a male­ 10  The wordplay is picked up and rendered intelligible for a Greek audience by Josephus, who – in his retelling of the episode in Jewish Antiquities 9,19 – calls the god τὴν Ἀκκάρων θεὸν Μυῖαν (“the goddess Fly of Akkaron”). 11  D. L. Penney, M. O. Wise (‘By the Power of Beelzebub: An Aramaic Incantation Formula from Qumran [4Q560]’, in JBL 113 [1994], 627–50) have suggested that the Aramaic version of the name could be reconstructed in a Qumranic fragment, but such reading is declared paleographically impossible by É. Puech, Qumran Grotte 4. XXVII: Textes en Araméen, deuxième partie, DJD 37 (Oxford: Clarendon, 2009), 296. 12 See the materials collected in P. L. Day, C. Breytenbach, s. v. Satan, in DDD, 726–32, even though the almost complete absence of references to the Qumran documents limits the usefulness of the entry. 13 L. T. Stuckenbruck, The Myth of the Rebellious Angels: Studies in Second Temple Judaism and New Testament Texts, WUNT 335 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 94–5, here: 94. 14  See the discussion of this passage ibid., 95. 15  See, for instance, as part of the description of the blessed state of humankind in the end time: “They will complete and live their entire lifetimes peacefully and joyfully. There will be neither a satan nor any evil one who will destroy. For their entire lifetimes will be times of blessing

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volent “chief adversary” of God, the latter figure is regularly called “Mastema”. However, it seems that the figure of the “chief adversary of God” begins to overlap with the “Satan” at least in one passage that describes the harmful activities of the demons.16 Eventually, it is in texts that come from the early Jesus groups that one can see a more consistent transformation of “Satan” into the personal name of the devil. The Gospel of Mark occupies a sort of intermediate position along such a trajectory, since it includes passages in which the name is still treated in a generic way,17 passages in which the term almost seems to indicate a specific being who however performs a generic “adversarial” function,18 and passages (such as the present one) in which “Satan” is the ruler of a kingdom directly opposed to God’s. These brief remarks should have clarified that “Beelzebul” and “Satan” are two names whose overlap is far from being a given and – most important of all – is not supported by any Jewish or Christian evidence from the Second Temple period. As far as the “Beelzebul controversy” is concerned, many exegetes assume the identification, but the most accurate ones are also aware of the difficulties inherent in such an interpretive move.19 Indeed, such difficulties become even more significant when one attends to the specific features that distinguish the figure of Beelzebul from that of Satan. As illustrated above, the lone story involving Beelzebul that might conceivably have occurred to a first-century ce Jew is that of 2 Kings 1. In that account two traits are clearly associated with the figure and healing” (Jubilees 23:29, in J. C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees: A Critical Text, CSCO 511 [Leuven: Peeters, 1989], 149); for similar occurrences, see also 40:9; 46:2; 50:5. 16 “All of the evil ones who were savage we tied up in the place of judgment, while we left a tenth of them to exercise power on the earth before the satan” (Jubilees 10:11, ibid., 60). 17  In the famous answer of Jesus to Peter, who had been shocked by the prophecy of the Passion: “Get out of my sight, Satan, because you do not set your mind on the affairs of God, but on human affairs” (Mark 8:33, on which see A. Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary [Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2007], 407). 18 In the short Markan mention of Jesus’ “temptation” (“And he was in the wilderness forty days, being put to the test by Satan. And he was with the wild animals, and the angels were serving him”, Mark 1:13), the tester is called “the Satan” with a determinative article. The longer Q account of this episode (Q 4:1–13) designates the adversary of Jesus – in a more Septuagintal way – as ὁ διάβολος, literally “the accuser” or “the slanderer”. 19  The already mentioned Joel Marcus notes that the argument of Jesus in these verses (as Marcus understands it) “would have no force unless the equivalence were accepted by both sides in the dispute”, but the best he can say is that Beelzebul “had probably become an alternate name for Satan” at this time (‘Beelzebul’, 247, n. 2). J. P. Meier (A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. II: Mentor, Message, and Miracles [New York: Doubleday, 1994], 462–3) leaves a similar admission buried in one of his footnotes (“Theoretically possible, however, in the confusing and variegated world of demonology is the interpretation that Satan is indeed the king of the ‘kingdom’ of demons, while Beelzebul is one of his subordinate ruling princes”) and then goes on to discount it in a very gracious – but not at all scientific – way (“Perhaps the Beelzebul complex [sic!] in the Synoptics reflects similar ideas about the reign of Satan/Beelzebul over a kingdom of demons, ideas held by Jewish peasants in Palestine around the turn of the era. Naturally, the last thing we should look for in popular beliefs about Satan and demons is the consistency of systematic theology”).

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of the non-Jewish deity-turned-demon. First, Beelzebul is connected with the healing of bodily ailments, an element that can certainly fit his reappearance in Mark and Q with their fundamental lack of distinction between illness and spirit possession. Second, Beelzebul is quite evidently a foreign entity, not only because it is a non-human demon, but, even more meaningfully, because the story of the ill-conceived consultation of King Ahaziah revolves around the assertion that Beelzebul cannot be a good healer for an Israelite and that asking for his help is tantamount to a breach of the loyalty owed by Israel to God. Both these traits are missing from the portraits of “Satan” that one finds in the Jewish sources of the Second Temple period. There is no healing power – not even a fraudulent or “pagan” one – associated with Satan. But also the foreign label that comes attached to Beelzebul is missing from Satan. There is no doubt that the latter is represented as the adversary of God and of God’s sovereignty, but – as Elaine Pagels observed roughly twenty years ago – the construction of an all-encompassing enemy that starts in Second Temple Jewish texts and is later developed within the Christ movement is that of an internal or – even better – of an “intimate” opponent.20 In turn, the “adversarial” nature of “Satan” is inscribed in the very name of the “spirit” and in its appearances in the Jewish traditions in a way that cannot fit “Beelzebul” if the identification between the two figures is not assumed, but proved on the benchmark provided by the ancient evidence. It is also appropriate to add to these remarks the observation that the text of the controversy emphasizes the difference between Beelzebul and Satan at the level of their respective placements within the hierarchical structure of the “spiritual” or demonological realm. Indeed, while Satan is implicitly designated as a “king” (βασιλεύς) who can even foolishly fancy himself a rival of God’s cosmic rule, Beelzebul is simply indicated as a “chief” (ἄρχων) and one cannot help but notice that this appointment is over as fickle and ambiguous “soldiers” as the δεμόνια. It is difficult to imagine that such hierarchical distinctions might have been lost on the authors and early readers of texts such as Mark and Q.21 Clearly, these are additional indications that must be taken seriously as signifiers of a distinction between the two beings and of the nature of their relationship. Thus, the few exegetes who conclude that our verses do not superimpose Beelzebul and Satan, seem to be on the right track22 – a conclusion that is all the more likely when one takes into consideration the additional benefits of avoiding the 20 E. Pagels, ‘The Social History of Satan, the “Intimate Enemy”: A Preliminary Sketch’, in HTR 84 (1991), 105–28, even though the overall historical reconstruction – based as it is on a binary opposition between canonical and apocryphal Jewish texts – might be problematic. 21 On Q’s attention for hierarchies as evidence of the bureaucratic ethos behind the Sayings Gospel’s political theology, see G. B. Bazzana, Kingdom of Bureaucracy: The Political Theology of Village Scribes in the Sayings Gospel Q, BETL 274 (Leuven: Peeters, 2015). 22  P. Sellew, ‘Beelzebul in Mark 3: Dialogue, Story, or Saying Cluster’, in Forum 4 (1988), 93–108, here: 106, and J. J. Rousseau, ‘Jesus, an Exorcist of a Kind’, in SBLSP (1993), 129–53, here: 151 (even though Rousseau’s categories should give one pause).

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complex reductio ad absurdum advocated by Joel Marcus and of preserving a more coherent flow for the rhetorical argument developed in the remnant of the pericope.23 What are the consequences of such a relationship between the historical Jesus and Beelzebul for our understanding of “spirit possession” in the Christ movement? Once more, the situation is significantly clarified when the data derived from ancient texts are compared with those of contemporary ethnographic studies of these phenomena. First, that a healer and exorcist is himself or herself possessed is quite a common occurrence. Moreover, in several possession cults the “spirits” are envisaged as beings with foreign personalities, quite often at odds with the cultural expectations and personal proclivities of their hosts.24 This is the case also for the “spirits” that are exorcized by Jesus both in Mark and in Q, where their most common designation is the generic “impure spirits”, which underscores their foreignness and opposition to the normative and identitarian paradigms of the audiences to whom these narratives are addressed. Foreignness cannot be surprising for beings that are pictured as inhabiting the liminal areas of culturally constructed space both in a very concrete sense (“spirits” tend to appear in deserted areas away from cities and other places identified as “civilized”) and in ways that have more to do with cosmology and ontology (as witnessed by the uncertain status of demons forever suspended between the material and the immaterial). Nevertheless, the foreignness of these “spirits” is always relative since it is through their “possession” that humans can literally embody their own culture’s mythology and history.

II. Binding the “Strong One” Jesus’ alliance with Beelzebul, conceived as a “chieftain” within Satan’s kingdom, brings about the latter’s demise, since control cannot be effectively maintained in the presence of divisions of authority.25 This dynamic within demonic power 23  Moxnes (‘Ethnography’, 338–9) comes closer than many others to see the distinction between Beelzebul and Satan, but his conclusions are undermined by his assumption that the pericope can only be a charge moved by the opponents of Jesus and that Jesus must thus reject the label of “otherness” that might come with Beelzebul. However, this leads even Moxnes to misinterpret the actual cultural dynamics of possession and ultimately to read Jesus’ exorcisms as allegorical presentations of a political contrast. 24  A classic analysis of this feature of possession in the case of the zar cults of northern Sudan is J. Boddy, ‘Spirits and Selves in Northern Sudan: The Cultural Therapeutics of Possession and Trance’, in American Ethnologist 15 (1988), 4–27, but this is a widespread feature of African spirit possession. Nevertheless, it is very much present in the Caribbean and in Brazil as well: see, for instance, R. Romberg, Witchcraft and Welfare: Spiritual Capital and the Business of Magic in Modern Puerto Rico (Austin TX: University of Texas Press, 2003). 25  That the entire pericope is about theological political authority is also noted by Van Oyen, ‘Demons’, 111.

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is reiterated in the following sub-section of the Beelzebul pericope, by way of the use of the well-known image of a robbery perpetrated against a “strong one”: Mark 3:27: Ἀλλ᾽ οὐ δύναται οὐδεὶς εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν τοῦ ἱσχυροῦ εἰσελθὼν τὰ σκεύη αὐτοῦ διαρπάσαι, ἐὰν μὴ πρῶτον τὸν ἱσχυρὸν δήσῃ, καὶ τότε τὴν οἰκίαν αὐτοῦ διαρπάσει. But no one is able to enter a strong one’s house and steal his vessels, unless he first binds the strong one; then he will thoroughly plunder his house.

This is a passage in which the wording of the Q parallel to Mark 3:27 cannot be established with any degree of reliability. Indeed, the Matthean version (Matt 12:29) follows Mark very closely (so closely that in all likelihood it depends on it), while the Lukan saying (Luke 11:21–2) shows almost no lexical analogies with the other two and actually appears to be largely indebted to the more sophisticated linguistic preferences of the author of the third gospel.26 However, while the Q wording of the “strong man” saying cannot be reconstructed with any degree of certainty, it is quite safe to conclude that Q also had a saying very similar in content to Mark 3:27 at this point. Such a conclusion is supported by the observation that both Matthew and Luke have a series of materials that are arranged exactly in the same way despite being quite divergent from a strictly linguistic point of view. Thus, as we have seen above, both Matthew and Luke include the Beelzebul accusation immediately followed by Jesus’ response concerning divided kingdoms and households (in Matt 12:24 / ​Luke 11:15 and Matt 12:25–6 / ​Luke 11:17–8, respectively). In both gospels these sayings segue directly into the important saying on the “spirit/finger of God” (Matt 12:27–8; Luke 11:19–20) that will be examined in the next section. After this saying, both Matthew and Luke have the saying on “binding the strong man” (Matt 12:29; Luke 11:21–2), which thus falls into the same relative position with respect to other materials within this cluster of sayings. On these grounds, it is easy to see how the “strong one” quite probably closed the entire argument in its “original” articulation that was later rewritten in slightly different forms in Mark and Q. The chief evidence for the difference between these two early rewritings is the Q insertion of the sayings on the “spirit/finger of God”, which clearly was not done by either Matthew or Luke and which changes significantly the thrust of the overall argument in ways that will be discussed later.27 26 Luke 11:21–2 Ὅταν ὁ ἰσχυρὸς καθωπλισμένος φυλάσσῃ τὴν ἑαυτοῦ αὐλήν, ἐν εἰρήνῃ ἐστὶν τὰ ὑπάρχοντα αὐτοῦ· ἐπὰν δὲ ἰσχυρότερος αὐτοῦ ἐπελθὼν νικήσῃ αὐτόν, τὴν πανοπλίαν αὐτοῦ αἴρει ἐφ᾽ ᾗ ἐπεποίθει καὶ τὰ σκῦλα αὐτοῦ διαδίδωσιν (“When a strong one, fully armed, guards his castle, his property is safe. But when one stronger than he attacks him and overpowers him, he takes away his armor in which he trusted and divides his plunder”). On the Lukan flavor of these terms, see S. Légasse, ‘L’“homme fort” de Luc 11,21–22’, in NT 5 (1962), 5–9. 27  The evaluators of the Critical Edition of Q concur with this conclusion by signaling that something must have been in Q 11:21–2, but that no part of the Q wording can be reconstructed with any certainty (against the early opinion of the International Q Project that had proposed

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The saying on “binding the strong one” sits quite well in the context of a discussion on spirit possession and exorcism. First of all, all commentators agree on the fact that the “strong one” ought to be identified with Satan, mentioned in the preceding verse.28 The notion that Satan is “bound”, and thus defeated, flows naturally from the sayings on the divided kingdom and household, once the latter are taken not as a reductio ad absurdum (as suggested by Marcus), but as an indication of the means (internal dissension and betrayal in his dominion) through which Satan is fatally weakened.29 The means and goals of the action against the “strong one” are also described in ways that fit quite well with the world of the “spirits” and their control. In particular, as most exegetes recognize, the fact that Satan is “bound” is reminiscent of a host of Jewish mythical traditions that have to do with demonology and the etiology of evil. The preferred designation (shared by Mark and Q) of the demons as “unclean spirits” signals the connection between the demonology of these texts and the traditions concerning the primordial fall of the angels. The earliest written witness to this myth is probably the so-called Book of the Watchers that opens the collection designated as 1 Enoch. There, God instructs the angel Raphael to “bind” Asael, the leader of the watchers, and to cast him into the darkness right before the Flood and the healing of the earth that had been desolated by the fallen angels.30 Besides such mythical references, the Greek verb δέω cannot fail to evoke the quasi-technical terminology employed to designate the “magical” operations and the spells (καταδεσμοί) through which “spirits” are controlled in order to assist in damaging opponents or in achieving other beneficial results.31 Another (but not as often recognized) element of the saying that ought to evoke the idea of spirit possession is the designation of the goods stolen from the “strong one” as σκεύη (literally “vessels”). In and of itself, this lexical choice is less puzzling than it is sometimes made out to be: σκεύη can and is used to designate – generically and with an extension of its basic meaning  – the implements that constitute the property of a given household and that could conceivably be taken for Q a text similar to Luke 11:21–2 and against the dissenting opinion of Paul Hoffmann, who prefers a text largely modeled on Mark 3:27). 28  Yarbro Collins, Mark, 233–4. 29  Yarbro Collins (ibid.) suggests that Jesus “binds” Satan (“the strong one”, ὁ ἰσχυρός) because he is “the stronger one” (ὁ ἰσχυρότερος) announced by John the Baptist in Mark 1:7. However, such christological nuance seems unwarranted for the earlier version of the saying as it is preserved in Mark 3:27. Indeed, there is no mention here of a “stronger one” and actually Luke might have inserted it in his rewriting (Luke 11:22) because he had picked up exegetically the potential reference to Mark 1:7, which he had already included in the depiction of John’s proclamation in Luke 3:16. 30  1 Enoch 10:4–8. 31  C. A. Faraone, ‘The Agonistic Context of Early Greek Binding Spells’, in Id., D. Obbink (eds.), Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 3–32.

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away by a robber. Nevertheless, the term is also employed to indicate the “human body”, conceived as a “vessel” that contains the true human “essence” that can then be indicated as “soul” or with other similar labels.32 Yet, in the context of the Beelzebul pericope and its consistent focus on the themes of spirit possession and of the power relationships entailed within it, σκεύη, understood as “bodily vessels”, can take on an additional nuance of meaning. There are indeed several early Christian texts in which the Greek term is used to designate the human body as a “container” for benign or malevolent “spirits”. Such a nuance fits the context and the content of the saying on “binding the strong one” quite well. Thanks to Jesus’ newly found exorcistic power, Satan can be “bound” and its “vessels” – the human beings whom it has possessed – can be taken away from him. All the political theological resonances of the saying on divided kingdoms and households and this use of σκεύη strengthen the impression that power relationships are constitutive of the ambiguity of possession. The latter is all the more salient here because the phenomenon of possession touches on the very bodily existence of human beings and compromises the very unity of their subjective consciousness. What should one make then of the “alliance” between Jesus and Beelzebul? Does it entail a subjection of the human “host” to the “chief of demons”? But, if that is the case, how can this very alliance bring about the downfall of Satan? Ethnographic literature helps us to see that such a sharp binary is inappropriate and that in fact the interpretive effort calls for a more nuanced model. Several studies offer interesting descriptions of the complex process that leads mediums and their “spirits” to become acquainted in ways that can prove beneficial for both the community and the individual host. Recently, Diana Espirito Santo has described with great theoretical sophistication the means through which Cuban espiritismo practitioners educate their “attention” to receive, discern, and interpret the information conveyed by their muertos (protective spirits of the dead).33 Instead of being a process through which notions are learned (as in the intellectual western understanding of “education”), such “attention” is cultivated in a different way, since it must encompass more than mere notional knowledge to include affects and bodily practices. Western educational paradigms are predicated on the assumption of an ontological and unavoidable distinction between body and mind, with the latter being impermeable to foreign “possession”. However, the very phenomenon of spirit possession, as it 32 The best-known occurrence of this use in the New Testament is certainly 2 Cor 4:7, in which the “treasure” that people currently have in “clay jars” (ἐν ὀστρακίνοις σκεύεσιν) is usually construed to be their “souls” (for a similar Pauline reference to the human body, see also 1 Thess 4:4). Such usage emphasizes passivity and lack of agency: indeed, Polybius can employ σκεύη to designate accomplices who are mobilized as veritable “instruments” in carrying out a political plot (in Histories 13,5,7, the spy Damokles is designated as an ὑπηρετικὸν σκεῦος εὐφυές, “a well-suited menial instrument”.) 33  D. Espirito Santo, ‘Imagination, Sensation, and the Education of Attention among Cuban Spirit Mediums’, in Ethnos 77 (2012), 252–71.

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has been described so far, disrupts dichotomies such as body/mind and trance/ awareness. From this perspective, then, educating one’s attention to the presence of the spirits requires, in Espirito Santo’s words, the “enskillment of one’s self”.34 The Portuguese anthropologist describes a couple of instances in which such “enskillment” has taken place over time, as mediums started off with a conflicted relationship with their muertos and over time established a mutually beneficial balance. “Spirits” are at first usually unruly and “wild”, so much so that their presence is almost always made evident not only through bodily illnesses, but also psychological and existential distress for the potential medium.35 Espirito Santo points to the subtle but no less fundamental distinction between “spirits” that “come with” their hosts (and are thus disruptive for their personal and social lives) and “spirits” that are “theirs”. The latter outcome is not the necessary result of every experience of spirit possession, but in order to be achieved it calls for “a gradual and conscious interpenetration between such entities and the sentient, moving bodies” of the mediums. Such education of “attention” can be described as “a means of ascertaining the possibilities and limitations of one’s condition, and of subverting them through the careful production of oneself via knowledge of these entities”. Adeline Masquelier describes a similar process of construction of the self on the part of a “host”, based on her ethnographic work on the bori cults of Niger.36 Masquelier analyzes the story of Zeinabou, a young woman who had been subjected by the violent “spirit” Rankasso to a traumatic and shameful public “confession” of past and, up to that moment, secret transgressions in her familial and sexual life. The description of how Zeinabou comes to cope in the space of years with the very public consequences of such an event is a powerful exemplification of the trajectory followed by mediums when they start off as veritable “hostages” of their “spirits” and then become truly their “hosts”. In Masquelier’s words, possession “is about the ongoing negotiation of identity and autonomy between spirit and host, a negotiation that may entail profit as well as pain for the human party as both beings struggle to coexist within a single corporeal frame”.37 The process through which mediums come to embrace the radical otherness of the “spirits” is often painful beyond the purely physical illnesses experienced at the onset of possession. The case of Zeinabou aptly illustrates the social and moral 34 The “spirits” become present in the medium’s body, calling for an alternative definition of the latter, not based on an ontological binary matter/spirit and which Espirito Santo draws from B. Latour’s understanding of the body as “an interface that becomes more and more describable as it learns to be affected by more and more elements” (‘How to Talk about the Body? The Normative Dimension of Science Studies’, in Body & Society 10 [2004], 205–29). 35  See also S. Palmié, ‘Fascinans or Tremendum? Permutations of the State, the Body, and the Divine in Late-Twentieth-Century Havana’, in New West Indian Guide 78 (2004), 229–68. 36  A. Masquelier, ‘From Hostage to Host: Confessions of a Spirit Medium in Niger’, in Ethos 30 (2002), 49–76. 37 Ibid., 50.

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implications of dealing with an unruly “spirit”, but it also shows how such a situation provides mediums with a relatively safe opportunity to express feelings of guilt and to come to terms with new expectations. Following Lambek, Masquelier thus can describe possession as “a system of communication that mystifies agency, authority, and accountability at the same time that it provides a means to relocate one’s selfhood within a concrete and enduring web of mythical, moral, and material relations”.38 It is appealing to read the “accusation” of performing exorcisms with the help of Beelzebul and Jesus’ slightly clumsy riposte based on the analogy between human kingdoms and Satan’s rule as an instance of the same process of education of “attention”. In such a reading, Jesus appears to have been in the same situation as Zeinabou, for whom “the confession ‘she’ made while she was in the throes of possession provided a critical space of reflexivity and retrospective elaboration at the same time that it authorized further strategies for the redefinition of her selfhood and subjectivity”.39 As far as Jesus is concerned, the association with the foreign and dangerous power of Beelzebul provides a critical opportunity to reconstruct and reproduce his own subjectivity (or his own assemblage) as an exorcist and a principal fighter in the battle against Satan.

III. The “Accusation” These observations lead to a reconsideration of the nature of the “alliance” between Jesus and Beelzebul. In particular, both Mark and Q employ a phrase that has proved itself quite problematic for the exegetes. Mark, in particular, appears to be quite fond of saying that someone literally “is in a spirit”: in the first exorcism performed by Jesus in a synagogue in Capernaum (Mark 1:23) and in the longest exorcism narrative of the entire Gospel , that takes place in Gerasa (Mark 5:2), the exorcist is confronted with two men who are described as being ἐν πνεύματι ἀκαθάρτῳ (literally “in an impure spirit”).40 Such a phrase does not sit well with the idea of human hosts controlled by the spirits, but it also does not make sense from a purely grammatical standpoint. A common solu Ibid., 60. 71. 40 It is worth mentioning that at Mark 7:25 (the exorcism of the daughter of a Syro-Phoenician woman) the manuscripts are in disagreement, since the majority reads “a woman whose daughter had a πνεῦμα ἀκάθαρτον”, while a few others (and notably P45, a third-century papyrus that is basically the only witness to the Gospel of Mark dated before the time of Constantine) have “a woman, whose daughter had ἐν πνεύματι ἀκαθάρτῳ”. The Greek of the latter reading is atrocious and one could rightly say that is meaningless, but it is worth considering whether P45 might have preserved the traces of an incomplete attempt to improve an original text that looked more or less like the other Markan texts mentioned above. There is a distinct possibility that here too the original reading might have been the usual ἐν πνεύματι ἀκαθάρτῳ. 38

39 Ibid.,

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tion advanced by commentators is that of imagining the influence of a Semitic background, a strategy that is often applied in the case of Mark’s Greek, since the quality of the latter is quite poor and Christian interpreters are often invested in making the Gospel look “Jewish” in order to push it as close as possible to the “historical Jesus”.41 However, in this, as in several other cases within the Gospel, hypothesizing an alleged Semitic influence is unnecessary, since most linguistic phenomena apparent in Mark can be adequately explained as traces of “popular” Koine Greek. A controlled comparison with similar evidence in Egyptian documentary papyri has proved decisive since the time of the initial explorations of Adolf Deissmann and James Hope Moulton. The latter, in particular, had already observed almost a century ago that the particle ἐν had become a “maidof-all-jobs”42 – meaning that in the Koine period the particle ἐν had lost much of its specific link to spatial indexicality and had instead become something that speakers and writers used very freely to establish any sort of connection between verbs and predicates, more often than not even in cases in which “regular” Greek would have required a simple dative. In the long run, this development brought about the disappearance of ἐν in Byzantine Greek, but for the Koine period the particle was used with an extremely wide range of functions, which we now have to adjudicate appropriately in light of the overall textual context. Documents from Egypt attest to at least two ways in which ἐν occurs in documentary papyri, ways that can be considered suitable parallels for the Markan ἐν πνεύματι ἀκαθάρτῳ. Sometimes the particle is employed to indicate the condition or the state in which someone or something is found.43 Such usage is easily explained as an expansion of the original locative function of ἐν, followed by a dative. This explanation fits very well for some Markan passages, such as the reference to the “woman in an issue of blood” (ἐν ῥύσει αἵματος) in 5:26, a text situated not far from the episode of the Gerasene demoniac. The opportunity of equating demonic possession and a “biomedical” ailment as that of the hemorrhaging woman is intriguing. Such “confusion” (at least, from a Western perspective) of plans has parallels in other Gospel traditions, which are reminiscent of the cross-culturally widespread habit of describing initial spirit possession 41  The Semitic background is invoked, for instance, by J. Marcus (Mark 1–8, AncB 27 [New York: Doubleday, 1999], 187), but then the same author goes on to say that the phrase “should be taken more literally”(!) to mean that “the man has been swallowed up by its possessing spirit” (ibid., 342). Marcus states that “we should not look for too much consistency when dealing with things as ambivalent and protean as demonic spirits”, but one may wonder whether the same treatment ought to be given to grammar too; obviously, Marcus goes on to translate Mark 5:26 as “a woman who had a flow of blood” (ibid., 355). 42  J. H. Moulton, G. Milligan, The Vocabulary of the Greek Testament Illustrated from the Papyri and Other Non-Literary Sources (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1930), s. v. ἐν. 43  For instance, in P.Petr 2:11 (Alexandria, middle of the third century bce) at the end of a brief letter Polykrates asks to his father Kleon to write back ἵνα εἰδῶμεν ἐν οἷς εἶ (“so that we may know in what conditions you are”).

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using the idiom of illness.44 However, there appears to be a second Koine use of ἐν followed by a dative that may fit the Markan case examined here equally well. Indeed, there are passages in documentary papyri in which the particle functions in ways that are virtually indistinguishable from those of a simple instrumental dative in classical Greek texts.45 In such instances, ἐν seems to perform the functions that other Greek texts attribute to the prepositions σύν or μετά.46 Whether one thinks that the Markan phrase ἐν πνεύματι ἀκαθάρτῳ is better explained as an indication of condition or as an instrumental/locative, it is clear that neither option can be completely satisfactory. In particular, it seems impossible to construe such a phrase as referring to a “possession” in the sense of the human hosts being completely controlled by the spirits. For there are several other pieces of evidence – both in Mark and in Q – that indicate that these texts (or, at the very least, the traditional materials that have been preserved in them) envisage a much more complex relationship and employ ἐν followed by a dative as a sort of placeholder, suggesting a much more indeterminate relationship. The most significant indicator occurs at the very beginning of the Gospel (Mark 1:7–8), when Mark relates John the Baptist’s announcement of the arrival of “one stronger” than him, who will baptize the people not “with water”, but “in the Holy Spirit” (ἐν πνεύματι ἁγίῳ).47 In this verse “water” is clearly treated as a pure tool in the performance of the baptismal ritual (and thus a simple dative is used for it). The “Holy Spirit” is expected to participate in the new form of the ritual in a significantly different way, which is remarkably similar to the way in which “impure spirits” are connected to human hosts in other places within the Gospel.48 Furthermore, the impression of complexity and indeterminacy in the relationship between spirits and human hosts is confirmed by the phrase that 44  The most notable case is that of Peter’s mother-in-law, whose fever is healed by Jesus through an exorcistic “rebuke” in Luke 4:38–9. 45 For instance, P.Tebt 41 (105–90 bce) relates the violence of the topogrammateus Marres on the villagers of Kerkeosiris: Μαρρείους τοπογραμματέως σὺν ἄλλοις πλείοσι ἐν μαχαίραις παρ[α]γινομένου εἰς τὴν κώμην (“the topogrammateus Marres came into the village with many others armed with swords”). J. C. Doudna (The Greek of the Gospel of Mark, JBLMS 12 [Philadelphia PA: SBL, 1961], 24–5) thinks that this occurrence and other similar might be considered instances of dative used as locative, but clearly in a heavily metaphoric way. 46  A comparable New Testament use occurs in Luke 22:49 in the Gethsemane episode, when those who are with Jesus ask him whether they have to strike the guards coming to arrest him “with swords” (Κύριε, εἰ πατάξομεν ἐν μαχαίρῃ). 47 Mark 1:8 raises important textual critical problems in itself, since several manuscripts add ἐν in front of ὕδατι or take it away before “holy spirit”. However, a balanced evaluation of the relative weight of the witnesses indicates that the text printed in Nestle-Aland should be considered original. See the discussion in B. M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1994), 63. 48  Treating the Holy Spirit here as pure instrument is also theologically unsatisfactory for many commentators, who thus resort to less grammatically grounded translations, such as “by the power of” or similar. In this case, one should seriously consider a purely locative translation analogous to the one that should be adopted for the Pauline phrases ἐν πνεύματι and ἐν Χριστῷ.

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Mark uses most often – as an alternative to ἐν πνεύματι ἀκαθάρτῳ – to describe such a connection. In the two remaining exorcism narratives within the second Gospel (that of the Syro-Phoenician woman’s daughter in 7:2549 and that of a youth afflicted by a mute spirit in 9:1750), both demoniacs are designated as “having a spirit”. These philological observations seem to confirm the impression derived from the ethnographic materials mentioned above: the earliest Gospel traditions concerning Jesus’ possession and exorcisms do not appear to exclusively envisage a situation of total subjection of the “host” towards the “spirit”. In light of these observations, it may also be interesting to note that the Beelzebul pericope seems to take on a decidedly more and more polemical overtone in the course of its redactional history. Such a development is already apparent in the Markan redaction of the pericope. Mark obfuscates the original nature of the episode by compounding the initial question about Jesus’ being possessed by Beelzebul (in Mark 3:22) with a comment about his being “out of his mind” (in Mark 3:21). The latter, in particular, serves the purpose of creating a macro-unit that ends in 3:31–5 with another cluster of sayings centered on the redefinition of family relationship without respect to natural kinship, but with allegiance to Jesus. The criticism of household ties can well be a theme that comes from the historical Jesus, but the way in which it is intertwined here in Mark 3 with the theme of Jesus’ possession is quite clearly a Markan construction. As such, the resulting macro-unit is designed to highlight one of the major motifs running throughout the entire second gospel – the general failure to understand Jesus’ figure and Jesus’ mission even on the part of those who should be closer to him, in this case the members of his family and, later on, even his own disciples. Likewise, the insertion of “the scribes who came down from Jerusalem” as those who question Jesus’ relationship with Beelzebul (in Mark 3:22) is evidently a result of Markan redactional intervention. Indeed, Mark is prone to cast the opposition to Jesus as originating from Jerusalem, which is consistent with the overall structure of his narrative in which everything points towards Jesus’ final and tragic showdown in the holy city. Later on, Matthew makes this trajectory even more explicit when he attributes the “accusation” of performing exorcisms with the help of Beelzebul to a group of Pharisees (in Matt 12:24), who are the stereotypical malevolent adversaries in the first Gospel before the Passion narrative.51 In fact, precisely such a generalized redactional tendency to highlight the adversarial role of the Pharisees makes it 49  Εἶχεν τὸ θυγάτριον αὐτῆς πνεῦμα ἀκάθαρτον; for this verse, however, see the text-critical problems mentioned in a previous footnote. 50 Ἤνεγκα τὸν υἱὸν μου πρὸς σέ, ἔχοντα πνεῦμα ἄλαλον; later on (in verse 25) the spirit is designated as “impure” and rebuked by Jesus. 51  On the Pharisees in Matthew, see A. J. Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community (Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press, 1994). The insertion of the Pharisees at this point in Matthew might have been favored by the fact that the Q tirade against the same Pharisees followed immediately in Q 11:39–44.

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clear that Luke has in all likelihood preserved the “original” text of Q and, as we will see momentarily, quite possibly the profile of the “original” audience of the pericope itself. Luke 11:14 concludes a very brief narrative of the exorcism of a “dumb demon” (δαιμόνιον κωφόν) with the expected reaction of amazement in the crowd (καὶ ἐθαυμάσαν οἱ ὄχλοι). At this point (in Luke 11:15), “some among them” (τινὲς ἐξ αὐτῶν) suggest that Jesus is performing his exorcisms by virtue of some kind of relationship with Beelzebul. It is important to emphasize that Q has not only preserved a vaguer designation of Jesus’ adversaries than those redactors who have inserted their enemies of the moment here (as Mark did with the “scribes from Jerusalem” and as Matthew did with the “Pharisees”). The fact that the Sayings Gospel had only “some” unidentified persons from the crowd questioning Jesus’ exorcisms ought to give pause to those exegetes who treat the entire passage as a polemical controversy. Indeed, in almost all cases of possession the identification of the “spirit” involved was and is a common and fundamental first step and entails a participation of the group that is in varied ways connected to the possessed individual.52 Thus, a scene like the one presupposed in Q must not necessarily be understood as a polemical confrontation, in which rivals try to question Jesus’ authority. That is a later development, which is undeniably reflected in the redactions of the pericope (and might well go back in some form to the historical Jesus), but arguably the more “original” version of the story records the performed negotiation through which Jesus came to recognize his possession by Beelzebul and to reconstruct his new subjectivity as an exorcist on this basis. Thus, as Melanie Johnson-DeBaufre urges,53 it becomes possible to read the Beelzebul pericope as a collaborative effort to makes sense of an instance of spirit possession, instead of a polemical attack with the attendant danger of importing anachronistically into the exegesis the binary Christianity/Judaism. From this perspective, it is crucial to question the exegetical decision to treat the pericope as an “accusation” to begin with, even when the latter move is motivated on anthropological grounds as the acknowledgement that charging Jesus of being possessed by Beelzebul is equivalent to a witchcraft accusation. Again, witchcraft charges were certainly present in the cultural context from which the Jesus tradition originated. Moreover, ethnographic data confirm that spirit possession can be associated with witchcraft, and that can well be the reasoning

52 See, for instance, the social dynamics well illustrated in M. Buyandelgeriyn, ‘Who “Makes” the Shaman? The Politics of Shamanic Practices among the Buriats in Mongolia’, in Inner Asia 1 (1999), 221–44, and in M. A. Pedersen, Not Quite Shamans: Spirit Worlds and Political Lives in Northern Mongolia (Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 2011). 53  See her recent comments in M. Johnson-DeBaufre, ‘Did Jesus Act Alone? A Response to Paul Verhoeven’, in Fourth R 25 (2012), 17–24, with her remarks on Bruno Latour’s analysis of the treatment of Louis Pasteur’s figure in the history of science.

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behind the redactional modifications which transformed the Beelzebul story into a polemical game of challenge and riposte. Nevertheless, it is worth stressing that not all cases of spirit possession should be treated as witchcraft. Several ethnographic studies show that possession is – in the vast majority of cases – an ordinary event and New Testament scholars also ought to treat it as such, as most anthropologists try to do. Importing the concept of witchcraft into the exegesis of a pericope such as that of Beelzebul seems to do the opposite and once again relegates spirit possession to the realm of the occult and the “magic”. This is all the more dangerous inasmuch as there appear to be ideological reasons – beyond the redactional construction of the texts – that lead New Testament exegetes to deploy the notion of “witchcraft” at this juncture. For one thing, casting the pericope as an instance of witchcraft accusation fueled by envy provides a good excuse not to talk about the concrete likelihood that Jesus of Nazareth had been actually possessed and that  – by coming to terms with and by culturally negotiating his condition – he became a very skilled exorcist. But there seems to be a second – and more subtly problematic – reason to insist on seeing the Beelzebul story only as a witchcraft accusation. Particularly for those interpreters who approach spirit possession by employing the functionalist theoretical paradigms of Ioan Lewis, the entire phenomenon – be it what Lewis calls “central” or be it “peripheral” possession – ultimately is a means to re-inscribe hegemonic social structures and values. This is an obviously unacceptable outcome for those who are invested in representing Jesus as a uniquely powerful moral and social reformer. Such uniqueness can be salvaged to a certain extent when the witchcraft accusation is envisaged as the response to Jesus’ “objectively” subversive power and in particular when it is attributed (by rather uncritically buying into the polemical rhetoric of Gospel redactors) to the “religious authorities” of his time.

IV. With the Finger of God? The Q version of the Beelzebul pericope contained two additional verses (Q 11:19–20) that were located between the sayings on the divided kingdom and household and the saying on binding the “strong one”. The Q wording of verses 19–20 can be reconstructed without too many problems, since the Matthean (12:27–8) and the Lukan (11:19–20) versions are almost identical: Καὶ εἰ ἐγὼ ἐν Βεελζεβοὺλ ἐκβάλλω τὰ δαιμόνια οἱ υἱοὶ ὑμῶν ἐν τίνι ἐκβάλλουσιν; Διὰ τοῦτο αὐτοὶ κριταὶ ἔσονται ὑμῶν. 20. Εἰ δὲ ἐν δακτύλῳ θεοῦ ἐγὼ ἐκβάλλω τὰ δαιμόνια, ἄρα ἔφθασεν ἐφ᾽ ὑμᾶς ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ. And if I by Beelzebul cast out demons, your sons, by whom do they cast them out? This is why they will be your judges. 20. But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out demons, then there has come upon you God’s reign.

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The single major difference between the two versions is that – at the beginning of verse 20 – Matthew has Jesus performing his exorcisms “by the spirit of God” (ἐν πνεύματι θεοῦ), while Luke attributes the action to “the finger of God”. While it would be appealing to prefer the Matthean version in the context of the present discussion, there are strong internal reasons that suggest the more “original” version to be the Lukan “finger of God”, as it is done in almost all the reconstructions of the Q text. First, “finger of God” is a somewhat obscure phrase, a state of affairs that renders very likely a scenario in which Matthew substituted it with the more common “spirit of God”. Second, Luke is clearly very fond of the “spirit of God”, which is often inserted redactionally in other pericopes in the third gospel and which also plays a significant theological role in Acts. For these reasons, it seems difficult to imagine that Luke could have eliminated it if he had found it in Q. Finally, if one assumes that verse 19 somehow diminishes the uniquely eschatological relevance of Jesus’ exorcisms (by implicitly equating them with those of the “sons” of his interlocutors), stating that Jesus performs his healings “by the spirit of God” goes a long way toward reestablishing the qualitative uniqueness of his actions. The latter move may be construed as a convenient way to “correct” a saying that could prove itself embarrassing for later Christ groups intent on presenting the figure of Jesus as unparalleled and thus divine. In any event, it seems clear that verses 19–20 do indeed introduce a slightly different nuance with respect to the materials common to Mark and Q. Several pieces of evidence indicate that the variation is likely due to a redactional intervention connected to the inclusion of the Beelzebul materials in the Sayings Gospel. First, the theme of “judgment” of opponents in polemical contexts is widespread in the Sayings Gospel.54 Second, the treatment of the divine basileia in this verse is at variance with that of God’s kingdom as a locative category in the remnant of the Beelzebul pericope, as Moxnes notes. For instance, the detail that the basileia “has come upon” or “has reached out” (ἔφθασεν) does not fit at all the notion of “kingdom” as a controlled space. Instead, I have shown elsewhere that such linguistic peculiarities in all likelihood depend on the “village scribes” who composed Q and go back to Hellenistic and Roman royal ideology. Q 11:20 conceptualizes divine sovereignty as providing for the welfare of subjects out of a sense of philanthropia that in turn legitimizes kingly rule.55 Finally, while one should avoid the anti-Jewish exegetical implications noted by Johnson-DeBaufre, it is difficult not to conclude that verses 19–20 put the figure and the activity of Jesus at the center of attention more effectively than the remnant of the Beelzebul 54 Usually in association with the polemic against “this generation”, a phrase that, however, should never be considered a stand-in for Judaism in Q: see M. Tiwald, ‘Hat Gott sein Haus verlassen (vgl. Q 13:35)? Das Verhältnis der Logienquelle zum Frühjudentum’, in Id. (ed.), Kein Iota wird vergehen: Das Gesetzesverständnis der Logienquelle vor dem Hintergrund frühjüdischer Theologie, BWANT 200 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2013), 63–88. 55 Bazzana, Bureaucracy, 208–10.

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pericope. Whether one takes the mention of the “finger of God” as reminiscence of the Jewish Scriptures56 or as a reference to “magical” procedures in the performance of exorcisms, Jesus plays a key role in mediating divine exorcistic power for the benefit of humankind.57 Thus, the redactional development of the Beelzebul pericope can be reconstructed as a two-stage process. In all likelihood, verses 19–20 were not already attached to the core sayings that composed the cluster at the “original” stage.58 This group of sayings recorded the origin of Jesus’ possession and the negotiation that led to his becoming the “host” for a “spirit” that gave him the power to perform exorcisms. Verses 19–20 were attached to the pericope when it was included in the Sayings Gospel and from there they found their way to Matthew and Luke. The reliability of such a reconstruction is strengthened by a cursory observation of the elements that, on the one hand, connect these two verses to the Sayings Gospel Q and, on the other hand, distinguish it from the traditions concerning possession and exorcisms that can be reliably traced back to the historical Jesus. First, one should note that the unique role of Jesus in the fight against the devil (which has been mentioned above as a characteristic of verses 19–20) is emphasized in the Sayings Gospel. Indeed, it can scarcely be due to chance that the entire activity of Jesus as it is described in Q is prefaced by a lengthy narrative (Q 4:1–13) in which the hero confronts the devil and demonstrates his superiority by defeating him.59 Moreover, the detail that such a defeat comes about in a way that highlights Jesus’ scriptural expertise cannot but be consistent with the ethos of the village scribes who composed Q and be in con-

56  Most likely depending on Exod 8:15 (8:19 lxx) according to M. Hengel, ‘Der Finger und die Herrschaft Gottes in Lk 11,20’, in R. Kieffer, J. Bergman (eds.), La main de Dieu/Die Hand Gottes, WUNT 94 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 87–106, and M. Labahn, ‘Jesu Exorzismen (Q 11,19–20) und die Erkenntnis der ägyptischer Magier (Ex 8,15): Q 11,20 als bewahrtes Beispiel für Schrift-Rezeption Jesu nach der Logienquelle’, in A. Lindemann (ed.), The Sayings Source Q and the Historical Jesus, BETL 158 (Leuven: Peeters, 2001), 617–33, here: 628–30. 57  For the (very limited) parallels in “magical” literature, see P. W. van der Horst, ‘“The Finger of God”: Miscellaneous Notes on Luke 11:20 and Its Umwelt’, in W. L. Petersen, J. S. Vos, H. J. de Jonge (eds.), Sayings of Jesus: Canonical and Non-Canonical. FS T. Baarda, SupplNT 89 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 89–103, here: 99–100. Van der Horst, however, concludes that Exod 8 constitutes the most likely model for Luke 11:20. 58  “Original” in this case can only be used in a very relative sense, since it is hardly possible that a single, chronologically primary version of the pericope ever existed. Mark and Q witness to at least two versions that have an equal claim to chronological priority, while many other variants might have existed and are now lost. 59  For an assessment of the so-called “temptation” story, see Bazzana, Bureaucracy, 200–2, and C. M. Tuckett, ‘The Temptation Narrative in Q’, in F. Van Segbroeck, C. M. Tuckett, G. Van Belle, J. Verheyden (eds.), The Four Gospels 1992. FS F. Neirynck, BETL 100 (Leuven: Peeters, 1992), 479–507.

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trast with the actual descriptions of exorcisms in which explicit references to the Jewish scriptures play no role.60 Second, one should also note that the main reason why so many scholars are invested in pushing back verse 20 towards the historical Jesus is that this is one of the very few places in which the exorcistic practice of Jesus is clearly associated with the arrival of the “kingdom” of God. Interestingly, no narrative of an exorcism even mentions the theme of the “kingdom” or the apocalyptic significance that might be attached to Jesus’ actions. After the long discussion included in this chapter, it should be clear that possession is too much of a traumatic and ambiguous experience for a possessed individual such as Jesus to entertain this type of claim.61 It might be useful to compare the case of verses 19–20 with those of Q 11:24–6, another Q saying that most scholars consider authentic because of its “embarrassing” nature. While a saying that warns about the potential return of exorcised “spirits” cannot be very valuable for theological reconstructions intent on emphasizing Jesus’ messianic awareness or the apocalyptic role of his exorcistic activity, Q 11:24–6 in all likelihood reflects better than Q 11:19–20 Jesus’ own understanding of the “craft” connected with the practice of exorcism.

V. Conclusion This essay has been focused on the analysis of a very representative Gospel pericope, chosen for its very likely connection to the historical Jesus and, more importantly, for the explicit way in which spirit possession as a cultural and socio-religious phenomenon is discussed in it. The redaction-critical examination of the texts preserving the so-called “Beelzebul accusation” – accompanied by a controlled comparison with the results of ethnographic studies – has shown that these materials record important information concerning the attitudes of Jesus (and of early Jesus followers) towards “spirit” possession. In particular, the pericope describes the path through which Jesus came to cope with the traumatic and empowering experience of the Other that is at the root of possession. By employing a theological political idiom and in dialogue with his socio-cultural context (a dialogue enriched by the embodiment of the mythical past and of current political circumstances), Jesus succeeded in constructing his own subjectivity (or assemblage) as that of an effective and skilled exorcist.

60  On Jesus’ scriptural competency in the “temptation” episode, see T. Hieke, ‘Schriftgelehrsamkeit in der Logienquelle: Die alttestamentliche Zitate der Versuchungsgeschichte Q 4,1–13’, in J. M. Asgeirsson, K. De Troyer, M. W. Meyer (eds.), From Quest to Q. FS J. M. Robinson, BETL 146 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 43–71. 61 This seems to be the case for Stuckenbruck, Myth, 171–2.

Monster Theory and the Gospels: Monstrosities, Ambiguous Power and Emotions in Mark Laura Feldt

I. Introduction Contemporary culture teems with monsters. From Pokémon and Maleficent to vampires, zombies, angels and demons, the cultural interest in monstrosity is undiminished. In this respect, the contemporary world is not so far removed from the ancient world, and indeed, in contemporary cultural anthropology, monstrosity is understood as a cross-culturally applicable concept and as fundamental to culture. In this paper, I discuss anthropological theories of the nature and functions of monstrosity, and how discourses of monstrosity are used in the gospels, focusing on selected narrative episodes from Mark. The paper builds on key ideas from current, anthropological theories of monstrosity, and develops the anthropological perspectives which understand monstrosity as a boundary and identity discourse by also drawing on the history of emotions and theories of media. Monstrosity is fundamentally about the transgression of cultural categories, and as a discourse of boundaries and identity, a monster represents a figure of ambiguity and affect. Monstrosity and monsters are not only – as in colloquial English – fundamentally negative and frightening beings, but may also be verbalized as benign, powerful creatures. The fascination and the emotional practices surrounding the monstrous – astonishment, fear, horror, wonder – are related to its fundamental ambiguity, its ambiguous power. The basic ambiguity and the emotional practices are also particularly interesting traits in literary-narrative discourses of monstrosity in the gospels. With this paper, I wish to suggest that the typical picture of a polarized early Christian demonology, pitting evil monsters, demons, and Satan up against benevolent angels, the spirit, and Christ, can be nuanced in favour of a more ambiguous picture. There is more ambiguity to be found with regard to intermediate beings in the gospels than is sometimes thought, not only in terms of the good-evil dichotomy, but also in terms of other forms of ambiguity as well. My approach and interests are those of a historian of religions having worked for a long time on monsters in ancient Near Eastern religions, regarding monstrosity as an interesting concept in cross-cultural comparison. The context of gospel studies is a relevant and interesting context in which to pursue this topic

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comparatively, and one which can contribute to the discussion on the nature and social functions of intermediary beings – monsters – in ancient cultures. The comparative interest in ancient monsters is one important part of my approach. Another part is an interest in ancient media. The media form and context in which religious representations are embedded are crucial for how they are understood and used – from large rituals and processions to sermons, myths, songs, and individualized practices relating to objects or stories. Therefore, I also wish to offer some suggestions with regard to how the media form of written religious narratives stimulate emotions, and to discuss how the gospels become effective in religious identity formation, in which both emotional stimuli and emotion management are arguably important. How discourses of monstrosity are verbalized in religious narratives, such as the gospels, is thus a salient context for discussion of broader issues in the anthropology of religions.

II. Perspectives on Monstrosity and Emotional Practices1 The Greek term τέρας referred both to a portent and, in a concrete sense, to physical monstrosity. The English word “monster” comes from the Latin monstrum, which to the Romans signified a supernatural event thought to be a portent from the gods, a warning or sign, a monstrous thing, creature, or event, a horrific act, monstrosity in general, or a wicked person.2 According to Sextus Pompeius Festus, a grammarian from the second century, who paraphrased and summarized Verrius Flaccus’ De verborum significatu, the word monstrum is derived from monestrum of the root moneo.3 The basic meaning of this verb (of the root memini, mens), is to remind someone of something, to make somebody remember, to warn. Monstro means to show or teach, to reveal, to suggest, to demonstrate.4 These definitions draw attention to some of the interesting aspects of the impact of monstrosity discourses that are relevant for a conceptual discussion. Approaching the concept of the monstrous, we must ask what it is that allows us to place dragons, angels, werewolves, King Kong, aliens, Minotaurus, 1  For the theoretical outline, I here draw, in part, upon previously published ideas, in L. Feldt, ‘Monstrøsitet som kulturel og religiøs diskurs’, in Religionsvidenskabeligt Tidsskrift 42 (2003), 43–64; L. Feldt, ‘Monstrous Figurines from Mesopotamia – textuality, spatiality, and materiality in rituals and figurines for the protection of houses in 1st millennium Aššur’, in J. N. Bremmer, D. Boschung (eds.), The Materiality of Magic (Paderborn: Wilhelm Fink, 2015), 59–95. 2 P. G. W. Glare, Oxford Latin Dictionary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 20122), henceforth OLD, s. v. 3  Thus also ibid., s. v. 4  D. Felton, ‘Rejecting and Embracing the Monstrous in Ancient Greece and Rome’, in A. S. Mittman, P. J. Dendle (eds.), The Ashgate Research Companion to Monsters and the Monstrous (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), 103–32, here: 104; L. Marin, ‘Frontiers of Utopia: Past and Present’, in Critical Inquiry 19 (1993), 397–420, here: 400; OLD, s. v.

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Huwawa, Pokémon, and demons in the same category. What characterizes the monstrous is a deviation from a norm or a category. Monstrous bodies belong to, or transgress, more than one category, and are often hybrid.5 Monsters are extreme and transgressive in their bodies; a monster is a form in which category boundaries between – for instance – the human, the animal, natural phenomena and objects break down. The boundaries of categories vary from culture to culture, but a virtual norm of a category is always at stake, according to which, the monstrous is a deviation and a transgression.6 In the category of the monstrous, the boundary between the human and the non-human is continually in focus. Monsters question and threaten cultural categories, because monsters, on the one hand, embody that which may dissolve order. On the other hand, the individual member is defined precisely by his or her deviation from the category. So, the monstrous is often a matter of perspective, just as monstrosity is a discourse, which can be used to horrify, scare, and often delegitimize and demonize, but also to fascinate, empower, and legitimize. The range of related emotions lies between the horrific and the wondrous, including all the hesitation and ambiguity in between the two ends of that continuum.7 In anthropological monster research, monstrous bodies are understood as cultural constructions that throw a culture’s categorizations into question. As their bodies are hybrid, they cannot be included in a systematic classification and so disturb order and call attention to it at the same time. For these reasons, monsters are often understood as dangerous and uncontrollable. They are said to appear in times of crises and to inhabit the margins, both geographically and ideologically.8 Thus, in many monster analyses, the emphasis is on the monster as a negative and dangerous being.9 Also, in recent decades, monsters have primarily been understood as dangerous, and to inspire the relevant emotional practices related to feelings of fear. However, the predominantly negative understanding of the monstrous is arguably a modern phenomenon.10 Certainly, the understanding of monstrosity is historically variable, and current, late-modern  5 Monstrosity

can also arise from hyperbole, as in giants, or from miniaturization.  A. Mittman, ‘Introduction: The Impact of Monsters and Monster Studies’, in Id., Ashgate Research, 1–16; Feldt, ‘Monstrøsitet’; H. R. Brittnacher, Ästhetik des Horrors (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1994), 183–7.  7  T. Z. Todorov, The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre (Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 1975); N. Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror (London: Routledge, 1990).  8 Mittman, Ashgate Research, 2013; J. J. Cohen, ‘Monster Culture (Seven Theses)’, in Id. (ed.), Monster Theory: Reading Culture (Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 3–25, here: 3–6.  9 Cohen, Monster Theory, viii, xii, et passim; R. Waterhouse, ‘Beowulf as Palimpsest’, in Cohen, Monster Culture; M. Uebel, ‘Unthinking the Monster: Twelfth-Century Responses to Saracen Alterity’, in Cohen (ed.), Monster Theory, 264–91. 10  Feldt, ‘Monstrøsitet’; Brittnacher, Ästhetik des Horrors, 184; A. Curran, R. P.  Maccubbin, D. F.  Morrill (eds.), Faces of Monstrosity in Eighteenth-Century Thought, special issue of Eighteenth-Century Life, vol. 21/2 (1997).  6

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trends, such as the appearance of the benign and sexually fascinating vampire in popular culture, the popularity of Pokémon, and other non-scary monsters, suggest the continued presence of positive monsters. The understanding of the monstrous as a primarily dangerous and frightening creature is exactly what I wish to question and nuance, through the analysis of monsters and monstrosity in the gospels, by pointing to a more ambiguous image of monstrosity. As boundary phenomena, monsters participate in drawing the contours of social space and cultural identities. As Michel de Certeau has pointed out, boundaries are made of contacts – the points of differentiation are also the common points. As he suggests, boundaries should be understood as spaces, rather than lines.11 Boundary zones are areas of exchange and potentiality, as well as of danger. Monsters are always culturally, socially, and historically constructed creatures, and, by seeing them as boundary phenomena, we can throw light on their double functionality. As boundary phenomena, they threaten to dissolve the classificatory boundaries and reveal the contingency of the cultural and social order. Yet, it is a matter of discussion whether this revelation functions in either a domesticating or a liberating way. In some contexts, the construction of monsters serves to displace the antagonisms and horrors of a society outside that society and its capture or killing supports social cohesion;12 thus, the destruction of the monstrous serves to preserve societal homogeneity. Yet, I find this reading insufficient, as it does not fully explain the fascinating power of the monstrous or its positive, benign sides, which we know so well from the ancient world and from contemporary popular culture. Monsters can also be forces for change, because they preserve the idea of the contingency of the social order. They can also be ascribed powerful, fascinating, and benign sides, which signal the possibility of change and creativity. Thus, the category of liminality, understood in a broadened sense to apply also to spaces, beings, and events,13 as a relative category, is naturally useful here.14 Yet, the emotional practices related to the monstrous have not been investigated in depth and, I argue, need more reflection. 11  M. de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, transl. S. Rendall (Berkeley CA: University of California Press, 1984), 127. 12  F. Moretti, ‘The Dialectic of Fear’, in Id., Signs Taken For Wonders: Essays in the Sociology of Literary Forms (London: Verso, 1983), 83–108, here: 84–6. 13 Feldt, ‘Monstrøsitet’. The monstrous in literature can be understood as a sub-category of the fantastic. The fantastic can appear in person, event, action and space categories, cf. L. Feldt, The Fantastic in Religious Narrative from Exodus to Elisha (London: Routledge, 2012). The research history of liminality is well-rehearsed elsewhere; cf. the founding fathers Arnold van Gennep and Victor Turner. 14  Think of the characteristic ambiguity of heroes. The hero can do what no one else in the group is able to do, but at the same time the hero is placed at the boundary of his or her own group. This can be reflected in the inscription of monstrous traits in the hero’s character; the hero is also a monstrous anomaly, cf. M. Eliade, Histoire des croyances et des idées religieuses (Paris: Payot, 1976), 301.

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Emotional and sensual arousal, which may intuitively seem to be physical, is in fact deeply socialized. Senses and emotions play important roles in the formation of religious identity and, as Monique Scheer has suggested, emotions are cultural practices situated in and composed of interdependent cognitive, somatic, and social components.15 Even as they seem very individual, emotions are always embedded in larger social frames, literary conventions, and cultural scripts. Religious narratives are some of the primary means by which religions bridge the gap between generations and negotiate and socialize religious identity; indeed, religious narratives are one of the fundamental mediating links between individual and collective religious identities,16 and are so very relevant for an analysis of emotions in the history of religions. Moreover, religious stories may trigger and train a broad range of emotional responses in their readers and audiences  – a field still under investigation in many disciplines, by cognitive scientists, psychologists, literary scholars, sociologists, etc. In any situation in which there is uncertainty and suspense – that is, we might say, in any narrative situation – emotional reactions are a part of the game.17 While emotions clearly have cognitive and bodily foundations, and some degree of universality in our human patterns of emotional reaction can be reckoned with,18 researchers today agree that feelings are mental and bodily processes which are historically and culturally variable. While the basic emotions are universal in that they are recognizable across the globe and transcend time and place, and while emotions have a physical and bodily basis, we may, with many other scholars, distinguish between affect as a bodily response and emotion as the verbalized reaction.19 As suggested already by Dorrit Cohn, my assumption here is that literary narratives may grant access to “the unspoken thoughts, feelings, perceptions of a person”,20 15  M. Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice (and is that what makes them have a history?) A Bourdieuian Approach to Understanding Emotion’, in History and Theory 51/2 (2012), 193–220. 16  L. Feldt, ‘The Literary Aesthetics of Religious Narratives: Probing Literary-Aesthetic Form, Emotion, and Sensory Effects in Exodus 7–11’, in A. Grieser, J. Johnston (eds.), The Aesthetics of Religion as a Connective Concept (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2017). 17  S. Keen, ‘Emotions and Narrative’, in Poetics Today 32 (2011), 1–53, here: 5, referring to Dewey. 18  E. g., fear is one of our most basic emotions and tied to our survival instinct. In the natural sciences, research into the basic emotions is extensive. The American psychologist Paul Ekman reckons with six basic emotions: fear, disgust, anxiety, joy, surprise, and sadness, as quoted by ibid., 6. 19  Scholars disagree as to whether feelings, emotions, and affect are the same thing. Here, I use feelings and emotions as synonyms for the verbalized reaction, and affect for the bodily reaction. Suzanne Keen, in her discussion of Dewey, suggests that narratives and other texts “elicit aesthetic emotions, not as discrete things bearing labels” such as joy, sorrow, hope or hate, but as unifying and moving forces in time, pointing to the interconnectedness of emotions and narrative. Ibid., 1–53, here 4–5. 20  D. Cohn, Transparent Minds: Narrative Modes for Presenting Consciousness in Fiction (Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press, 1978), 7–8.

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and, additionally, to key culturally influential emotional practices – processes which tend to remain opaque in embodied interactions. As Monique Scheer has pointed out, emotions as bodily responses are not naturally meaningful. We understand them only when we verbalise or narrate them.21 In and through stories and narrative framings, affects become emotions, we make sense of those emotions and, through narrative, we access the emotions and experiences of others. Ancient myths and religious texts are often complex literary works, and here I work from the assumption that verbalized emotions can be studied historically as sources for key emotional practices in a religious culture. In my analysis here, I thus focus on how category-transgressive, hybrid, monstrous beings – demons, angels, and the like – are presented in the textual media of the gospels, and which emotions and reactions are verbalized in relation to monstrosity. Thus, as a general anthropological and historical concept, I suggest that we use the concept of monstrosity, and try out what the concepts of “monster” and “monstrosity”, from a cultural, anthropological, and historical-emotional perspective, can bring to gospel studies. Our everyday categories of “spirit”, “demon”, and “angel” carry a heavy load of deep-set cultural and historical connotations, and we need an etic concept for comparative discussion. Monstrous beings are often referred to as “spirits”, which is probably apt for several contexts in the era which we are considering here, but the concept may be wanting as a general idea for second-order history of religions concept due to its aerial – ethereal qualities which do not suit all ancient monstrous beings, and that may sometimes be quite concrete. The word “demon” is derived, of course, from the Greek δαίμων, which was used to describe divinities, gods or goddesses, the group of lesser deities, the δαίμονες, which were ambiguous and could bring both good and evil, and the intermediaries, a group of lower divine beings between gods and mortals.22 Yet, it is an unhelpful nomenclature due to the associations with the concept of demons and its strong negative historical and contemporary connotations,23 meaning that it no longer preserves the ambiguity and indeterminacy of ancient monsters which we find in the sources. We need concepts and approaches which do not depend on emic and theologically loaded terms like “demons”, “angels”, or “Holy Spirit”, etc.; instead, we need an etic category.24 I wish to suggest that “monster” and “monstrosity” are apt terms, which 21 K. Simecek, ‘Beyond Narrative: Poetry, Emotion, and the Perspectival View’, in British Journal of Aesthetics 55 (2015), 497–513, here: 497–500; Scheer, ‘Are Emotions a Kind of Practice’. 22  A. K.  Petersen, ‘The Notion of Demon: Open Questions to a Diffuse Concept’ in H. Lichtenberger, A. Lange, K. F.  Diethard Römheld (eds.), Die Dämonen (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 23–44. 23  The change in the concept occasioned in early Christianity, ibid., 27. 24  Thus argues also D. Frankfurter, ‘Where the Spirits Dwell: Possession, Christianization, and Saints’ Shrines in Late Antiquity’, in HTR 103 (2010), 27–46, focusing on the term “spirit”. Some scholars have argued in favour of using the term δαίμων as our second-order category, as

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are less loaded than other terms, and more flexible. Importantly, these terms preserve more of the ambiguity and indeterminacy involved in the negotiation of liminal beings and Mischwesen in the ancient world. I approach the analysis of monstrosity in the gospels by also looking at the verbalized emotional effects of the monstrous in the texts, not as reflections of past religious experiences, but as sources for the history of emotions and emotional practices stimulated by the texts in use. The gospel texts are here understood as performative media which model religious identity formation and aid in the maintenance of emotions and identity. I argue that applying the concept of monstrosity to the gospels will add new, comparative insights to our understanding of intermediate beings in early Christian literature.25

III. Ancient Monstrosities and the Analysis of Monstrosity in the Gospels With regard to the control and aversion of hostile monstrous forces in ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, it has recently been argued that the guardian deities were imagined as fundamentally ambiguous, rather than as strictly malevolent.26 David Frankfurter has argued that this idea is also relevant for the study of ancient Jewish and Christian demonology.27 Frankfurter refers to the broad consensus that the demonology of the Jesus movement of the first two centuries was polarized and pervasive – indeed that the early Christ-followers made demon-identification and exorcism their specialty. As Frankfurter points out, before the third century the word δαίμων did not have the polarized significance K. Sonik, ‘Mesopotamian Conceptions of the Supernatural: Towards a Taxonomy of Zwischenwesen’, in Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 14 (2013), 103–16. Yet, as Frankfurter suggests in his introduction to the special issue, the term may lie too close to the word “demon”, which carries clear negative connotations, and is more tied to a Christian context. “Monster” would instead be my suggestion for an etic category. Frankfurter’s suggestion that we use the term “spirit” is also very useful (D. Frankfurter, ‘Introduction’, in Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 14 [2013], 1–8), and yet I think that its connotations may lean too much towards the ephemeral and “airy”, a trait which does not go well with some cultures’ more un-spirit-like or “material” monsters. 25  My approach is based on social-constructivist assumptions combined with a critical realist perspective (based on discussions in A. W. Geertz, ‘Definition as Analytical Strategy in the Study of Religion’, in Historical Reflections/Réflexions Historiques 25 (1999), 445–75; J. S. Jensen, The Study of Religion in a New Key (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2003), 108–12, 130–2, 239–54. As R. A. Segal suggests, while our categories and theories originate with us, that does not mean that they are not applicable (R. A. Segal, ‘Classification and Comparison in the Study of Religion’, in JAAR 73 [2005], 1179), with critical, historical carefulness. 26  R. Lucarelli, ‘Towards a Comparative Approach to Demonology in Antiquity: The Case of Egypt and Mesopotamia’, in Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 14 (2013), 11–26; Feldt, ‘Monstrous Figurines’. 27  D. Frankfurter, ‘Master-Demons, Local Spirits, and Demonology in the Roman Mediterranean World’, in Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 11 (2011), 126–31.

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in Greco-Roman literature that it attained in Christian literature. Early Judaism also imagined the spirits and demons to be ambiguous in a fundamental way, from the angels to the Watchers, these beings oscillated – or could potentially oscillate  – between benevolent and malevolent functions, and they could be controlled through names and writing.28 Can the typical picture of a polarized early Christian demonology be nuanced? From the gospels, examples of nasty, intermediate monstrous beings – demons and impure spirits – are well-known, as are examples of good spirits and angels. Demons are indeed expelled and vanquished in the gospels, and yet I argue that we do find examples of monstrous ambiguity, and particular types of emotional practices related to the monstrous in the gospels. In the analyses below, I will focus on selected textual representations of monstrosity as depicted in the synoptic gospels. Do we see some of that fluidity of function – that is, in social utility – and the imprecision of classification, which is so characteristic of ancient polytheisms? To what extent, and how, do the gospels engage with the cross-culturally well-known ambiguity of monsters? How are the monsters embedded in the texts, and which emotions are verbalized with regard to the monstrous beings? I will not focus on analysing all of the instances in which reference is made to a being or force which is understood as monstrous, where those beings are merely mentioned, or where one of the above terms are used. I have, instead, chosen to discuss selected, more extended text segments, in which something monstrous, hybrid, and category-transgressive is described, and where emotional reactions are verbalized. Two episodes from the Gospel of Mark are among the longest and most extended textual descriptions and reflections on monstrosity in the gospels, and they will be my primary focus in this article. A similar episode in the Gospel of Luke will also be discussed. First, however, I will offer a few words on intermediate monstrous beings in Mark and the synoptic gospels.

IV. Monstrosities in Mark Investigating intermediate monstrous beings in the Gospel of Mark, we primarily come across demons, angels, and spirits. The monstrosity perspective thus reveals a large topic, as it subsumes many different intermediate beings often studied separately; thus, we cannot do justice to all of its facets. Yet, the perspective does indeed seem warranted by the gospel text, in as much as the different intermediate beings do relate and interact in the text’s discourse, and some of the terms are sometimes used interchangeably. First, in order to provide an overview of some of the key traits, I will offer a brief outline of some of the primary aspects, and then proceed to a discussion of the selected text segments. 28 Ibid.,

127.

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One of the primary kinds of intermediate monstrous beings in the synoptic gospels is, of course, demons. Broader overviews of the subject ascertain that, in the synoptic gospels, the word δαίμων occurs only once (Matt 8:31), while the word δαιμόνιον is much more common (appearing more than 50 times). Riley and Reese argue that the latter term is used for “a wicked demonic spirit” in the gospels,29 and the consensus view seems to be that early Christianity transformed the role of “demons” from mediators between the gods and humans to mediating between good and evil, “thus disclaiming God’s responsibility for the existence of evil and relegating it to the realm of Satan”.30 The most common appearance of demons in the synoptic gospels is when they indwell humans, possessing them, for which the phrases ἔχειν δαιμόνιον, to have a demon, or δαιμονίζεσθαι, to be demonized, are used. A general view is that the demons in the gospels defile and bring evil to the human subjects and hosts in both physical and spiritual ways.31 It is often regarded as self-evident that δαιμόνιον means a “wicked, demonic spirit”, as stated by Riley. Demons are not explicitly described in these overviews. “Angel” is the common term in Greek, Jewish, and Christian literature for an intermediate, supernatural being who mediates between a higher god and humans. In the Septuagint, ἄγγελος is the common translation of the Hebrew mal’āk. It occurs 175 times in the NT according to Nestle-Aland, and can also be used of human messengers. As van Henten and others have pointed out, angels, to some extent, correspond to δαίμονες in Greek religion as messengers and intermediaries.32 In early Jewish and Christian literature, angels are messengers from god, appearing on earth, as in Luke 1–2, or in a dream, as in Matt 1:20; 2:13. The physical forms of angels are not described in detail, but they can move forward through the air. Yet, they often resemble or are mistaken for humans, and they have a shining or fiery appearance. Angels can have different duties: some bring messages; some help exorcise demons; some reveal hidden knowledge; some bring death; and Satan may even have his own angels.33 29  G. J.  Riley, ‘Demon’, in DDD; D. G.  Reese, ‘Demons’, in D. N. Freedman (ed.), Anchor Bible Dictionary (New York: Doubleday, 1992). 30  Petersen, ‘The Notion of Demon’, 33. The phrase ἀκάθαρτος is found with πνεῦμα 20 times, and πονηρός with πνεῦμα in Luke 8:2 (Riley, ‘Demon’). 31  Riley, ‘Demon’ and Reese, ‘Demons’. Yet, it does seem that some ambiguity is missing in such overviews. As Dayna Kalleres points out, in the Greek context, the term δαιμόνιον could cover Socrates’ guardian “spirit”, a possessing δαιμόνιον (as in the NT), and a νεκυοδαίμων perpetuating horrific acts on young women; Kalleres also points to how Christian authors engage and draw on Greek ideas and practices as they were constructing their new ideas and practices. D. S. Kalleres, ‘“Oh, Lord, Give This One a Daimon So That He May No Longer Sin”: The Holy Man and His Daimones in Hagiography’, in Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 14 (2013), 205–36. 32   J. W. van Henten, ‘Angel’, in DDD; L. Albinus, ‘Greek Demons and the Ambivalence of Clemens Alexandrinus’, in Temenos 31 (1995), 7–17. 33  Van Henten, ‘Angel’. Further terms are relevant , but that would carry us too far here. Cf. the contribution of Bremmer in this volume.

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The word for spirit, πνεῦμα, appears 379 times in the New Testament. In most cases, the word is used with a qualifier. In two-thirds of the cases, the qualifier is ἅγιον, or holy. The word is used in two primary ways: as a spirit described in a personal way, or as a power or force. In the gospels, Jesus is portrayed as a man full of spirit. The manifestations of spirit relate to revelation, power, and worship. Even if holy is often used as a qualifier, the spirit is represented in the gospels as more of an instrument of divine actions than as a hypostasis.34 Since it is often necessary to state whether a spirit is holy or not, we may surmise that πνεῦμα is an ambiguous term that needs qualification. Such overviews do suggest some measure of polarization in terms of benign versus malignant monstrous beings, from the perspective of their effects on, and relations to, humans. Instead, I will suggest here that the gospel of Mark presents a more ambiguous image of a supernatural realm, one inhabited by demons, angels, and spirits alike, all of whom may be ambiguous, unclean, dangerous, or benevolent. Moreover, they may shift between such labels, and their effects on, and relations to, human actors are not always easy to discern for those actors. Right from the very beginning of the gospel, we get the impression that the intermediate, monstrous beings are quite ambiguous and versatile, that they inhabit the same superhuman realm and interact within it, and, while the good vs. evil dichotomy is, of course, not irrelevant, it is not as clear cut, polarized, or all-encompassing as sometimes assumed. We can also locate ambiguity with regard to literal vs. metaphorical understandings of the monstrous, to human vs. superhuman interpretations, and to unclean vs. pure or holy. In Mark 1, John the Baptist is called the ἄγγελος of God by means of quotes from the Hebrew Bible, and it is stated that he baptizes by means of the “holy spirit”. Here, the term ἄγγελος seems to be used in the sense of the Hebrew mal’āk, as a messenger of God, to communicate that John’s preaching is legitimate, that his work is part of Yahweh’s larger teleological plan, and that John is Elijah returned.35 The indefinite “holy spirit” is active in his baptisms; i. e., not a specific Holy Spirit, but an unspecific holy πνεῦμα. It is worth noting that the mere fact that it is necessary to state explicitly that this πνεῦμα is holy can be taken as an indication that not all πνεύματα are holy. Apparently, πνεῦμα is an ambiguous term which needs qualification, and the relevant distinction is not good versus evil, but holy versus unclean. Then, we are told that the spirit descends upon Jesus, or indeed, into Jesus (εἰς αὐτόν),36 and, in 1:12–3, the spirit drives Jesus into the desert, where he is tempted by Satan and ministered to by angels. Contrary to Yarbro Collins’ argu J. Reiling, ‘Holy Spirit’, in DDD.  A. Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2007), 136. 36   E. P.  Dixon, ‘Descending Spirit and Descending Gods: A “Greek” Interpretation of the Spirit’s “Descent as a Dove” in Mark’, in JBL 128 (2009), 759–80. 34

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ment,37 it is possible that the text does not suggest a clear polarization or dualism here; instead it seems that all of these superhuman beings inhabit the same sphere, and that they even cooperate and interact, as it is the spirit who drives Jesus to the desert, where both Satan, the wild animals, and the angels are found. It is the same, quite forceful, verb which is used (ἐκβάλλω) when the author describes Jesus driving out demons (as in 1:34, 39; 3:15 and elsewhere). The actions of all the intermediate beings are presented as part of the deity’s plan. Another common theme in Mark is that the demons recognize Jesus, and they know who he is (as in 1:23–4, 34 and 3:11–2); arguably this could be a textual feature used to suggest that they interact and relate to the same superhuman realm. Repeatedly, the text seems to suggest that Jesus inhabits or belongs to the same superhuman realm as the spirits, and that he has a superior authority in that realm (as in 1:27, 34 or 3:11; 4:41; 5:7). None of the Jewish and Hellenistic exorcism stories mentioned by Yarbro Collins share the recognition motif.38 Moreover, upon closer analysis, the demons in Mark are not actually described as causing physical illness or infirmities. In Mark 1:29–31, 40–5; 2:1–12; 3:1–6; 6:13 and 7:31–7, diseases are described, which are then healed by Jesus, but these diseases are not described as caused by demons or spirits. The only mention of a disease explicitly caused by a demon is in 9:14–29. Wahlen also notices that diseases are distinguished from demon possession in Mark.39 Much more attention is, indeed, spent on spirits in Mark. It is important and interesting to note that this word is in itself indeterminate and the being it denotes is arguably ambiguous; it needs a qualifying description before we can ascertain whether a πνεῦμα is benevolent or malevolent; at least this is the pattern we find in Mark. Whenever a person is indwelled by a spirit, the text invariably mentions the qualifier “unclean” (ἀκάθαρτος) to specify the nature of the spirit (1:23, 26–7, 40–5; 3:29–30; 5:2, 8; 6:7; 9:17, 20, 25). This is a Jewish expression.40 Only a few instances suggest that “demon” could be used as a synonym for unclean spirit (5:15; 7:24–6).41 The opposite of the unclean spirit is the holy spirit (1:8, 10, 12) or the holy angels (8:38); indeed, the relevant distinctions in the text do not seem to concern good versus evil, but rather holy versus unclean. The effects of having an unclean spirit is verbalised as socially transgressive behaviour, with one yelling loudly, afflicting pain to oneself, and other similar actions, as in 1:23–8 or in the story of the Gerasene. This indicates the transgressive quality of the combination of humans and spirits, as well as the uncleanness of the spirit in question, rather than a general, dualistic cosmology. Collins, Mark, 153.  Ibid., 165–8. 39  C. Wahlen, Jesus and the Impurity of Spirits in the Synoptic Gospels (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 5, 88. 40  Yarbro Collins, Mark, 167. 41 See also Wahlen’s discussion, Wahlen, Jesus, 4–5. 37 Yarbro 38

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Another observation we can make is that the gospel of Mark features several instances in which the intermediate beings seem ambiguous to the human actors in several ways at once – not only in terms of good vs. evil, but also in terms of a literal vs. a metaphorical understanding of the monstrous. It is often quite difficult for the human actors of the story to ascertain whether they are dealing with a person possessed by an unclean spirit or by a holy spirit, by a demon or an angel (Mark 3:20–30), or whether a person is indeed merely a lunatic, or possessed by a spirit. A key example here could also be Jesus’ exorcistic address to Peter as “Satan”, which hinges on Peter’s lack of understanding (8:32–3). This pits Peter more as an opponent of Jesus in the Hebrew Biblical sense of sātān, an opponent, rather than Peter suddenly being indwelled by Satan. Thus, the presence of intermediate, monstrous beings hover ambiguously between literal and metaphorical understandings. Often, the disciples and other human actors voice emotions of fear, surprise, wonder, doubt, and lack of understanding vis-à-vis the intermediate beings, and whether they are benign or malignant, literal or metaphorical (Mark 4:35–41; 6:45–52). The repeated doubt and misunderstandings of the elect reinforce the sense of ambiguity, the text-internal reflection on the nature of the monstrous beings, not only between the benign and the malign, but also between the natural and the supernatural, and the literal and the metaphorical. Interestingly, the ambiguity evoked includes Jesus; the gospel labours to place Jesus in the category of the ambiguous, monstrous, intermediate beings by using similar emotional reactions of fear, surprise, wonder, doubt, and disorientation with regard to his “appearances”. Presently, I will discuss three examples from Mark, which highlight the ambiguities of the intermediate, monstrous beings. 1. Ambiguous Intermediate Beings I: Demons and Emotions in Mark 5:1–20 The story of the demons in the land of the Gerasenes can be taken as a key story for the discussion of the ambiguity of monsters in Mark. It is the longest healing story in Mark, and parallels stories in both Matthew and Luke. The episode of the demons and the swine is marked from the outset as taking place in an ideologically marginal zone on the other side of the lake.42 Immediately, as Jesus steps out of the boat, a man approaches coming from the tombs; traits which further stress liminality, marginality, and uncleanliness. Furthermore, the man lives among the graves, and no one has been able to bind him – as he rips all chains apart (Mark 5:1–4). All are indications that we are dealing with a character who transgresses 42 In Mark, the area is called the land of the Gerasenes; in Matthew and Luke it is the land of the Gadarenes. The first references the town of Gerasa, located ca. 60 km south of Lake Kinneret, whereas the second refers to the town of Gadara, which was located just south of the lake. Gerasa is lectio difficilior, see Yarbro Collins, Mark, 263–4. This suggests lack of knowledge of the region by both the author and audience. Hans Leander discusses connotations of the brutality of Rome’s military power, cf. H. Leander, Semeia Studies: Discourses of Empire: The Gospel of Mark from a Postcolonial Perspective (Atlanta GA: SBL, 2013), in this story.

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current social boundaries, as well as the physical boundaries of the human. In terms of time and space, he is also transgressive in as much as he is constantly moving about, screaming, both in the graves and on the mountains night and day, and hurts himself with stones (Mark 5:5). He is excessively powerful. Mountains are ideologically liminal spaces in the Greek and Jewish imagination,43 and graves are sources of uncleanliness in Judaism.44 Constant movement, noise, and self-mutilation are also transgressive acts, which are used to indicate the presence of a more-than-human power inside the man’s body. Interestingly, the word used to describe the man’s actions when he sees Jesus is προσεκύνησεν αὐτῷ, that he worshiped him. The demon worships Jesus, identifies him as the son of the highest god, tries to control him by naming his secret name,45 and adjures him to not torment him (5:7). Only then is it explained that Jesus was saying to the unclean spirit to depart from the man. Jesus asks the spirit its name and is told that it is “legion”,46 which the text explains has to do with its number (Mark 5:8–10). Rather than understanding this episode and the demon’s knowledge of Jesus’ identity as a mockery of Jesus, or as false knowledge, we could read it as suggesting that the demon indeed understands that Jesus is a more powerful intermediate, monstrous being, recognized as such by other intermediate, monstrous beings. Leading up to this episode, the text has presented Jesus’ unusual power in several ways: he has provided public teaching, has competed against other male leaders, has exercised authority over other people’s lives by making them follow him (1:16–20; 2:14; 3:13–9), has removed diseases, demons, and other disabilities, and has generally demonstrated authority through piety, self-control, courage, wisdom, justice, and control over others.47 By linking the body-snatching, powerful and boundary-transgressive demons with Roman imperial power explicitly through the name “Legion”, the narrative calls attention to the fundamental ambiguity of the monstrous, not only in terms of the good-evil dichotomy, but 43  J. N.  Bremmer, ‘Greek Demons of the Wilderness – The Case of the Centaurs’, in L. Feldt (ed.), Wilderness in Mythology and Religion – Approaching Religious Spatialities, Cosmologies, and Ideas of Wild Nature (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012), 25–54; L. Feldt, ‘Wilderness and Hebrew Bible Religion’, ibid., 55–94. 44  Wahlen, Jesus, 96. 45  I. Henderson, ‘Mark’s Gospel and the Pre-History of Individuation’, in J. Rüpke, The Individual in the Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 269–97, here: 278. Thus, we do get an impression of a contest of charismatics. 46  Ca 5,400 troops divided into ten cohorts, see W. Carter, ‘Cross-Gendered Romans and Mark’s Jesus: Legion Enters the Pigs (Mark 5:1–20)’, in JBL 134 (2015), 139–55. 47 C. Conway, Behold the Man: Jesus and Greco-Roman Masculinity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008,) 90–5; Carter, ‘Cross-Gendered’, 143. While the text explains the name of the monstrous beings which have snatched the man’s body as referring to their great number, Warren Carter has argued that it is also a reference to Roman military detail contributing to the construction of Jesus’ masculinity and mocking Roman power as demonic and destructive, stressing the military connotations of key terms, Carter, ‘Cross-Gendered’.

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also in terms of the readability of the monstrous. Thus, does the text reference intermediate monstrous beings here, or does it primarily construct literary images of Roman power?48 Some scholars have argued in favour of allegorical or metaphorical readings, while others have understood it as reflecting the polarizing view of demons as evil, supernatural beings.49 Indeed, I would argue that both understandings are present in the text, reflecting the fundamental ambiguity of the monstrous between the literal and the metaphorical, and the difficulty of pinning down precise meanings. Moreover, some degree of ambiguity is visible in the text, in as much as the demon/s are verbalized as adversaries of Jesus, but still as powerful forces to be reckoned with, as they know Jesus’ true identity. As such, the text does not spend a lot of attention on the good vs. evil dichotomy. Delorme has observed how Mark is not very interested in demonology, in the role of a demon outside of the human body, as no demon or spirit can speak apart from their human bodies.50 The monstrous is thus very clearly linked to the human in Mark. We must also note that the body-snatcher demons worship Jesus initially (5:6), but then challenge him, contest his authority by crying out the question of what Jesus has to do with him, and then use an exorcist’s formula for casting out a demon: ὁρκίζω σε τὸν θεόν “I adjure you by the god/God” (cf. Acts 19:13). The same demon/s had just identified Jesus as son of the most high god, ᾿Ιησοῦ υἱὲ τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ὑψίστου, which can refer both to Zeus and to the god of Israel.51 This god is clearly identified as the most powerful supernatural being, and it is interesting that the demons recognize it, and adjure Jesus by the deity. This could reference ideas of ambiguous ritual power performed by ambiguous beings, which were related to incantations that can be directed in various directions by a ritual specialist. Moreover, a fundamental reversibility of perspectives is voiced in terms of Jesus as an ambiguous and dangerous power, who can be averted by incantatory means. Considering the diversity of Mark’s audience, a significant portion of which was Greco-Roman,52 it seems likely that they would understand this narrative in terms of Greco-Roman ideas of the ambiguity of intermediate beings, and that the gospel addresses its audience in view of this.53 The demon  Wahlen, Jesus, 96.  S. D. Moore, “‘My Name Is Legion, for We Are Many’: Representing Empire in Mark”, in Id., Empire and Apocalypse: Postcolonialism and the New Testament, Bible in the Modern World 12 (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2006), 24–44. 50  J. Delorme, L’heureuse annonce selon Marc: Lecture intégrale du deuxième évangile (Paris: Cerf, 2008), 84 n. 47. 51 Cf. Deut 32:8; Isa 14:14; Dan 3:26; Yarbro Collins, Mark, 268. 52  Henderson, ‘Mark’s Gospel’. 53  However, Yarbro Collins’ commentary suggests more of a Jewish-apocalyptic orientation in Mark. Zoroastrian influence is to be reckoned with in different Jewish milieus, but how this plays into Mark can be discussed, as can the ambiguity of monsters found also in Jewish traditions, cf. Frankfurter, ‘Master-Demons’. 48 49

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suggests that Jesus is tormenting him, further adding to the ambiguity of Jesus, the ambiguous (here: tormenting) power of whom is seemingly immediate and effective. The text marks the demons as clearly inferior in power to Jesus. Yet, their defeat is not automatic – we see elements of their striking a bargain with the opposing power in their request to first not be sent out of the area, and then for permission to possess the swine – they negotiate with the other monstrous being present, Jesus, and they do possess superhuman power.54 While the departure scene is common in exorcism stories, the request to be sent into swine is unusual.55 This not only marks the demons’ submission to Jesus, but also their wish to remain in charge of the region, what belongs to the region, its production, and its inhabitants (5:11–2). As Carter suggests, Legion’s use of the verb εἰσέρχομαι – which is known from military contexts of invasion, occupation, and defeat of foreign territories  – “constructs Jesus as a military commander authorizing an invasion”.56 Further, the language used (“so that we might enter into them”) also potentially carries sexual connotations of rape.57 Again, we have an example of polyvalent language use, or multiple readability in the request: Do we get here an image of demons literally being sent into pigs, or are we dealing with an image of a metaphorical rape of the region by the Romans?58 The demons and the swine disappear into the lake, over which Jesus has just asserted his authority, by speaking to it as an agent (Mark 4:35–41), presenting Jesus as wielding authority over agentive natural forces.59 He thus sends the demons into a space, the sea, over which he has control, cf. the Hebrew deity’s control of the sea in Exodus 14–5. Again, we notice several monstrosities and superhuman agents beyond the one deity, and a hierarchy of monstrous beings, 54  Yarbro Collins suggests that this could be an indication that the spirits are spirits of the local dead (Mark, 270). Considering Paul’s view of local deities as demons (1 Cor 10), this could perhaps also be a reference to local divinities. 55  Ibid., 270–1. 56 Carter, ‘Cross-Gendered’, 148–50, here: 149. 57  J. Marcus, Mark 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (New York: Doubleday), 345, 352; Carter, ‘Cross-Gendered’. Carter further points to the sexual overtones related to pigs; a term which can be used as a synonym for female genitalia (Carter, ‘Cross-Gendered’, 151) with references to Aristophanes and other comedy; Liddell and Scott: pudenda muliebria and to the general use of animal imagery for sexual potency and unrestrained passion. 58  As Carter suggests, the episode may also be partly witty in its casting of the Roman army as demonic, self-destructive, and “piggy” (‘Cross-Gendered’, 153). The sexual connotations of “entering into” and “riding” the pigs are further explored by him. Mark does not pay any attention to what happens to the demons after the death of the swine; in all likelihood they do not die – the spirits shift from humans to animals, but are not killed when their hosts are killed. Yarbro Collins also discusses the potential anti-Roman sentiments communicated here, but points out that there is no general theme of opposition to Rome in Mark, calling attention also to the Roman soldier at the foot of the cross (Mark, 269). 59  Perhaps referencing Torah inter-texts related to the Exodus of first passing, supernaturally, through water, and then spending time in an ideologically liminal zone – the wilderness. Cf. the episode on the lake and Jesus as a ghost.

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of which indeed the demons are presented as impure, violent, and transgressive supernatural agents, but where Jesus also stands out as a transgressive, intermediate spirit agent: powerful and ambiguous. Interestingly, the story of the Gerasene demons in Mark pays great attention to the reactions of the text-internal characters. The herdsmen flee the scene – it is suggested that they are afraid – and they tell stories about it afterwards so that people come out from the polis to see what has happened. As pointed out by Henderson, what these people see is not very spectacular, but merely the man behaving as a normal person.60 They find Jesus and the demon-possessed man, who is fully clothed and in his right mind, and their reaction is fear. They do not wish to be in the company of Jesus. What has happened is too dangerous for ordinary folk. Their reaction shows that Jesus is here presented as more than an extraordinary human, and that he comes across as dangerous to people. The text seems to suggest that he is an ambiguous intermediate being. The text subtly shifts the emotional attention from the fear of the demons to the fear of Jesus. The same verb – to be afraid (ἐφοβήθησαν/φοβέω) – is also used in the story of the tempest in the sea, where the disciples are afraid of Jesus, and voice concerns with regard to his nature, suggesting that he is a divine being.61 As pointed out by Yarbro Collins, the episode suggests that if the disciples have faith and trust, they will also have Jesus’ extraordinary divine power over the elements.62 The story of Jairus’ daughter, following upon the story of the Gerasene man, juxtaposes fear and trust (5:36) as responses to Jesus. Jesus’ disciples and followers react to his predictions with fear (9:32; 10:32). Here, it is appropriate to also call attention to the ending of 16:8 in Mark: for they were afraid, ἐφοβοῦντο γάρ. The analysis of this episode thus naturally leads to a consideration of the ambiguous monstrosity of Jesus, and how the literary gospel cultivates emotional practices of fear in relation to him. Indeed, when combing the gospel of Mark for textual descriptions of monstrous, intermediate, ambiguous beings, Jesus stands out as the key example of an intermediate being due to his ambiguity. Interestingly, the only extended descriptions of monstrosity in Mark appear in descriptions of Jesus. 2. Ambiguous Intermediate Beings II: Emotions and the Monstrosity of Jesus in Mark Considering ancient understandings of spirits and intermediate beings in local religions and of how they could harass people, enter into them, and, through benign spirit possession, enable them to perform miracles or divinations,63 it is hardly surprising that the text-internal characters are represented as questioning  Henderson, ‘Mark’s Gospel’, 283.  Mark 4:40–1; Yarbro Collins, Mark, 260. 62  Ibid., 262. 63 Ibid., 45. 60 61

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Jesus’ powers. In Mark, for example, they question, they doubt, and they fear Jesus’ ambiguous powers. To the text-internal characters in Mark, it is not clearly apparent that Jesus’ powers are benign; they could be the ravings of a madman (cf. Mark 3:21),64 and they are certainly dangerous and ambiguous. The Jewish leaders are portrayed as understanding that Jesus’ powers are associated with the work of evil spirits and Satan (cf. Mark 3:22). Readers of the gospel are in the know, for they have already been told that a holy spirit has descended upon Jesus at his baptism (Mark 1:10). By analysing how the gospel strives to affect its audience, the function of verbalized emotives thus becomes important. In this context, we should understand the emphasis on fear in relation to Jesus as a way of providing an emotional script for the formation of the Jesus-follower, available through literary text. In this section, I analyse two significant examples of extended descriptions of monstrosity, both of which take place in liminal boundary zones: namely, the transformation (μεταμορφόομαι) on the mountain (Mark 9:2–13) and the transformation of the risen Christ in the late ending of Mark (Mark 16:9–11), which took place in a tomb cut out of solid rock (Mark 15:46). Finally, I will conclude by discussing the related emotional practices. Considering recent explorations of the wilderness connotations concerning mountains in Greek, Jewish, and gospel mythology,65 the mountain of transformation does seem to fit within this paradigm. Among other things, the text stresses the solitude of the characters (Mark 9:1–2: καὶ ἀναφέρει αὐτοὺς εἰς ὄρος ὑψηλὸν κατ᾿ ἰδίαν μόνους). Jesus is transformed in front of them; a process which may be more material than sometimes thought, in as much as the word “form” (μετεμορφώθη) does imply physicality and a change of identity.66 And yet, the text is quite shy of physical description, both while on the mountain and afterwards. Jesus’ transformation is primarily described in terms of his clothes, which are shining white in an unreal way (as no launderer/bleacher on earth can …), of Elijah’s and Moses’ presence and conversation with Jesus,67 and of the presence of the cloud and the superhuman voice that emanated from the cloud. These aspects clearly reference the foundational Torah wilderness scenes of Exodus 19 and 24, where Yahweh speaks to Moses and the people from the cloud on the mountaintop, while also including the darkness-light imagery in the darkness of the cloud vis-à-vis the shining qualities of superhuman beings. Reference is also made to Elijah’s encounter with the deity in 1 Kings 19. The text thus works to indicate Jesus’ intermediate status and specialness as being on 64 A similar ambiguity is voiced in the Hebrew Bible with regard to Elijah and Elisha, L. Feldt, The Fantastic in Religious Narrative from Exodus to Elisha (London: Routledge, 2012). 65  Bremmer, ‘Greek Demons’; Feldt, Wilderness. 66  OLD. 67  Curiously, Elijah is mentioned before Moses. Peter’s suggestion to make booths or tents for them may also be an intertextual reference to the Torah wilderness traditions, where Sukkot is the major ritual event connected to the wilderness (Feldt, Wilderness).

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par with Moses and Elijah, who did not die, but were taken up to heaven.68 Jesus is silent in this scene, and that is quite noteworthy since he is both the primary speaker throughout the rest of the gospel and the voice from the cloud commands that they listen to him. Furthermore, it is interesting to note that Jesus’ transformation only affects his garments and does not last. Moss has pointed out how Greek myths of divine epiphanies focus on the illumination of the divine subject, often in a vestimentary rhetoric,69 while Czachesz has discussed other examples of Christ changing his form.70 Czachesz shows how the religious idea that divine beings could change shape was widespread in the ancient world, and that Christ had an ambiguous shape in several second-century sources.71 Thus, I believe we can speak of Jesus as being verbalized as monstrous, to some extent, in this text, although the focus is primarily on his garments. Yet, the garments are used to indicate his monstrous-transgressive nature. The text also verbalizes particular emotional reactions with regard to Jesus’ category-transgressive/monstrous character. The primary emotion is fear – the disciples are terrified, and this is another area of commonality with Greco-Roman monster stories, and indeed with divine epiphany stories. As Moss points out, epiphany stories concern the revelation of a previously disguised identity,72 and, as such, the transformation scene only confirms to the readers Jesus’ monstrosity from earlier indications in the gospel – he is verbalized as an ambiguous, intermediate figure, related to, and cooperating with, the highest god.73 His impact is terrifying (Mark 9:6). Indeed, the entire scene is eerie, mysterious, and dreamlike, apt spatial surroundings for superhuman beings, monsters, and ghosts. The text-internal characters are understandably unsure what to make of it. The text does not offer any explanations for why the transformation occurred, which indeed may spur the readers’ detectivism and fascination further, and no character remarks on any changes afterwards. We assume that the metamorphosis was temporary; the emotional practices and the maintenance of mystery and fascination, however, were enduring.

68  C. Moss, ‘The Transfiguration: An Exercise in Markan Accommodation’, in BibInt 12 (2004), 69–89; Yarbro Collins, Mark, 37–9. 69  Moss, ‘The Transfiguration’, 79. 70 I. Czachesz, The Grotesque Body in Early Christian Discourse (London: Routledge, 2004), 116–8. 71  Ibid., 121, 123. 72 Moss, ‘The Transfiguration’, 84. 73 It is often assumed that in ancient Judaism, Elijah and similar intermediate figures were not divine. Indeed, in emic understandings that was probably true. But through an etic understanding of the history of religions, and considering their superhuman powers, a figure such as Elijah must be considered superhuman, L. Feldt, ‘Wild and Wondrous Men – Elijah and Elisha in the Hebrew Bible’, in T. Nicklas, J. Spittler (eds.), Credible – Incredible: The Miraculous in the Ancient Mediterranean, WUNT 321 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 322–52.

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In the story (Long Ending = LE) following the early short ending of Mark (16:8),74 which is notoriously ambiguous and which also stresses fear, the text’s presentation of Jesus’ reappearance after his death also refrains from clear descriptions. It is often held that the LE presents a later and more triumphalist vision of the risen Jesus. Without denying philological and historical differences between the text segments, I wish to look at the presentation of the risen Jesus and point to several ambiguities in the LE. Jesus is first seen by Mary Magdalene, but no indications to his form or appearance are given initially. The verb φαίνω (Mark 16:9) carries interesting connotations of shining, appearing, and seeming, but nothing more is said. Jesus’ exorcism of seven demons is referenced, perhaps as an explanation for why she is not in doubt, whereas the group of others who are grieving and crying do not believe that Jesus is alive (16:11). Then, Jesus reveals himself in another form (μορφή), but it is not specified which one, only that it occurs in the countryside; perhaps the idea is that he appears in a divine form. Regardless, the readers are given comparatively little information about Jesus’ appearance after he has come back to life (16:12). Finally, he is made known or revealed to the eleven apostles. The focus is on Jesus’ charismatic or monstrous power, and how this power is transferred to his believers and to specific practices: They will cast out demons in his name, they will speak in new tongues, handle snakes, drink poison without harm, and heal the ill (Mark 16:17b–8). The transferral of charismatic power to believers in general is rare in the gospels, and ties in well with the downsizing of the elect disciples noticed by Henderson,75 in favour of a broader audience. Belief is constructed as activating the very specific and physical transformation powers mentioned – powers which overcome illness, demons, and death (cf. also Mark 5:34 and the haemorrhaging woman) – powers which are, in effect, also ways of transgressing the boundaries of the human. After speaking with them, Jesus is taken up into heaven; this also suggests that he has appeared in his divine form. Considering the relative lack of information and descriptions of the appearance and form of Jesus, especially when viewing the episode from the perspective of monster theory, we can see that the episode does strive to articulate Jesus’ specialness. Yet, it does not simply triumphantly express divine power, but verbalises the ambiguity and mystery of Jesus as an intermediate figure. In very few words, it preserves his monstrosity by quite clearly indicating his ability to change form. The transition from Jesus reproaching his disciples for their lack of belief (Mark 16:14) to the commissioning, is abrupt and suggests that the powers the believers will get after Jesus’ departure will come supernaturally, mysteriously, and through “belief”. Interestingly, Mark offers his narrative as a textual medium 74  The short ending (καὶ ἐξελθοῦσαι ἔφυγον ἀπὸ τοῦ μνημείου, εἶχεν γὰρ αὐτὰς τρόμος καὶ ἔκστασις· καὶ οὐδενὶ οὐδὲν εἶπαν· ἐφοβοῦντο γάρ) corroborates the suggestion that Jesus’ presentation is ambiguous. 75 Henderson, ‘Mark’s Gospel’.

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of access to Jesus – apart from oral tradition, community discipline, and charismatic leadership, as pointed out by Henderson76 – and thus allows a broader group of people to become followers of Jesus through literary practices of reading and being read to; though spatially, socially, and historically distanced, they can access Jesus’ presence through reading. Here, the emotional practices presented in, and sustained by, the gospel become very important because we see that they are also prepared emotionally, through the medium of reading the text, to train particular emotions with regard to Jesus. In this context, we should view the emphasis on fear and trust. In the Hebrew Bible, the key appropriate reactions to Yahweh are fear and trust. Let me end the discussion by moving briefly to the literary presentation of the risen Jesus in the gospel of Luke, not for a full discussion of monstrosity, but merely to note some very interesting comparative parallels with regard to Jesus’ ambiguity, his shapeshifting qualities, the oscillation of forms, and, most importantly, the emotional practices verbalised and what it means if we approach it from a “media-historical” perspective. In the description of the risen Jesus’ appearance in Luke 24:13–53, it seems that he appears in the guise of a normal human being, because the disciples do not recognize him (Luke 24:16). A little indication is given to the stranger’s ability to explain the law and the prophets as speaking of Christ (Luke 24:25–7). It is only in the context of the meal, which Jesus turns into a ritual feast, that their eyes are opened and they recognize him. Luke thus adds another medium here, namely, the ritual meal, next to readings, for access to Jesus’ monstrous presence. The text presents Jesus’ presence as oscillating between forms, and perhaps we can see the contours of some shapeshifting here. Again, one of the decisive characteristics about monsters is their ambiguity, their multiple readability, not only between good and evil, but also between the real and the imaginary and the literal and the metaphorical. Does Jesus simply maintain the form of a man, and the disciples only recognize him after a while? Or does he shapeshift, so that he indeed appears in another form so that they can recognize him? Where is the metamorphosis – in the eyes and minds of the disciples, or in the form and appearance of Jesus? This is never spelled out in the text. The text thus maximizes the mystery and ambiguity and presents the multiple readability to the reader, stressing the ambiguity of Christ.77 Moreover, the text emphasises the importance of emotions in the recognition of Christ’s presence; the nature of the recognition itself is, indeed, strongly emotional (Luke 24:32: They said to each other, did not our heart burn within us …[καὶ εἶπαν πρὸς ἀλλήλους· οὐχὶ ἡ καρδία ἡμῶν καιομένη ἦν [ἐν ἡμῖν] ὡς ἐλάλει ἡμῖν ἐν τῇ ὁδῷ ὡς διήνοιγεν ἡμῖν τὰς γραφάς]).  Ibid., 293.  I would argue that this enhances the text’s media form in favour of an ascription of supernatural presence to the text, which we have later sources for, in the history of Christianity, where the material form of the codex came to be a focus of religious attention. 76 77

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Their heart was burning (καίω) when he broke the bread, talked to them on the road, and interpreted the scriptures, and this is how they recognized him – by means of the intensity of emotion. The emphasis is again on the human being as a medium of change and transformation, and on emotions as decisive in the verbalization of the presence of Christ. We also find this emphasis in the following section, where Jesus appears suddenly among them, speaking. They are startled, terrified, and afraid, and they think that they are seeing a spirit (πνεῦμα). Jesus asks them why they are troubled and have doubts, while proceeding to make it very clear that his appearance is physical, that he is there in the form of a human body with hands, feet, flesh and bones. And even then, their reaction is still described as a kind of joyful doubt and wonder (ἔτι δὲ ἀπιστούντων αὐτῶν ἀπὸ τῆς χαρᾶς καὶ θαυμαζόντων). Here too, the text focuses on emotions and on the ambiguities of Jesus’ monstrous presence. Again, we are presented with key media for Jesus’ monstrous presence: Reading, sharing the myth (Luke 24:22–4), the correct scriptural interpretation (Luke 24:25–7), emotional practices, and the ritual meal (24:30–1). Again, viewing gospels as performative media, striving to affect an audience, we notice that the text of Luke points to the narration of the basic myth, through textual practices of interpretation, and to the ritual situation. The text also emphasizes – in a literary medium – that those are the media through which Jesus’ presence can be recognized. This is quite interesting, because both Mark and Luke connect Jesus’ divine-monstrous presence to practices related to literary media and emotional practices – and Luke then adds ritual to Mark’s media ideas. Literate culture is valorized in terms of how later followers can recognize Christ, as specific emotives are mediated through a narrative. This ties into the interesting, recent discussions of the media revolution of ancient Christianity by John Kloppenborg.78 This is what I would like to discuss by way of conclusion, taking into account the text’s literary mediality.

V. Conclusion: The Ambiguous Power, Emotional Practices, and the Literary Mediality of Monsters in the Gospels The comparative, anthropological perspective on monstrosity clearly brings out how we very rarely get any descriptions of hybrid, intermediate beings in the gospels. Such beings are, of course, referenced as demons, angels, spirits, etc., but they are not often described in their hybridity or monstrosity. Moreover, we clearly see how the monstrous beings are all tied to the interior of humans. They do not appear as separate actors in visions, as hybrid, composite beings, or in extended text descriptions. They appear only as a presence of something other – a 78  J. Kloppenborg, ‘Literate Media in Early Christ Groups: The Creation of a Christian Book Culture’, in JECS 22 (2014), 21–59.

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spirit, a demon – inside the human body, animating or taking over the person. The few monstrous beings described as separate characters are, then, all the more interesting as objects of analysis. Satan appears as a separate actor in Matthew 4, but the primary monstrous being described at some length is Jesus. In comparative perspective, it is also important to dwell on the change of location of monstrosity. In ancient polytheistic religions, monsters are often located in the wilderness or in similar marginal, liminal zones.79 In the gospels, the monstrous have moved to the interior of the human body and the body has become a battle-ground of the monstrous; whether imagined as benign, malignant, or ambiguous. Thus, what we see is a transformation of the location of monstrous intermediate beings from external, hybrid beings residing in wildernesses and at the margins (geographically, ideologically, historically) to internal powers or forces residing in the interior of the human body. They are difficult to discern between the literal, the metaphorical, the human and the superhuman, impure and holy, as well as between good and evil. In short, in the gospels, monsters are body-snatchers, and the monstrous have become a question of human interiority. As Delorme points out, “… Marc ne s’intéresse pas au diable lui-même (à la démonologie), mais aux effets des esprit impurs chez les êtres humains”.80 Placing the gospels in the context of ancient polytheisms, we thus also note a shift in monster discourses from animal hybridities to a focus on discourses of human monstrosity. Moreover, when examining gospel passages referencing or verbalizing the monstrous, it stands out how human beings possessed by some monstrous being  – evil or ambiguous demons, benign spirits, etc.  – are presented as category-transgressive in several ways. The monstrous becomes visible by their transgressive social and bodily behaviour, and, occasionally, by their mixed or changing forms or bodies. The only actor on which considerable attention is spent with regard to changing forms is Jesus. His monstrosity is thus emphasized – by being the key locus of form-changing monstrosity and category-transgression in the gospels. The gospels as performative, religious texts focus on verbalizing Jesus’ monstrosity and his key status as the relevant intermediate agent. The gospels draw on the ambiguities of the monsters in order to present to the audience the idea that Christ masters other monsters, he commands them. Thus, the charismatic power of Jesus is constructed as functioning authoritatively among other ambiguous, intermediate superhuman beings. The encounters with human monsters – the human/spirit/demon combinations – are used to articulate the power of Jesus and his status in the supernatural realm. What travels along with this agenda is that in effect the presentations of demons, angels, and spirits serve 79  Feldt, ‘Monstrøsitet’. The human possessed bodies are sometimes found in liminal zones; cf. the story of the demons and the pigs. 80 Delorme, L’heureuse, 84.

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to maintain a broader superhuman pantheon. The stories of possessions and exorcisms build and support not only Jesus’ charismatic and superhuman power, but also present and bear witness to a larger superhuman pantheon beyond Jesus and the Hebrew deity. The emotional practices verbalized point to the ambiguity of Jesus as an intermediate being, and to how fear is stimulated as an emotional practice in relation to Jesus in order to heighten his status. Based on the analyses presented here, it seems that we should perhaps pay more attention to the ambiguities in Mark, rather than focusing on a pervasive, dualistic demonology. The literary gospel accounts of angels, demons, spirits, and other monsters do not appear as a fixed and fully polarised model, but as a plethora of forces that may enter a human being. The benign forces are sometimes scary and difficult to discern from the malignant ones, as some of the ambiguities we know from local, polytheistic cultures can be found. Note also that Jesus does not kill the demons; he makes them depart from the humans they have entered, and assigns them to more appropriate places. In the gospel texts, their existence and power are recognized, albeit presented as inferior to Jesus’, and they recognize Jesus as part of their own realm (e. g., Mark 1:23–6). As David Frankfurter, Dayna Kalleres, and others have argued, later Christian texts do not harbour polarized views of the monsters and δαίμονες, but actively use ambiguity.81 Neighbouring, polytheistic ideas of ambiguous intermediate beings are also a natural context of understanding, and we must take into account the diversity of the ancient audience.82 The analyses have also shown that it is relevant to discuss the verbalization and elicitation of emotions in relation to monstrous and superhuman beings in the texts, and how texts work as literary media cultivating particular responses, emotions, etc. Clearly, as we have seen, the recognition of the presence of intermediate, superhuman beings is verbalized as hinging on specific emotional practices related to wonder, fear, and hesitation. The emotional reactions are important parts of how the ambiguity of the intermediate, monstrous beings, including Jesus, is verbalized. The literary presentation of Jesus in Mark preserves a basic ambiguity, and verbalizes a set of emotions, with regard to Jesus’ nature, which sustain particular emotional practices enabling the audience to achieve “charismatic” effects of presence from the text relating to Jesus. Between 70 and 180 ce, the gospels proliferated as written media as a result of numerous early Christian communities codifying their memories and using written identity formation media. Gospels at this early stage were memory and teaching aids for the enculturation of early Christian communities and the socialization of religious identity, and such contexts of usage are important for understanding the effects of the gospels as media technologies for forming piety  Frankfurter, ‘Master-Demons’; Id., ‘Introduction’; Kalleres, ‘Oh Lord’. ‘Descending’, 770.

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to Jesus and sustaining the identity of the communities. Mark’s media form sustains ideas of the presence and charisma of Jesus through literary practices of reading and scriptural interpretation, in which emotional practices form an important part. We are presented here with a narrative-discursive perspective on how the charisma is narratively and textually sustained in this particular and highly successful media form. Considering John Kloppenborg’s recent argument that the gospels valorize literary practices and literary culture,83 it is interesting to see here how the gospels, as written, literary media, also focus on, valorize, and offer access to the narratively-mediated charisma of Jesus, which is tied to the verbalization of his ambiguity as an intermediate, monstrous agent.

83 Kloppenborg,

‘Literate Media’.

From Birth Pangs to Dismembered Limbs: The Anthropology of Bodily Violence in the Gospel of Mark Sarah E. Rollens

I. Introduction Christian theologians often pride themselves on promoting peace, and for this reason, many interpreters have understood the earliest message of Jesus and his followers to entail an ethos of non-violence.1 Yet, when one looks more closely at the earliest textual sources for these groups, the ostensibly peaceful language is repeatedly couched in a rhetoric of destruction and brutality, although such language often operates at the metaphorical level. Sometimes violence in narratives is directed at opponents, but just as frequently, violent language functions as a constructive tool for identity formation in this literature, from the gospels to Paul’s letters, from apocalypses to accounts of martyrdom.2 In the present essay, I have narrowed the focus to the Gospel of Mark in order to use it as a site for thinking about how the anthropology of violence and the body can be useful for interpreting violent language in the gospels. Thus, the focus on Mark should be considered a kind of experiment in method for examining rhetorics of violence. The same anthropological insights about the body and violence can generate new insights for other gospels, demonstrating that violence in stories about Jesus is not simply a narrative device directed at outsiders, but is also a resource for creating individual and group identities. 1  As in J. D. Crossan, ‘Jesus and the Challenge of Collaborative Eschatology’, in J. K. Beilby, P. R. Eddy (eds.) The Historical Jesus: Five Views (Downers Grove IL: IVP Academic, 2009), 105–32; T. Yoder Neufeld, Killing Enmity: Violence and the New Testament (Grand Rapids MI: Baker Academic, 2011); S. Joseph, The Non-Violent Messiah: Jesus, Q, and the Enochic Tradition (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2014). 2 For instance, as I have shown elsewhere, the Q Source is also imbued with a rhetoric of violence; see S. E. Rollens, ‘Persecution in the Social Setting of Q’, in M. Tiwald (ed.), Q in Context II: Social Setting and Archaeological Background of the Sayings Source, BBB 173 (Bonn: Bonn University Press, 2015), 149–64; S. E. Rollens, ‘Conceptualizing Justice in Q: Narrative and Context’, in R. Zimmermann, M. Labahn, D. Roth (eds.) Metaphor and Narrative in Q, WUNT 315 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013). Also see, R. A. Piper, ‘The Language of Violence and Aphoristic Sayings in Q: A Study of Q 6:27–36’, in J. S. Kloppenborg (ed.), Conflict and Invention: Literary, Rhetorical, and Social Studies on the Sayings Gospel Q (Valley Forge PA: Trinity Press International, 1996), 54–73.

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II. The Body and Violence Anthropologists and sociologists have been interested in the role of the individual and social body for decades.3 To chart an anthropology of the body is to outline the ways in which the body is a site for the making of human identity. From the perspective of the social sciences, an individual’s body is never independently fashioned; it is always embedded within and is thus formed in relation to a wider social unit. The social unit itself is akin to a larger body that can also be disciplined. The body has been easily overlooked in biblical scholarship because of its routine, ubiquitous nature – of course it is involved in rituals, group formation, and other practices. But its ordinariness has unfortunately caused us to neglect when texts use it as a specific locus for thinking about what it means to be a follower of Jesus. Many of these loci, interestingly, involve explicit manipulation of the body, sometimes quite violently, while others focus on what is done to the body by outsiders and enemies. When we pay attention to violence done to the body in texts (whether to those in the in-group or the out-group), we therefore learn more about early Christian identity formation. Many have observed that violence, the body, and religious identities share a close affinity. Violence, as some have argued, is at the heart of monotheism.4 The monotheistic God is a god who “excludes some and prefers others, who casts some out … not only because he demands allegiance to himself alone but because he confers his favor on one alone”.5 In addition, violence is also necessarily about identity formation; its function in texts is to divide, to cordon off, to sustain distinctions, and hence to mark difference. In the words of one scholar, “[T]he origin of identity formation [is] in violence … . [I]magining identity as an act of distinguishing and separating others, of boundary making and line drawing, is the most frequent and fundamental act of violence we commit”.6 This essay takes a similar position that rhetorical violence is a technology for forming the 3 As in M. Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (New York: Routledge, 2006 [1966]); R. Girard, Violence and the Sacred (Baltimore MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977); M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, transl. A. Sheridan (New York: Vintage, 1977); M. Mauss, ‘Techniques of the Body’, in M. M. Lock, J. Farquhar (eds.), Beyond the Body Proper: Reading the Anthropology of Material Life (Durham NC: Duke University Press, 1935); M. Douglas, Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology (New York: Pantheon, 1970) 65–81; M. Foucault, ‘Docile Bodies’, ‘The Means of Correct Training’, and ‘Panopticism’, in P. Rabinow (ed.), The Foucault Reader (New York: Pantheon, 1984), 179–213; M. Lock, ‘Cultivating the Body: Anthropology and Epistemologies of Bodily Practice and Knowledge’, in ARA 22 (1993), 133–55. 4 This is not to exclude its involvement in polytheistic traditions. Indeed, the positing of multiple gods who might compete for loyalty among human subjects can easily lead to conflict and violence. 5  R. Schwartz, The Curse of Cain: The Violent Legacy of Monotheism (Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 3. 6 Schwartz, The Curse of Cain, 5.

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self. Mary Douglas realized this several decades ago when she posited that the cosmological and political order recognized by many social groups is often managed through the control of an individual’s body.7 Foucault developed this idea much more strongly in Discipline and Punish: Historians long ago began to write the history of the body. They have studied the body in the field of historical demography or pathology; they have considered it as the seat of needs and appetites, as the locus of physiological processes and metabolisms, as a target for the attack of germs or viruses; … But the body is also directly involved in the political field; power relations have an immediate hold upon it; they invest it, mark it, train it, torture it, force it to carry out tasks, to perform certain ceremonies, to emit signs.8

Representations of the body are therefore never neutral. For the present purposes, to discipline the body metaphorically through a text is thus also to shape one’s view of the cosmos and, in some sense, to shape reality. Accordingly, in Mark’s imagination, the body is a site that can be transformed and maintained to express a certain identity. It is not only a site to witness and recall what happened to Jesus’ body, but it is also a visible canvas on which one’s identity as a follower of Jesus can be contested and proven. Mark thus uses violence as a means for marking bodies of believers and opponents. Moreover, when we speak of violence done to the body in Mark, it is not only constructive in the sense that it contributes to identity formation, but it is also simultaneously destructive, in that it distinguishes opponents from allies. These functions are not mutually exclusive, however: even the destructive features of violent language contribute constructively to the portrait that Mark is painting of believers struggling against non-believers. Although it is a “text of trauma”,9 its trauma is productive. In this way, violence in Mark can act to “both to regulate the social body and to sculpt the individual body”.10 To further outline my aims in this essay, I should note that many have wondered about the very real violence that Jesus’ followers may have experienced in the early years of the movement. The most difficult challenges arise, however, when one tries to probe the underlying reality of this violence and ask about the forms of “persecution” that may have engendered the resulting language of violence. As I have argued elsewhere, when we study texts, we are dealing with interpretations of conflict, not historical reports of the said conflict.11 Thus, when Purity and Danger; Ead., Natural Symbols. Discipline and Punish, 25.  9  L. E. Vaage, ‘Violence as Religious Experience in the Gospel of Mark’, in C. Shantz, R. A. Werline (eds.), Experientia. Volume 2: Linking Text and Experience (Atlanta GA: SBL, 2012), 119–35, here: 125. 10  N. Linos, ‘Reclaiming the Social Body through Self-Directed Violence: Seeking Anthropological Understanding of Suicide Attacks’, in Anthropology Today 26 (2010), 8–12, here: 9. 11  Rollens, ‘Persecution in the Social Setting of Q’. This is not to suggest that there was no violence against those who identified as Christians, but rather to highlight the problem of moving from language to social reality. Indeed, we know that the Roman Empire made violence  7 Douglas,

 8 Foucault,

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we encounter representations of violence in Mark, the question we have to ask is not, What was the reality of this violence, but rather, What functions do the images of violence perform at a rhetorical level? Why are these particular images of violence used and not others?

III. An Overview of Violence against the Body in Mark The Gospel of Mark is imbued with violent language, and though it shares many of the same violent scenes with Matthew and Luke, Mark is characteristically “rougher” in his language and descriptions. Matthew and Luke, in comparison, often smooth over the harsh language of force that Mark employs.12 For instance, Mark does not ameliorate the violence of the Passion Narrative by shifting Jesus’ persona to have him appear cool, calm, and collected, as the author of Luke does (see Luke 23:28–31, 34, 43, 46). Nor does he spare John the Baptist his gruesome fate, as Matthew and Luke do; rather, he presents John’s beheading as a graphic scene suitable for an episode of Games of Thrones (see Mark 6:17–29). And, whereas Mark carefully outlines violence to the body in such pericopae as Mark 9:42–50 and Mark 13:9–27, Luke notably tones down Mark’s intense language, first by removing the entire unit on dismembering limbs and plucking out eyes from Mark 9:43–8, and second, by excising such words and phrases as δαρήσεσθε (“you will be beaten”) from Mark 13:9, and εἰς θάνατον (“to death”) from Mark 13:12. Matthew, we could note, retains a vivid focus on the body in a manner more akin to Mark, but also tones down Mark 9:43–8 in his own way by condensing the statements (Matt 18:8–9). These brief examples are meant to highlight Mark’s violent imagery and to set the stage for the following analysis, which proceeds under the proposition that bodily violence in Mark’s language is both deliberate and meaningful. While this essay cannot cover all of the violent metaphors that Mark deploys, it will closely attend to the violence against Jesus and John’s bodies and the (constructive) violence against the believer’s body. Moreover, although the primary goal of this essay is not to outline the differences in violent language across the Synoptic gospels, Mark will emerge through the course of the analysis as having an evident proclivity for language of force and destruction, especially when compared to Matthew and Luke.

a central feature of its penal system (K. M. Coleman, ‘Fatal Charades: Roman Executions Staged as Mythological Enactments’, in JRS 80 [1990], 44–74), but it remains difficult to know the extent to which the language of violence reflects real experiences within this legal system. 12  According to the Two-Document Hypothesis, which posits that Mark was the narrative backbone for Matthew and Luke, one can easily observe that the authors of Matthew and Luke intentionally improve Mark’s roughness.

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IV. Violence against Protagonists’ Bodies The violence against Jesus’ body is obvious in all canonical gospels. Its matter-offact nature in these texts, however, sometimes causes commentators to overlook the fact that violence against his body is consistent throughout the story, not just in the Passion Narrative. That the story culminates in Jesus’ tragic death is only one observation about the narrative; Jesus’ body is a site of on-going confrontation throughout the story. On the heels of Jesus’ brief baptism in Mark, the Spirit “drives him out” (Mark 1:12: ἐκβάλλει) into the wilderness, which immediately attunes the reader to Jesus’ passive body.13 The connotations of force in ἐκβάλλει are noteworthy. As M. Eugene Boring points out in his commentary on Mark, this is the same term used elsewhere in the New Testament for driving out possessing spirits and in the Septuagint for removing people from certain locations.14 Adela Yarbro Collins observes the similarities between this passage and the “miraculous transport[ing] of the prophet form one place to another” in 1 and 2 Kings and Ezekiel.15 Thus, although this term is not unknown in biblical literature, it is significant that Jesus’ body is the object of this action. An interpretation of Jesus’ body as a passive victim is thus established in Mark’s first chapter. After Jesus engages in a series of miracles and garners great notoriety throughout Galilee, the Pharisees and Herodians react by gathering to discuss how to “destroy” (ἀπόλλυμι) Jesus (Mark 3:6). Mark uses this term to imply utter destruction: to demolish or to lay waste to something or someone.16 Thus, Mark imagines that from the beginning, Jesus’ opponents have in mind to destroy him completely. This sort of violence is far more extreme than in Luke’s version, which merely has the Pharisees and Herodians discuss “what they might do” to him (Luke 6:11). In comparison, then, Mark seems to be more interested in highlighting the dangerous surveillance and threats to Jesus’ body that exist from the beginning of his mission. These threats also serve to foreshadow the future violence that Jesus will experience.17 The pursuit of Jesus, initiated in Mark 3:6 by the threat to destroy him, continues throughout the narrative and is consistently marked by connotations of physical violence. In Mark 11:18, the chief priests and scribes again plot to kill 13 Note that both Matthew and Luke replace ἐκβάλλει with less forceful terms (Matt 4:1; Luke 4:1). 14  M. E. Boring, Mark: A Commentary (Louisville KY: WJK, 2006), 46. 15 A. Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2007), 151. 16  This is Homer’s preferred term in The Odyssey to refer to death in the course of battle. See also: ‘ἀπόλλυμι/ἀπολύω’, in LSJ (19969), 207. D. R. MacDonald has outlined a number of thematic and linguistic similarities between the Gospel of Mark and Homer’s epics (The Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark [New Haven CT: Yale University Press, 2000]). 17 Yarbro Collins, Mark, 210; Boring, Mark, 96.

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him, using language remarkably similar to Mark 3:6: ἐζήτουν πῶς αὐτὸν ἀπολέσωσιν.18 The author qualifies this pursuit in Mark 14:1, when he indicates that the effort to arrest him was undertaken “by stealth” (ἐν δόλῳ).19 The only other occurrences of δόλος in the New Testament come in 2 Cor 12:16 and 1 Thess 2:3. When Paul uses the term, he is more interested in trickery and deception than in the furtive pursuit of a person by his or her enemies as emphasized in Mark. The extensive hunt culminates in the eventual arrest of Jesus, which is itself an open act of violence. Judas leads an angry crowd to him, and they arrive with swords and clubs that appear to have been provided for them by the chief priests, scribes, and elders: παραγίνεται  Ἰούδας εἷς τῶν δώδεκα καὶ μετ’ αὐτοῦ ὄχλος μετὰ μαχαιρῶν καὶ ξύλων παρὰ τῶν ἀρχιερέων καὶ τῶν γραμματέων καὶ τῶν πρεσβυτέρων (Mark 14:43). With such details, Mark highlights the on-going threats against Jesus’ body; his opponents have gone out of their way to arm the angry mob against him.20 The formal arrest of Jesus also entails explicit force and power. Jesus is seized (κρατήσατε) and led away “under guard” (ἀσφαλῶς). Ἀσφαλῶς typically involves the sense of safety, security, certainty, or steadfastness, as in Acts 2:36 and Acts 16:23. Mark’s use of the adverb (the only other occurrence in the New Testament) seems to be most akin to Acts 16:23, where the sense is also to secure and restrain prisoners; perhaps a better translation of Mark 9:44 is that Jesus was led away after having been restrained or secured by some means. This translation would be in keeping with Mark’s consistent focus on the experience of Jesus’ passive body in the course of his narrative. The passive nature of Jesus’ body is also introduced through the metaphor of Jesus’ life being described as a “ransom” (λύτρον) for many (Mark 10:45).21 This and Matthew’s adoption of this term from Mark (Matt 20:28) are the only occurrences of the word in the New Testament, but it is attested elsewhere in ancient literature. The basic sense of λύτρον in the LSJ is the “price for release”, thus implying a situation in which someone is arrested by another. Moreover, λύτρον is often used in manumission documents to refer to the payment made for a slave’s release.22 In the Septuagint, Exodus employs this term to describe the 18  This time, Luke takes over Mark’s phrasing, while Matthew does not. Even so, Luke softens the imagery, while reminding us that the antagonists could not find any way to destroy him (Luke 19:48). 19 Paul’s use seems to be more in line with the general sense of this term when used in other ancient literature. See: ‘δόλος’, in LSJ (19969), 443. Note that Matthew takes over this phrase from Mark in his version, but Luke does not. 20 This might imply, as D. Martin has argued, that the historical Jesus and his followers themselves were thought to be violent (‘Jesus in Jerusalem: Armed and Not Dangerous’, in JSNT 37 [2014], 3–24). 21  Matthew retains this term, but Luke does not. 22   E. g., M.Chr. 362 (Hermopolis, July 221 ce); P.Oxy. 148 (Oxyrhynchos, October 86 ce); P.Turner 19 (Oxyrhynchos, February 2, 101 ce).

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money a person shall pay in restitution after his ox gores and kills another person (Exod 21:30). Thus, it connotes the worth of a person’s life. While it is certainly symbolic in Mark, the metaphorical currency relies on a sense of ownership/ restraint of a passive body by legal power and physical force, which affects the literal value of one’s life. Though I have outlined this violent language with deliberate care, these depictions are all rather routine for Mark. Jesus calmly predicts his own death and suffering several times (Mark 8:31; 9:31, 33–4). In fact, the violence against Jesus’ body is treated as paradigmatic in the Parable of the Tenants, which is, in the words of John Dominic Crossan, really the “story of a successful murder”.23 In the parable, the vineyard owner sends a series of slaves/servants to exact payment from his tenants. The tenants systematically assault each envoy before the owner decides to send his son – a representative whom they would surely respect and honor. The tragedy is that even the son suffers violent rejection. Thus, for Mark, the violence against Jesus is a matter of fact, and his gospel is thus an argument about why such violence occurred, as opposed to a mere historical account of it. This understanding fits into the wider framework of Deuteronomistic theology, an explanatory framework which anticipates violence against the envoys of God.24 Indeed, this interpretative frame seems to account for the allegorizing details that Mark likely added to the original parable.25 Somewhat differently, according to Herzog, while the parable may seem at first troublingly illogical, another interpretation might render the parable a bit of peasant advice about the “futility of violence … [and] armed rebellion”.26 No matter how the parable is interpreted, the violence against Jesus’ body is used either for its theological message (the Jewish leaders systematically reject envoys of God) or its folk advice (peasants can rarely resist elite violence). The crucifixion scene is similarly flooded with violent actions against Jesus’ passive body. He is spit upon and struck immediately following the pronouncement of his death sentence in Mark 14:65: καὶ ἤρξαντό τινες ἐμπτύειν αὐτῷ καὶ περικαλύπτειν αὐτοῦ τὸ πρόσωπον καὶ κολαφίζειν αὐτὸν … καὶ οἱ ὑπηρέται ῥαπίσμασιν αὐτὸν ἔλαβον. The covering of his face (περικαλύπτειν αὐτοῦ τὸ 23  J. D. Crossan, In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus (New York: Harper & Row, 1973), 96. 24 J. S. Kloppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard Ideology, Economics, and Agrarian Conflict in Jewish, WUNT 195 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 57–60. 25  The original form of the parable probably functioned in the absence of Mark 12:9 and the allusions to Isaiah, which would makes its theme concern the failure of the otherwise reliable social capital entailed in wealth and power (ibid., 335–49). Mark frames the parable with such allegorizing details, however, when he “reaches back to archaic representations of God, unfettered by considerations of human justice of judicial prudence, to archaic codes of human behavior, when the strong took and held their possessions by force” (347). 26  W. R. Herzog, Parables as Subversive Speech: Jesus as Pedagogue of the Oppressed (Louisville KY: WJK, 1994), 113.

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πρόσωπον) in the course of these events is an intriguing detail. Some translations render περικαλύπτειν as blindfolding,27 but the sense seems to be more comprehensive in other ancient sources, implying that his face was entirely covered or covered all around.28 Thus, Mark seems to be emphasizing the power that Jesus’ assailants have over his body to entirely engulf it in (presumably) a cloak or cloth of some sort. Jesus is then flogged (φραγελλώσας) and finally, given over to be crucified. Before the crucifixion, his body is once again subjected to his enemies. The soldiers dress him in a purple cloak and a crown of thorns in order to humiliate him, and they continue to assault him physically and spit upon him (Mark 15:16–20). At this point, it is prudent to point out the public nature of this scene and the way in which Jesus is made to perform his humiliation through his body. In the course of this, Jesus is famously silent. This is perhaps in part because in Mark’s view, Jesus’ suffering and death are not surprising. In his narrative, it is the violent outcome of a consistently violent story, one anticipated by the former prophets sent to Israel and one that has begun to be fulfilled in the earlier parts of Jesus’ life. Jesus’ body has been subject to external forces from the very start. In other words, the violent death that Jesus experiences in Mark’s narrative is only a single episode in a much more elaborate series of violent acts. Jesus’ body is subject to the Holy Spirit, to systematic pursuit by his enemies, to mob violence, and, ultimately, to the physical tortures described in the Passion Narrative. Though Jesus’ death is, of course, the site for the majority of Mark’s explicit violence, we can also observe that John’s arrest and death, like Jesus’ to come, entails inherent violence. The pericope describing John’s death (Mark 6:14–29) is one of the most gruesome in the gospel – far darker, I would argue, than even Jesus’ crucifixion. After John had been arrested (likely for being vocally critical of Antipas’ marriage to Herodias, his brother’s wife, as is suggested by Mark 6:17–8), Herodias demands revenge for her damaged honor. With no other opportunities for recourse, Herodias tasks her daughter with being the one to demand the head of John the Baptist as a reward for pleasing Antipas’ dinner guests (Mark 6:21–5). Upon her request, Antipas immediately (though regretfully) dispatches a soldier to behead John. The soldier complies and then brings the daughter the bodiless head on a platter (ἤνεγκεν τὴν κεφαλὴν αὐτοῦ ἐπὶ πίνακι), and she in turn delivers it to Herodias (Mark 6:27–8). What is the function of such a dark scene? In many ways it foreshadows Jesus’ death to come at the hands of the Jewish elites: just as John is subject to the whim of his powerful enemies, so will Jesus. Yet, I would argue that it also reminds the reader of the general vulnerability of the sub-elite body. Herodias, via her daugh27  For instance, K. Aland, in his Synopsis of the Four Gospels: Greek English Edition of the Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum (Stuttgart: Freiburger Graphische Betriebe, 20012), 305, translates περικαλύπτειν as “covering” on the very same page as he translates περικαλύψαντες as “blindfolding”. To my mind, these are not necessarily interchangeable. 28 See ‘περικαλύπτω’, in LSJ (19969), 1375.

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ter and then Herod himself, literally speaks John’s death into existence through her vindictive request. For many of the early followers of Jesus, this exertion of elite power would have been a routine feature of everyday life. Sub-elites, even middling figures, often had their livelihoods determined, implicitly or explicitly, by the actions of the elite. For Herod’s wife to casually arrange the bodily destruction of John the Baptist would have likely (and unfortunately) seemed, though terrifying, rather ordinary. There are other passive bodies that experience violence in the Gospel of Mark, though they would not necessarily be described as protagonists. In particular, the bodies that have been taken over by spiritual entities are subject to some of the most graphic bodily suffering in Mark. In the narrative realm, demons and other spiritual entities are characters that are able to invade the physical site of the body. Consider the story of the Gerasene demoniac (Mark 5:1–13); the unclean spirit that inhabits the demoniac’s body compels him to engage in selfharm, resulting in the man “howling and bruising himself with stones” (ἐν τοῖς ὄρεσιν ἦν κράζων καὶ κατακόπτων ἑαυτὸν λίθοις). Elsewhere, Mark describes a boy whose body has been occupied by an unclean spirit, who likewise commits violence against himself. It seizes his body and makes him fall to the ground, thrash about, and grind his teeth (Mark 9:18, 22). Less explicitly, the entity in Mark 1:21–6 causes the body in which it dwells to convulse (σπαράξαν), as well. To combat these spiritual entities, Jesus engages in a “practice of power … sometimes of lethal force”29 through his exorcisms. In turn, the spirits seem to acknowledge that Jesus will be their destroyer (Mark 1:24). Amanda Witmer has suggested that “spirit possession” is an anthropological category in which the scholar can observe political, social, and cultural valuation in any given society. There is a connection, she argues, between a group’s beliefs about spiritual invasion of the body “at the cosmic level and the particular socio-economic and political circumstances on the ground”.30 Social contexts with higher socio-political disruptions and rapidly changing cultural forms tend to have more incidences of such phenomena. Thus, the passive bodies in the narrative may mirror the powerlessness of the sub-elites in their wider socio-political order. As Witmer concludes, “many of those who experienced spirit possession were in some way reflecting on and contributing to a broader discourse on the problematic nature of living under foreign rule and the effects of this on all levels of life, including societal, village, family and individual”.31 The passivity of the possessed person’s body is of a different sort than Jesus’ and John’s bodies in Mark. Jesus and John experience bodily violence with little hope for recourse. In fact, if we use such passages as Mark 12:1–12 as interpre Vaage, ‘Violence as Religious Experience’, 127.  A. Witmer, Jesus the Galilean Exorcist: His Exorcisms in Social and Political Context, LNTS 459 (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2012), 60. 31 Witmer, Jesus the Galilean Exorcist, 205. 29 30

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tative keys for the gospel, violence against them is to be expected; it is part of an on-going paradigm of rejection. On the other hand, the body that the possessed entity inhabits provides a site for Jesus to demonstrate his powers; in that sense, such violence is necessary and constructive for the narrative and for the unfolding of Jesus’ identity.

V. Surveilling and Disciplining the Believer’s Body Whereas Jesus and John’s bodies, as well as possessed bodies, are passive objects in the narrative, Mark treats the believers’ bodies as active subjects, who can experience or otherwise use violence to construct their identities as followers of Jesus. In studies on violence, this constructive dimension of forceful language is often overlooked in order to attend to violence that is experienced from outsiders. And since the canonical gospel narratives peak with Jesus’ physical suffering and death at the hands of his opponents, there has certainly been a desire to examine violence as an outgrowth of conflict between social groups. Yet, as was noted above, violence can also have constructive dimensions when it comes to identity formation. In comparison to Matthew and Luke, who both have extensive ethical discourses (especially in their respective Sermons), Mark has fewer units on ethics and behavior that appear directed to insiders.32 Jesus’ speech to his followers on discipleship in Mark 9:42–8 is perhaps one of the best examples of this sort of language and is also one of the most vivid for envisioning how followers of Jesus and potential believers can be subjected to violence: 9:42 Καὶ ὃς ἂν σκανδαλίσῃ ἕνα τῶν μικρῶν τούτων τῶν πιστευόντων εἰς ἐμέ, καλόν ἐστιν αὐτῷ μᾶλλον εἰ περίκειται μύλος ὀνικὸς περὶ τὸν τράχηλον αὐτοῦ καὶ βέβληται εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν. 43 Καὶ ἐὰν σκανδαλίζῃ σε ἡ χείρ σου, ἀπόκοψον αὐτήν· καλόν ἐστίν σε κυλλὸν εἰσελθεῖν εἰς τὴν ζωὴν ἢ τὰς δύο χεῖρας ἔχοντα ἀπελθεῖν εἰς τὴν γέενναν, εἰς τὸ πῦρ τὸ ἄσβεστον. 45 καὶ ἐὰν ὁ πούς σου σκανδαλίζῃ σε, ἀπόκοψον αὐτόν· καλόν ἐστίν σε εἰσελθεῖν εἰς τὴν ζωὴν χωλὸν ἢ τοὺς δύο πόδας ἔχοντα βληθῆναι εἰς τὴν γέενναν. 47 καὶ ἐὰν ὁ ὀφθαλμός σου σκανδαλίζῃ σε, ἔκβαλε αὐτόν· καλόν σέ ἐστιν μονόφθαλμον εἰσελθεῖν εἰς τὴν βασιλείαν τοῦ θεοῦ ἢ δύο ὀφθαλμοὺς ἔχοντα βληθῆναι εἰς τὴν γέενναν, 48 ὅπου ὁ σκώληξ αὐτῶν οὐ τελευτᾷ καὶ τὸ πῦρ οὐ σβέννυται.33 9:42 If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea. 43 If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life maimed than to have two hands and to go to hell, to the unquenchable fire. 45 And if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life lame 32  Perhaps this is in part because Mark offers such “advice” to potential followers through the narrative elements: the disciples function as anti-examples and thus become didactic figures, which lessens the need for specific teachings about how to be a worthy devotee of Jesus. 33 Verse 44 is not included in most modern translations, because it simply restates verse 48.

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than to have two feet and to be thrown into hell. 47 And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into hell, 48 where their worm never dies, and the fire is never quenched (NRSV).

In this unit, Jesus pronounces that anyone who disrupts the “little ones” (οἱ μικροί) from following him will be subjected to violence worse than if “a great millstone were hung around [their] neck and [they] were thrown into the sea” to drown (Mark 9:42). This passage entails a threat to believers as opposed to outsiders, because the implication is that “one’s eschatological status depends on how one treats vulnerable Christian believers”.34 The definitive, eschatological consequences of this threat are evident in what the believer’s body suffers. “The grotesque imagery”, Boring observes, “portrays having one’s head thrust through the hole in the large upper millstone turned by a donkey, so that it becomes an enormous and deadly collar, and then thrown into the sea from which it is impossible to rise and have a decent burial”.35 This is supposedly better than one’s fate for troubling the “little ones”. The agent of punishment is disguised by the grammar, but it must be a divine source, given its phrasing as a threat mediated by Jesus. Some commentators view the offenses in v. 42 as being sexual in nature. If the “little ones” connects to the literal children in Mark 9:36, then, according to Yarbro Collins, “vv. 42–48 have sexuality as their primary referent”.36 Thus, offending the little ones “probably means relating to a child in a sexual manner”, an interpretation which she argues is supported by the sexual connotations of the sins in the following verses.37 This does not seem out of the realm of possibility, but the interpretation is tenuous. This kind of sexual offense is discussed nowhere else in Mark, and there is no compelling reason for such an obscure meaning in this unit. Regardless of the precise nature of the offenses, Mark 9:43–7 describes sins coming to a person through their bodily extensions, namely, the hands, the feet, and the eyes. In response, the believer is enjoined to carry out “brutal mutilations”38 to correct for such moral missteps. Unless we presuppose a horrific scenario more appropriate for the recent Saw movies, these commands are likely not meant literally.39 The vivid imagery operates in the realm of hyperbolic metaphor and thus serves rhetorical ends. Moreover, even though the language functions metaphorically, we can still inquire about the logic that informs the imagery. What is remarkable about these verses is that Mark’s Jesus recommends Mark, 283.  Ibid. 36  Yarbro Collins, Mark, 450. 37  Ibid. 38  Boring, Mark, 283. 39 Ibid. 34 Boring, 35

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self-maiming and dismemberment in response to recognizing these bodily sins. Unlike other forms of judgment, like that which was presumed in v. 42, there is no divine agent. In other words, part of the identity formation for Jesus’ followers is that they are expected, at least at the rhetorical level, to discipline their own bodies in response to sin. “Self-discipline”, Kee observes, “is essential if anyone is to enter the kingdom”.40 The divine is no longer the explicit agent. Now, one could certainly argue that the believer should be motivated by avoiding divine bodily punishment in Gehenna, but, nevertheless, the specific injunctions are structured as imperatives: cut off one’s own hand and foot, and tear out one’s own eyes. Even at the metaphorical level, the advice is clear: manage yourselves and your bodies so as to avoid eschatological consequences. The consequences of not doing so, one should note, is further bodily suffering: being burnt in Gehenna. The believer must thus decide which mode of bodily suffering is more tolerable: self-amputation or immolation. This logic fits well with Michel Foucault’s theories of self-discipline and power. Foucault argued that societies create the frameworks of power that compel the individual to discipline his or her own thought and action so as to create a particular kind of identity and subject. He vividly described this in his famous discussion of the Panopticon, a prison designed so that the inmates’ cells were arranged in circular pattern, facing a central watchtower, into which they could not clearly see. From the prisoners’ perspective, a guard could be inhabiting the watchtower at any given moment, so it was in their interest to act as if they were constantly under surveillance. This situation encouraged the self-discipline of one’s actions. Foucault broadened this exploration of power to explain societies as a whole, which similarly maintain power structures by disciplining members into ordering their bodies and lives in docile, appropriate, and legal ways.41 A similar strategy, I would suggest, is taking place in this passage about surveilling and managing one’s transgressions. Jesus uses metaphorical language about the body to encourage a kind of moral self-surveillance. Moreover, we should note that this strategy views the body as a productive tool of agency for cultivating the self of the believer. It uses the body to perform a certain ethos and so invests it with a kind of agency. As Natalia Linos argues, “The body’s ability to perform gives it agency … . [T]he body can also speak in a literal sense: it can be marked and (de/re)formed”.42 In this way, Linos suggests that notions of “self-directed violence may be used as a symbolic reclaiming of the body”, especially in contexts in which a social actor feels powerless.43 For Mark, self-directed violence makes claims to the body and is thus productive for identity formation. 40   H. C.  Kee, Community of the New Age: Studies in Mark’s Gospel (Philadelphia PA: Westminster, 1977), 108. 41  Foucault, Discipline & Punish, 195–228. 42  Linos, ‘Reclaiming the Social Body’, 10. 43 Ibid.

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In addition, the logic here, although this-worldly as opposed to eschatological, is that punishment of the body is related to the nature of the bodily offense. This is quite similar to the reasoning in the Apocalypse of Peter.44 In the Apocalypse of Peter, the fate of one’s body in hell is directly connected to the nature of one’s offense in this world: blasphemers are punished via the tongue (Apoc. Peter 27) and adulterers via their “feet” (probably a euphemism for genitals, Apoc. Peter 23). István Czachesz observes that this logic of punishment is quite different than others in the ancient world; in the Egyptian Book of the Dead, for instance, all punishment in the afterlife, regardless of the offenses in life, is equal (the guilty person is eaten by the hybrid crocodile-lion-hippopotamus deity Amemet/Ammut).45 The Apocalypse of Peter and Mark 9 operate in a similar realm of actions and consequences – the body remains implicated after an immoral act and is therefore the appropriate site for discipline and management. Mark 13 also famously describes violence against the believer’s body, first at the hands of the enemies of Jesus and his followers, and then by wider social disruptions, probably those associated with the Jewish War. As part of the trauma leading up to the end (τὸ τέλος), Jesus pronounces that followers will be handed over to councils and beaten in synagogues. In this way, the experience of bodily violence becomes a shared identity marker, a way of knowing that one is indeed in the proper camp. As James Kelhoffer notes, this unit explains the endurance of suffering that authentic followers are meant to experience for salvation, which is juxtaposed with those who do not “endure to the end” (ὁ δὲ ὑπομείνας εἰς τέλος οὗτος σωθήσεται).46 Thus, once again, violence toward the body is a constructive means in Mark for forming an identity associated with Jesus. The social disruptions that Mark 13 describes are likely associated with the Jewish War. Much has been written on this, not the least of which is the observations of the similarities between Mark 13 and Josephus’ account of the events leading up to the war.47 What is important for the present discussion is how the author understands these disruptions through their effects on the body. The wars, rumors of war, earthquakes, and famines are described as “the beginning of birth-pangs” (ἀρχὴ ὠδίνων). This uses the metaphor of sudden bodily (feminized) pain to understand the trauma to come; Paul also uses this term in 1 Thess 5:3 to describe the unexpected coming of the end. In Mark, both wars and natural disasters are subsumed under this same metaphor, which implies that he 44 I. Czachesz, The Grotesque Body in Early Christian Discourse: Hell, Scatology, and Metamorphosis, Bibleworld (Sheffield: Equinox, 2012), 9–26. 45 Ibid., 40–1. 46 J. A. Kelhoffer, Persecution, Persuasion, and Power: Readiness to Withstand Hardship as a Corroboration of Legitimacy in the New Testament, WUNT 270 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 200–3. 47   B. L.  Mack, A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 1988), 315–23. See also, Boring, Mark, 353–73; Yarbro Collins, Mark, 591–615; cf. J. S.  Kloppenborg, ‘Evocatio Deorum and the Date of Mark’, in JBL 124 (2005), 434–47.

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understood it to imply pain and suffering, whereas Paul seems to rely on it for its connotations of inevitability. Moreover, when Jesus offers advice as to what to do when these events start to unfold, his injunctions focus solely on saving the body. The listener is told to flee to protect him/herself and not to take anything with him/her in flight (Mark 13:14–6). Protection of one’s body is the most critical thing, because the violent tribulation to come will be worse than anything else that has taken place since creation (Mark 13:19: ἔσονται γὰρ αἱ ἡμέραι ἐκεῖναι θλῖψις οἵα οὐ γέγονεν τοιαύτη ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς κτίσεως ἣν ἔκτισεν ὁ θεὸς ἕως τοῦ νῦν καὶ οὐ μὴ γένηται).48 These violent events, in turn, will be disrupted by the Son of Man returning to collect the elect (Mark 13:26–7). It seems difficult to read these verses without importing a world of apocalyptic violence and cosmic war into the scenario.49 As one commentator has noticed, the discourse of Mark 13 “resembles the New Testament book of Revelation more than it resembles anything elsewhere in Mark or the other Gospels”.50 Thus, worldly violence is disrupted by the violence that Jesus brings upon his return. For those who have thus far taken care to guard themselves, Mark imagines this moment of vindication and a situation in which the elect will be spared. In the words of Leif Vaage, Mark welcomes “the projected day of divine wrath to which both early Jews and early Christians looked forward, hoping to enjoy in safe proximity God’s genocidal rendition of the designated preterite”.51 The longer ending of Mark maintains some of this attention to the body. Most commentators on the Gospel of Mark ignore the unit in Mark 16:9–20 that appears to have been added to some later manuscripts.52 This is often an appropriate strategy, especially if one is interested in the logic and coherence of the earliest form of the narrative. I would like to briefly attend to it here, though, because it extends the attention to violence and the body that we have seen so far in the gospel in an interesting way. Mark’s longer ending immediately revisits the importance of the body as a site for spiritual violence by describing Mary Magdalene as one to have had seven demons successfully cast out from her 48  Mark’s dramatic phrases are muted by Luke, who transforms this statement into merely “great distress” and “wrath” (Luke 21:23: ἔσται γὰρ ἀνάγκη μεγάλη ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς καὶ ὀργὴ τῷ λαῷ τούτῳ). This kind of hyperbole is characteristic of Mark’s gospel, though. In Mark 14:21, a similar instance of hyperbole occurs; Jesus judges his betrayer by claiming that “it would have been better for that one not to have been born”, that is, he (Judas) is better off dead or should be dead. Once again, Luke notably leaves such harsh language out in his version (Luke 22:21–3). 49 On these topics, see R. Aslan, ‘Cosmic War in Religious Traditions’, in M. Juergensmeyer, M. Kitts, M. Jerryson (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Violence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 260–8; J. Velji, ‘Apocalyptic Religion and Violence’, ibid., 250–9. 50  Boring, Mark, 359. Cf. Kelhoffer, Persecution, Persuasion, and Power, 203. 51  Vaage, ‘Violence as Religious Experience’, 124. 52  See, for instance, Boring, Mark, 451–3. Yarbro Collins’ commentary on Mark does, however, attend to the longer ending (Mark, 803–13).

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body, though this detail is probably borrowed from Luke.53 The importance of defending the passive body from demons is mentioned yet again in Mark 16:17. The longer ending in Mark interprets confronting and surviving violence as proof of faith. In Greco-Roman antiquity, handling dangerous snakes in public was a way of “impressing onlookers”54 and, therefore, could be used to gain social capital and prestige for one’s identity or group.55 In Mark’s longer ending, this becomes an experience that one could undergo to imply something important about one’s identity as a true believer. This passage thus echoes the ideas in Mark 13 that encouraged Jesus’ followers to withstand violence from their opponents; here the sense goes even further and encourages one to seek out possible occasions for damaging the body (i. e., snakes, poison).56 Having subjected one’s body to such things and having survived them becomes “signs” (σημεῖα) of a worthy identity (which is precisely how many Pentecostal churches still understand this longer ending). Moreover, as with Mark 9:42–8, the impetus for action is on the believers to subject themselves to this violence. The focus on self-discipline thus continues: in Mark 9, one should self-discipline one’s moral failings and, in Mark 16, should discipline one’s identity to reconstruct it as a worthy believer. Violence directed at oneself is not as inexplicable as one might think. Even contemporary suicide bombing, often dismissed as an irrational form of extreme violence, has a certain kind of logic to it. As Natalia Linos argues, “[W]hen political and structural violence threatens the identity of both individual and group, suicide violence may be considered an extreme form of reclaiming the violated body – a force that ultimately rejects oppression and allows the individual to reclaim the body through self-directed violence”.57 Especially when carried out in public, these sorts of actions function as “methods of assertions of the legitimacy of some cause”.58 By disciplining the body through self-harm or the threat of it, the violent action “aligns the actor with a public cause or political objective … . Impulses toward violence that might be directed toward those who oppose one’s goals are instead focused on one’s own body, turning the body into a billboard for one’s cause”.59 The “performative grammar” of violence is embodied in such acts of self-directed violence.60 The performance, as I have been suggesting, is  Yarbro Collins, Mark, 808.  Ibid., 814. 55  J. A.  Kelhoffer, Miracle and Mission: The Authentication of Missionaries and Their Message in the Longer Ending of Mark, WUNT II/112 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 408, 415. 56  The pursuit of violence in this section is a more moderate version (though still of the same sort, to my mind) that is found in Ignatius’ Letter to the Magnesians, where he looks forward to his death with a near-suicidal passion. 57  Linos, ‘Reclaiming the Social Body’, 8. 58  L. Wilson, ‘Starvation and Self-Mutilation in Religious Traditions’, in Juergensmeyer, Kitts, Jerryson (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Violence, 242–9, here: 242. 59  Ibid., 242–3. 60 Ibid., 243. 53 54

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one about individual and group identity. Importantly, none of the examples of self-directed violence in Mark seems to be imitatio Christi. Only Mark 8:34 could be taken to imply that followers of Jesus will have to suffer as he did – and even that interpretation is tenuous. Furthermore, there is nothing akin to the later developments in Christian practices, such as flagellation or martyrdom, which allows practitioners to identify with the very pain that Jesus experienced. Rather, in Mark, something much more modest is taking place. The discipline of the body is about making an identity as followers of Jesus, not about sharing an experience with him.

VI. Conclusion There is no special reason for the author of Mark to focus so closely on the body. He could simply list Jesus’ teachings or narrate the basic events of his life. The fact that so much of Mark’s story focuses vividly on the bodies of Jesus, John, and the believers suggest that there is a wider sociological and anthropological significance to this concept. The bodies of believers and opponents not only act in the narratives and teachings of Mark, but also in the world “in front of” the text – the world inhabited by the audience. The body is a site of identity production and contestation, framed by the contours of Mark’s mythic account. In the study of religion, a “myth” is not a false story; it is a narrative that is used by people to fulfill any ordinary social need that a group or an individual may have.61 These social needs include such questions as: Who are we? How did we get here? Where did my community come from? How do I know who else is like me? Thus, myths are stories people tell about themselves and their identities. The gospels are mythic texts in the sense that they make arguments about how the legacy of Jesus should be understood in relation to particular groups of people. Moreover, they are violent dramas. The body is both an object and a subject in these mythic dramas. In the Gospel of Mark, the body is an object when we observe how the protagonists Jesus and John fare vis-à-vis their opponents, but it is simultaneously a subject when we examine how Mark retains hope that the believer can discipline his or her body in order to shape it into a follower of Jesus.

61  B. Mack, Who Wrote the New Testament? The Making of the Christian Myth (San Francisco CA: HarperCollins, 1995); R. T. McCutcheon, ‘Myth’, in W. Braun, R. T. McCutcheon (eds.), Guide to the Study of Religion (New York: Continuum, 2000), 190–208.

Discerning the False Prophets: An Embodied Approach to Prophetic Testing in Matthew and the Didache Brigidda Bell “Not every one who speaks in the spirit is a prophet”, cautions the Didache, “but only if he embodies the ways of the Lord” (Did. 11:8). This is the main claim for prophetic discernment preserved in the section of the Didache that deals with the issue of true and false prophets. The Gospel of Matthew also warns of false prophets “who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves” and offers strategies for their identification: “you will know them by their fruits” (Matt 7:15). The Didache presents speaking in the spirit as a characteristic practice of the prophet, one that might mislead the observer into uncritically accepting a prophet as true (Did. 11:8). Matthew, on the other hand, emphasizes the ability of false prophets to produce persuasive signs (Matt 24:24). Both texts suggest that these false prophets are convincing, and therefore urge readers to refine their judgment practices and cultivate their sense of perception towards the prophet as subject. Various taxonomies and criteria for discernment have previously been articulated in New Testament scholarship, based both on these texts and others, and suggesting more concrete interpretational methods for rooting out the deceitful spirits. Yet, these taxonomies tend to create rigid structures from fairly loose statements. Embodiment as a paradigm of study that understands the body as the subject of experience allows us to conceive of discernment as a process of evaluating living subjects rather than as the objectification of select characteristics of a prophet for their individual scrutiny. Ethnographic data from the Vineyard Congregation, an American Christian Evangelical group that practices discernment, serves as a useful analogy alongside which to reconceptualise ancient discernment practices in the Gospel of Matthew and the Didache as cultivating an embodied sense of truth.

I. The Problem with Proof Texts The Didache says that a true prophet will “embody the ways of the Lord [ἔχῃ τοὺς τρόπους κυρίου]. Therefore from their ways [τρόποι] the prophet and the false prophet shall be known” (11:8). This ambiguous phrase, τρόποι κυρίου, has

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been interpreted to mean that they will be judged by their behaviour, which has been reconstructed through references to other parts of the text.1 Aaron Milavec argues that “ways” refer to all things found previously in the text, including the Two Ways section of the document, rendering the text of the Didache a kind of proof-document against which to compare the prophet. He writes that “[w]hatever a prophet might reveal from this same heavenly Father must result in the same ‘habits’ as have been revealed in the Didache”.2 While Milavec cautions against taking too literally the common designator of the Didache as a “church manual” given its rhetorical agenda, his reading of the warning that prophets should “have the habits of the Lord” illustrates his understanding of the Didache as a text that composes a static tradition and thereby preserves a systematization of testing criteria under which to evaluate prophets.3 The Didache textualizes discernment criteria for practical use in Milavec’s formulation. Milavec argues that the rationale for reconstructing the Didache as a text that harbours clear criteria is explicit: “some general or vaguely implied ‘habits’ would entirely undercut the possibility of a community discerning between ‘the false prophet and the (true) prophet’ (Did. 11.8)”.4 Yet, this is based on his explicit assumption of the Didache as a text that is “equipping his community to face a crisis which necessitated consolidating a tradition which had only been only [sic] partially or unevenly implemented”.5 His formulation of the needs of the community behind the text lead him to see the Didache as necessarily serving the purpose of a proof-document, and push him to find clearer criteria in the enigmatic statement that a true prophet “will have the ways of the Lord”. Milavec is not the only one to find clear discernment criteria from traces of practices left in our extant sources. New Testament scholars who deal with prophecy more broadly have produced several such attempts. The results of these studies tend toward broad, varied typologies, but the actual methods and practices they imagine in each group are fairly narrow. 1 Niels C. Hvidt, for example, simply says that they are judged by their lifestyle. David Aune understands behaviour to refer to the specific examples in the text that reference prophets, and adds that while the prophet undergoes a ‘certification process’ the process is not ‘formal’. André de Halleux interprets it by reference to 11:10, arguing that “way of life” refers to doing the truth that the prophet teaches. N. C. Hvidt, Christian Prophecy: The Post-Biblical Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 87; D. E. Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World (Eugene OR: Wipf & Stock, 1983), 225–6; A. de Halleux, ‘Ministers in the Didache’, in J. A. Draper (ed.), The Didache in Modern Research, AGAJU 37 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 308. 2 A. Milavec, ‘Distinguishing True and False Prophets: The Protective Wisdom of the Didache’, in JECS 2 (1994), 117–36, here: 129. 3  Milavec says this more explicitly in his introduction, where he describes the article as an attempt “to reconstruct the inner logic of the rules offered by the Didache” to distinguish true and false prophets. Milavec, ‘Distinguishing True and False Prophets’, 117–8. 4  Ibid., 129–30. 5 Ibid., 118.

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II. New Testament Scholarship on Discernment Typologies David Aune offers an entire chapter on the subject of discernment in his seminal work Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean, and concludes that “[p]rophets who were illegitimate were shown to be such through their behavior, their teaching, and their prophetic protocol”.6 This conclusion showcases a breadth of approaches to discernment illustrated in texts such as Matthew, 1 John, and the Didache. He notes that the Shepherd of Hermas is more concerned with the form of prophetic speech than with the content of the speech, and that Matthew 7 takes no issue with the words of the false prophets, but simply with their behaviour. Paul’s discussion, on the other hand, boils down to the evaluation of the truth content of prophetic speech, so that for Paul what is judged in each case is the accuracy or truth of propositional content.7 This analysis highlights how each text privileges certain angles from which to approach discernment, but at the same time each text becomes a site where the practice of discernment is seen as revealed. Aune’s taxonomic choices betray an understanding of “speech” as something inherently different from behavior, even in his distinction between “form” (in the Shepherd) and “content” (in Paul). While Aune is appropriately careful not to generalize discernment practices across Christian groups, each of these categories are simply an aspect of the practice and performance of the prophet, in which the act of speaking is privileged to greater or lesser degrees. In comparison, James Dunn creates much more specific taxonomic categories in his monograph on the spirit based on very little primary source data. In his discussion of prophecy in Paul, he identifies three “criteria of assessment” in 1 Corinthians 14 for testing the validity of charismata in all Pauline groups: “the test of kerygmatic tradition”, “the test of love”, and “the test of οἰκοδομή”.8 All three criteria apply to both the prophets and Paul himself. The true prophet must utter things in accordance with the gospel, must have love in addition to a gift, and must act in ways that build up the community. While Dunn acknowledges that there are additional methods of testing found in other early Christian texts, he uses 1 Corinthians alone to argue that language is the ultimate focus of the gifts of prophecy and discernment for Paul.9 1 Corinthians 14 becomes the key to Prophecy in Early Christianity, 229. Emphasis in the original. 218; 224; 219–222. 8  J. D. G. Dunn, Jesus and the Spirit: A Study of the Religious and Charismatic Experience of Jesus and the First Christians as Reflected in the New Testament (London: SCM, 1975), 293–6. 9 “For Paul prophecy is a word of revelation. … It is a spontaneous utterance, a revelation given in words to the prophet to be delivered as it is given … Prophecy in Paul cannot denote anything other than inspired speech. And prophecy as charisma is neither skill nor aptitude nor talent; the charisma is the actual speaking forth of words given by the Spirit in a particular situation and ceases when the words cease”. Dunn, Jesus and the Spirit, 228–9. M. E. Boring describes this passage as representative of New Testament scholarship’s consensus on Pauline 6 Aune, 7 Ibid.,

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understanding Pauline discernment practices and, as a result, prophecy for Dunn is presented as a linguistic phenomenon. Prophecy’s purpose is building up, which it achieves through rational and intelligible communication, specifically through verbal exhortation, consolation, challenge, and rebuke.10 Building on this description of Pauline prophecy, the false prophet fails to build up the group because he or she has failed to communicate rationally, intelligibly, or at all. Dunn writes that: diakrisis pneumatōn is best understood as an evaluation, an investigating, a testing, a weighing of the prophetic utterance by the rest (of the assembly or of the prophets) to determine both its source as to inspiration and its significance for the assembly (… evaluation includes both interpretation of spirits = spiritual utterances, and distinguishing of spirits = sources of inspiration). That it is described as a charisma presumably means that the evaluation was … ultimately a sense shared by (most of) those involved that this word was (or was not) a word of the Spirit and that the significance discerned in it was in accord with the mind of the Spirit …11

Discernment, in his detailed analysis, becomes exclusively focused on the prophetic utterance, and very specifically on the words used by the prophet; he classifies it not as an evaluation of behaviour, character, performance, or morals, but of utterances. The larger monograph of which this Pauline analysis is but a section nods towards broader discernment practices, yet the legitimacy of the Pauline prophet boils down to a single thing: language. A false prophet, he summarizes, is one whose utterances either contained false teachings or were counter to the kerygma in the eyes of the assembly.12 For Dunn, 1 Corinthians becomes the guide that instructs the group on the appropriate testing of prophetic utterances. These two examples of typologizing discernment practices in early Christian groups are representative of a larger body of studies in the field that examine approaches to the evaluation of prophets. They tend to find in primary source texts a semblance of coherent systems of rules and regulations operating within groups on which to evaluate prophets, and see these texts as representative of, or even as documenting, these systems.13 The vagueness of discernment practices discernment. M. E. Boring, The Continuing Voice of Jesus: Christian Prophecy and the Gospel Tradition (Louisville KY: WJK, 1991), 44. 10 Dunn, Jesus and the Spirit, 230–3. 11 Ibid., 234. Emphasis in the original. 12  Ibid., 235. 13 Eduard Schweizer, for example, writes that “[t]he problem of the false prophets disturbed early Christianity quite a bit, and it was solved in very different ways, either by focusing on their ethical conduct, or on their Christological creed, or on their obedience to apostolic authority, or on the fulfilment of their prophecies, or on their communion with the Church”. E. Schweizer, ‘Observance of the Law and Charismatic Activity in Matthew’, in NTS 16 (1969–70), 213–30, here: 225. M. E. Boring develops a much more comprehensive nine-point list of criteria, noting the inconsistencies between different texts. Boring, The Continuing Voice of Jesus, 105–6.

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encountered in texts is then swept up and developed in an attempt to provide systemic clarity that did not exist at this point in antiquity, or did not seem to have existed in later practice.14 At the same time, the categories that scholars employ to designate the perceived approaches to discernment tend towards the opaque, limiting the explanatory power of the classification they produce. In particular, a recurring feature of these typologies is to distinguish between discernment practices that evaluate language in the form of teaching, prophetic utterances, or proclamations, and those that evaluate practice, in the form of behaviour, moral character, or ethics.15 This split between language and practice is borne from taking the ancient sources as proof texts that outline group discernment practices: Pauline discernment becomes language-based, and discernment in texts such as the Didache and Hermas becomes practice-based. Scholarship on discernment in Matthew is an example of this tendency to separate language and practice. Matt 7:15 states that the reader will recognize the false prophets “by their fruits”, where fruits has in some instances been taken unequivocally to signify “deeds” and, in other cases, to mean “speech”. “Deeds” is a common reading of the passage, with Eduard Schweizer arguing that fruit is unambiguously ‘ethical’ and W. D. Davies interpreting it as failure to perform the requirements of the law.16 Yet, its meaning becomes ambiguous as some scholars attempt to dissect what exactly evaluation of fruit would look like in practice. In a single paragraph, Aune writes that in Matt 7:15 the false prophets are said to “preach one thing, but their behavior belies their words” and immediately adds “in Matt 7:15 and Didache 11–12, behavior is the primary criterion”.17 To Aune, Matthew’s criterion is behavioural, but it is established against the words 14  Moshe Sluhovsky places the beginnings of textual codification of systems of discernment as late as the fourteenth century, which should give us pause to assuming any kind of generalized written criteria in our field’s sources. See, M. Sluhovsky, Believe Not Every Spirit: Possession, Mysticism, & Discernment in Early Modern Catholicism (Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 173. Yet, not all New Testament scholars are as eager to articulate criteria. J. Reiling acknowledges the lack of systematization in the early Christian period and is much more nuanced in his discussion of discernment. He gives equal consideration to all strategies discussed in the Shepherd of Hermas, distinguishing between tests “of the results of the spirit” versus tests of “the nature of the spirit”, where both prophesied doctrine and outcome of prophecies are discussed but fall into the first category. Reiling chooses to interpret 1 Cor 12:13 similarly as a performative display of the spirit as opposed to a doctrinal test, since he rejects the idea that there could have existed shared doctrine in Paul’s time. J. Reiling, Hermas and Christian Prophecy: A Study of the Eleventh Mandate, SupplNT 37 (Leiden: Brill, 1973), 67–8. 15 In addition to those I have noted above, see U. Luz, ‘Stages of Early Christian Prophetism’, in J. Verheyden, K. Zamfir, T. Nicklas (eds.), Prophets and Prophecy in Jewish and Early Christian Literature, WUNT II/286 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 63–74, here: 70. Rudolf Knopf even goes as far as suggesting a distinction between verbs of testing that imply behavioural tests versus speech tests in the Didache. R. Knopf, Die Lehre der Zwölf Apostel: Die Zwei Clemensbriefe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1920), 31. 16  Schweizer, ‘Observance of the Law and Charismatic Activity in Matthew’, 225; W. D. Davies, The Sermon on the Mount (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966), 70–2. 17 Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity, 229. Emphasis added.

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of the prophet. More rigid characterizations abound. In his commentary on the Sermon on the Mount, Hans Dieter Betz spends several pages on the interpretation of “fruit”. He develops the agricultural metaphor, but stresses that it should not be taken as simply “deeds”, but that the “results” of the prophets should be considered: Whatever pronouncements these prophets make influence what people who listen to them do and say. Therefore, a great deal of what we call history is the ‘fruit’ of prophets, the question being only whether true or false prophets generated these outcomes. Therefore, careful observation and analysis of a prophet’s track record are in order; it is the only method for separating true from false prophets.18

David Hill also argues that fruit should be read as “speech” or “teachings” given the larger Q passage imported into Matt 7:16–20, as well as Luke 6:43–4, and its parallels in Matt 12:33–5, where the texts develop an explicit connection between fruit and speech.19 Gerhard Barth writes that “fruits” means “good works”, however “good works” means “teachings”: “they yield no fruit, i. e., fail to do the will of God, is not intended here simply to discredit them ethically, but to strike a blow at their teaching”.20 The frequency of the division between “behaviour” and “speech” suggests that it is useful to conceptualize the information on discernment encountered in primary source texts; however, in several of the studies cited above, it seems that behaviour, when examined, simply results in speech. While the division at times serves to characterize the way that the ancient texts talk about and conceptualize speech, much of the time the taxonomical division is simply replicating modern categorical assumptions about the appropriate division between speech and practice in ways that are not helpful in illuminating the phenomenon of discernment in antiquity. The difficulty this division presents becomes apparent when examined in light of recent trends in defining the early Christian prophet that stress their function as speakers. New Testament scholarship has defined the prophet in a variety of ways, but since the 1970s it has moved largely in the direction of functional definitions of prophets and developed a portrait of the prophet as a speaker and communicator 18  H. D. Betz, The Sermon on the Mount: A Commentary on the Sermon on the Mount, Including the Sermon on the Plain (Matthew 5:3–7:27 and Luke 6:20–49), Hermeneia (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 1995), 536–7. 19 “There seems to be no adequate grounds for claiming that the use of the same image in 7,16–20, with reference to false prophets, is not related to recognition of them as such by their words, rather than (as is so often claimed) by their general behaviour and actions. Mt 7,21 takes up a traditional logion (probably preserved in a more primitive form in Lk 6,46, after Luke’s use of the tree-fruit image and as introductory to the parable of the Two Foundations) but reveals the hand of Matthew …”. D. Hill, ‘False Prophets and Charismatics: Structure and Interpretation in Matthew 7,15–23’, in Biblica 57 (1976), 327–48, here: 339–40. Emphasis in the original. 20  G. Barth, ‘Matthew’s Understanding of the Law’, in Id., G. Bornkamm, H. J. Held, Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew (Philadelphia PA: Westminster, 1963), 58–164, here: 74.

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of the deity whose functions served social purposes within the group. M. E. Boring’s 1973 SBL Seminar Paper served as the basis for many of these definitions, where he articulates the prophet as “an immediately-inspired spokesman for the (or a) deity of a particular community, who receives revelations which he is impelled to deliver to the community”.21 Aune refined this definition through appeals to sociology and anthropology, pointing to the social function of the prophet and arguing that, while still a communicator of divine messages, the prophet establishes or reinforces social order and social relations through his or her actions.22 Further definitions in this vein emphasized communication and the role of speaker, often alongside questions of hierarchy, authority, teaching, and pastoral care.23 This characterization of the prophet is apt given the wealth of primary source references to prophetic speech, pronouncements, utterances, and words, especially when the Israelite prophetic tradition is invoked as comparative material for early Christian texts.24 The move towards function has been fruitful, pushing into relief the kinds of practices prophets engaged in as opposed to theological readings of the individual that stressed the gifts of the spirit or inherent personal charisma.25 An unintended consequence of this portrait, however, is that in studies of discernment, the speech of prophets and their attendant social function has become the basis for a set of criteria developed from the ancient texts’ claims to broad behavioural assessment strategies. 21   M. E.  Boring, ‘“What Are We Looking for?” Toward a Definition of the Term “Christian Prophet”’, in SBLSP 2 (1973), 142–54, here: 147. This paper is a product of the Society for Biblical Literature’s 1970s Seminar on Early Christian Prophecy that produced a number of works that grappled to varying degrees with the redefinition of the Christian prophet. Boring’s article presents several definitional criteria and the resulting prophet that emerges from these different choices, but he concludes by putting forth the cited functional definition of the prophet. Boring further refines this definition in a later work to add the Christian dimension: “The early Christian prophet was an immediately inspired spokesperson for the risen Jesus, who received intelligible messages that he or she felt impelled to deliver to the Christian community or, as a representative of the community, to the general public”. Boring, The Continuing Voice of Jesus, 38. Most scholars after Boring follow suit, developing portraits of the prophet as a speaker. 22  Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity, 19–20. See also D. Hill, New Testament Prophecy (Atlanta GA: WJK, 1979), 8–9; Reiling, Hermas and Christian Prophecy; Luz, ‘Stages of Early Christian Prophetism’, 57–75. 23  In addition to those mentioned above, see Reiling, Hermas and Christian Prophecy; Luz, ‘Stages of Early Christian Prophetism’, 57–75. 24 Aune dedicates a chapter to the Israelite prophetic tradition and its comparative value to early Christian prophetism, highlighting the communicative functions, both oral and textual, of their prophets. Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity. See also J. Blenkinsopp, A History of Prophecy in Israel (Louisville KY: WJK, 1996); G. M. Tucker, ‘Prophetic Speech’, in Interpretation 32 (1978), 31–45. 25  See for example, R. Sohm, Kirchenrecht (Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot, 1892); A. von Harnack, Mission und Ausbreitung des Christentums in den ersten drei Jahrhunderten (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1906). While Sohm’s prophets still teach the word of god, the emphasis is placed on the gift of the spirit rather than the role of speaker.

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The definitional coherence of the prophet unintentionally produced a coherently defined “false prophet” as its negative image. This has led discussions of discernment to assume that appropriate prophetic behaviour referenced in ancient sources necessarily points to right speech and social upbuilding, the marks scholarship has attributed to a (true) prophet. As a result, speech becomes in these studies the primary criterion of assessment, and when speech is not in the text, behaviour is interpreted as speech. In order for speech to be evaluated, speech is detached from the prophet, and taken as an utterance, words, or a teaching; speech is textualized. But utterances and teachings require evaluative comparanda: they need a static set of teaching, doctrine, or ideas against which to be evaluated. The misguided focus on speech as primary proof of prophetic legitimacy is what necessitates the problematic identification of strict criteria of discernment and the existence of proof-texts. An operating assumption in this process has been that the trait that characterizes a judgment of legitimacy is based on the same constructed criteria that gives it definition: its function. If a given thing cannot perform its requisite function, it must not be that thing: if a prophet does not communicate and/or build up a community, then he or she is a false prophet. This articulation renders judgment very artificial, insofar as judgment occurs through checking off criteria and prophets become a set of features that we can objectively assess apart from their primary existence as embodied subjects. Speech becomes one of these features, where teachings, ideas, and even words, are judged for their truth-value against a static ideal.26 Speech, in this way, is separated from the speaking subject, and is dealt with, and judged, as an object on its own. This view of language is untenable, as speech is an act that takes place in and through the body, and cannot be examined independently; speech is inseparable from its speaker.27 In dividing discernment practices taxonomically into those based on an analysis of language, speech, content, words, or teachings, as opposed to behaviour, practices, actions, and ethics of the prophet, we are artificially separating judgment into discrete actions that in practice cannot be performed separately. The judgment of disembodied speech presupposes the textualization of prophetic pronouncements, a scenario in which speech would become disassociated from the speaker, though no less creative or performative. Yet, this is not the situation that any of the ancient texts under consideration describe. How then should we think about the process of judgment or discernment of prophets in a way that does not objectify the features of a prophet, such as speech and behaviour, and develops a more comprehensive picture of what these features might actually do for the process of judgment? Embodiment theory provides one alternative for thinking about the prophet as a unified subject whose 26

 This is explicit in the work of J. D. G. Dunn, discussed above, who describes the process. How to Do Things with Words (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976).

27 J. L. Austin,

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speech and behavioural attributes are integral parts of the self. Anthropological studies of modern spirit-practitioners who engage in their own discernment practices derived from Christian texts provide insight into how practices of discernment can be fluid and spontaneous, while still maintaining a sense of communal regulation without systematic criteria for the evaluation of prophecy.

III. Learning and Practicing Embodied Discernment in the Vineyard “No one at the Vineyard ever laid out rules of discernment for me like a train schedule. I never heard a sermon that set them out in a list. But the rules existed within the community the way teenagers know the local expectations of how to dress and date. Congregants called them ‘tests’”28

The Vineyard Christian Fellowship is an American evangelical church whose congregants practice gifts of the spirit and imagine a very present God with whom they sustain a close personal relationship. Tanya Luhrmann’s ethnography describes God “talking back” to these Christians, and the Vineyard congregants learning to listen. Learning is central to Luhrmann’s description of the Vineyard. The ethnographic examples illustrate how congregants operate on a sense of learned and practiced understandings of what it means to be and to feel in communication with God, as well as how to ascertain when that experience is genuine. This kind of knowing is their version of discernment through which congregants judge whether what they hear is really God. “Hearing God’s voice is a complex process. It is not a simple identification skill, like learning to spot a red-tailed hawk, nor a basic mastery task, like learning to tie your shoes”.29 Instead, discerning God’s voice is a learned practice, an embodied experience. Luhrmann is clear that she was never given explicit criteria for the church’s discernment practices in any form, yet she still had a sense that rules existed for determining the voice of God from the other thoughts that crowded her head. The way to ascertain the true voice of God came with experience and practice, and one could develop discernment abilities over time. While Luhrmann mentions books, classes, and sermons on the topic of “listening”, she writes that [t]here is no standard, agreed-upon list of these rules … There are guidelines, picked up somewhat catch-as-catch-can from books and sermons and other congregants, and individual congregants take those guidelines and apply them to their own mental experience in their own way. As they do so, again and again and again, they begin to develop their own pattern recognition.30

28  T. M. Luhrmann, When God Talks Back: Understanding the American Evangelical Relationship with God (New York: Vintage Books, 2012), 63. 29  Ibid., 60. 30 Ibid.

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The process of learning to “test the spirits” is described here as fluid and gradual; there are guidelines gauged from various sources, but no real structure to the process, and while there are things written on the topic, there is no essential teaching, core doctrine, or rigid scriptural criteria. In the course of her fieldwork through interviews with congregants, Luhrmann identified four general principles of discernment at the Vineyard: (1) thoughts that are from God are spontaneous and unnatural, things unlikely to pop into your head; (2) the thoughts sound like something God might actually say, whether in general or in scripture; (3) confirmation of these thoughts can be offered from other congregants; and (4) the thoughts bring comfort.31 Luhrmann expands on each of these criteria based on the different accounts of descriptions provided to her by her informants. Interestingly, each of the criteria was fluid enough that no particular congregant gave exactly the same description of the principle, yet they still generally agreed as to the sense that Luhrmann provided for each guideline. The second principle that Luhrmann articulates appears to be the most rigid: a God-given thought is the kind of thing that God would say. Luhrmann notes that this was often articulated as a thought that did not contradict scripture or the spirit of scripture, however she clarifies that in practice it “really meant that it should be in keeping with the understanding of God’s character as taught within this church: unconditionally loving, eternally forgiving”.32 Despite having a canon of accepted writings of God’s word, the Vineyard congregants do not seem to appeal to it directly during the process of discernment, but instead rely on the felt understanding of God’s character, in concert with the learned feeling of true presence. This training of perception towards right feeling as discernment understands the practitioner as undergoing an experience that requires examination, yet this examination is not articulated as the objectification of the self, or the positioning of the self against rigid criteria. Discernment happens through the cultivation of feeling, presence, and perception inwards, towards oneself. This analysis understands the individual congregant as the site where the experience of God and the process of discernment take place. In other words, Luhrmann is operating with ideas of an embodied subject through which to understand the complex process of discernment as practice, and this allows her to think about discernment not as a series of external checks and balances, but as a process where the embodied subject is [self‑]examined.33  Ibid., 63–6. 65. 33 A non-embodied approach to the same subject could, presumably, understand the process of discernment as the same set of rules, whereby the individual self-reflexively detaches his or her thoughts and the idea of God from his or her own self, and scrutinizes the suspect words against the provided regulations, cross-referencing scripture, grilling peers for corroboration or lack thereof, and conceptualizing God as an external agent whose voice intrudes on the personal psyche, as opposed to a radio signal that is always on, as one piece of evangelical literature that 31

32 Ibid.,

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Embodiment is a paradigm of study that foregrounds the body as the subject of experience instead of as an object in the world. Embodiment pushes against approaches that artificially separate nature and culture, or the biological body from the social body, seeing the former as inherent, essential, and a biological given, and the latter as learned, constructed, and imposed onto the former. Thomas Csordas has articulated one view of embodiment theory based on the work of Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Pierre Bourdieu, and their respective ideas of perception and habitus. At its most basic, Csordas suggests a move away from seeing the body as first and foremost an object, towards thinking through the body as the site where things are always in the process of becoming. He writes that “the body is not an object to be studied in relation to culture, but is to be considered as the subject of culture, or in other words as the existential ground of culture”.34 Csordas theorizes embodiment as an existential condition where the body is the subject instead of the object of experience. The subject/object distinction is at the heart of the issue that Csordas’ intervention is addressing: embodiment is not about the body, because the body identified as a body is an object, not a subject. In order for the body to exist as a thing in the world that can be identified and pointed at and discussed, someone has to attend to it and make it a thing: a subject must force its objectification. This is the difference between evaluating the prophet, and evaluating an aspect of prophetic behaviour such as speech; it is the difference between evaluating (the feeling of) the presence of God within, and evaluating the words of God given as a “thought” to a Vineyard congregant. Prior to the act of objectification, the body is not a thing, but simply the starting point for experience. Embodiment is not about bodies because embodiment is the subject position; rather, embodiment is about culture and experience from the perspective of the body as being-in-the-world.35 Luhrmann’s ethnographic description of the Vineyard congregation offers a vivid account of practices of discernment from an embodied perspective, favouring process and becoming over objectivation and static. Instead of conceptualizing discernment as a set of rules that people follow by externalizing each aspect of God’s communication and comparing them to her developed criteria, she describes, through her informants, the experience of learning to listen and the process of figuring out what is right because it feels right. These are different understandings of discernment. Luhrmann cites puts it. Ibid., 45. This is not to say that some congregants, in their search for right listening do not engage in some of these habits, they likely do, but that Luhrmann suggests that the process of learning right discernment practice involves disabusing oneself of those poor tactics in favour of an embodied approach. 34  T. J. Csordas, ‘Embodiment as a Paradigm for Anthropology’, in Ethos 18 (1990), 5–47, here: 5. 35 Ibid.

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Taking the body as the starting point for experience of the world, as embodiment does, includes the consideration of the experience of ancient people, who had bodies, experienced the world through their bodies, and composed texts through their bodies.36 Embodiment attends to the fact that people in all times and places act and exist in and through their bodies as embodied subjects. To forget or ignore that ancient people, just as the people in the Vineyard examples, acted in-bodies and through-bodies is to forgo the existential and agentive basis of the people that we are studying, which poses interpretive problems for our research by distorting our understanding of embodied practices, such as the discernment of prophets. The Vineyard congregation presents a particular portrait of discernment practices based on the general ideas encountered in the canonical books of the New Testament, and it operates without the consolidation of strict discernment criteria for the group. Luhrmann develops broad criteria from searching descriptions that evoke cultivated gut feelings, a refined sense of what is right and what is not; while congregants appear assured in their strategies, none of them present checklists for verification. The very fact that the Vineyard congregants do not feel the need to establish rigid structure for their discernment should already suggest that rigid structure is not necessary for the functioning of a group that practices discernment, even if anxiety exists around the separation of true from false.37 This should serve as caution against searching for structure in ancient discernment practices that may not have existed, not necessarily because an understanding of how to practice discernment was lacking, but because the process was experiential and processual instead of systematic. Embodiment helps us to reconceptualise discernment as a process that is located in the subject, and not strictly at the level of the externalization and objectification of speech and language and other reified criteria of discernment.

IV. Embodied Discernment in Ancient Sources The Vineyard’s presentation of discernment as a learned and felt sense of right and wrong with loose guidelines is much more analogous to the descriptions of discernment encountered in ancient texts. We find in them not criteria, but 36 I am not claiming that we are able to replicate, in our own bodies, the particular experiences of ancient people, but I am arguing that in our work we should remember that experience happens, for all people, through the body, and so we should not lose sight of the directionality of experience that is grounded in embodied selves. 37  Anxiety is present in several examples of congregants struggling to figure out whether the thoughts, voices, ideas and images that they receive are from God or not. These struggles and the way that imagination and play operates in informing their learning of discernment strategies and correct practice is crucial to Luhrmann’s argument. See, for example, Luhrmann, When God Talks Back, 203 ff.

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refinements of what seems to be right or wrong, and post-hoc rationalizations of these feelings, much like what Luhrmann describes in her interviews. Plutarch, occasional priest of Apollo at the oracle of Delphi, in his dialogues on the oracle, addresses why the Pythia no longer provides oracles in verse. His interlocutor, Boethus, raises the question of discernment, saying: “Thus some will tell us not that the oracles are quite beautiful because they are the God’s, but that they are not the God’s because they are bad!”. Something as subjective as poor poetry, in Boethus’ example, indicates the human origin of the hypothetical oracle. Serapion responds to this, noting and historicizing the association between beauty and “sweetness”, and he extends this line of reasoning to imagined assessments of the Pythia: “… Soon we shall actually be finding fault with the Pythia because she does not speak with a more thrilling voice than Glauce the singing-girl, or use costly ointments, or put on purple robes to go down into the sanctuary, or burn on her censer cassia, mastic, and frankincense, rather than her own barley and bay leaves. Do you not see”, he went on, “what grace the songs of Sappho have, how they charm and soothe the hearers, while the Sibyl ‘with raving mouth’, as Heraclitus says, ‘utters words with no laugher, no adornment, no perfumes’, yet makes her voice carry to ten thousand years, because of the god. And Pindar tells us that Cadmus [when consulting the Pythia] heard from the god ‘right music’, not sweet music, or delicate music, or twittering music …”.38

Serapion is critiquing a mode of assessment that associates the “truth” of the Pythian oracles with various kinds of markers of beauty (her voice) and status (ointments, purple robes, expensive incense). The “truth” of the words of the Pythia is not derived from her association with status markers or lack thereof, just as the “truth” of the Sibyl remained “truth” despite a pronounced lack of status markers. For Serapion, the voice of the god is what carries the truth-value, and this can be perceived beyond status items, just as Pindar hears, beyond all other descriptors, the “right music”. Serapion has learned to discern this “rightness” and mockingly suggests that Boethus is simply proliferating empty criteria, as opposed to refining his hearing. Yet, the features that Boethus brings up are not to be dismissed. While this passage suggests that the outward features of the Pythia – her voice, her smell, the clothes she wears – are unimportant compared to the unadorned power of the god that speaks through her, here Plutarch reveals the appeal of and to these markers as signs of the truth of the oracle. Serapion’s ultimate act of discernment is right listening, a sensory experience of the truth of the divine, resembling Luhrmann’s ethnographic descriptions detailed above. However, it also tells us that external features such as voice and status markers would have played into a perception of right performance. These markers suggest to Boethus that perhaps 38  Plut., De Pyth. 397a–b, transl. A. O. Prickard, Selected Essays of Plutarch, vol. II (Oxford: Clarendon, 1918).

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something is not so “right” about the music after all, and force him into other strategies of assessment, such as the evaluation of poetry. Combined, these become the full performance of the Pythia, where her “right music” is assessed in the context of beauty and status markers, not separately or in addition to them. A similar conclusion about the holistic assessment of the prophet can be drawn from Lucian’s many descriptions of Alexander, “the false prophet”. Lucian opens his work by describing the crux of the problem: Alexander appeared in all respects to be perfect; he was tall, handsome, well-groomed, with a clear voice, but these “god-like” external features belied his wicked interior (Alex. 3–4). So convincing was Alexander’s exterior that “[t]here [was] nobody who, after meeting him for the first time, did not come away with the idea that he was the most honest and upright man in the world” (Alex. 4).39 Alexander wore a convincing sheep’s costume, but lurking underneath was a wolf. In order to expose the danger, Lucian takes great pains to dissect Alexander’s trickery based on careful scrutiny and objectification of his performances. Consider the following passage: In the morning [Alexander] ran out into the market-place naked, wearing a loin-cloth (this too was gilded), carrying his falchion, and tossing his unconfined mane like a devotee of the Great Mother in frenzy. Addressing the people from a high altar upon which he had climbed, he congratulated the city because it was at once to receive the god in visible presence. The assembly – for almost the whole city, including women, old men, and boys, had come running – marvelled, prayed and made obeisance. Uttering, a few meaningless words like Hebrew or Phoenician, he dazed the creatures, who did not know what he was saying save only that he everywhere brought in Apollo and Asclepius (Alex. 13).

Lucian describes quite the performance that Alexander puts on, between his costume, bodily movements, venue, speech, and the crowd.40 The description suggests a wow-factor, yet it is meant to be belittling: Alexander is but a performer, and not a real prophet. He implies that Alexander’s bodily comportment is inappropriate, and in analogizing his movements to those of a follower of Cybele, he is highlighting Alexander’s illegitimacy.41 Yet, this very passage also tells us 39 Transl. A. M. Harmon, Lucian, vol. IV (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1925).

40  There is much to say about how an embodied subject would uncritically take in such a performance, especially with reference to herd mentality and social persuasion, but that is the subject of another paper. 41  There are several Greek and Latin ancient texts that develop the trope of the galli as weird, inappropriate, and even dangerous, that Lucian’s work fits into. See Catullus, Carmina 63; esp. 63,91–3; Juvenal, Satires 6,511–6; Philodemus, Epigram 26. His description above all suggests that Alexander’s display does not constitute appropriate bodily restraint for a male, yet this also brings up questions of what Lucian would see as appropriate as someone whose identity is marginal to these two categories, and for a character whose own upbringing, genealogy and status Lucian has already demeaned (Alex. 10). Tim Whitmarsh notes Lucian’s ambiguity on cultural allegiance, and argues that Lucian’s satires do not emphasize an already sharp distinction between Greeks and Romans, but create it. T. Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 247–94. Taking this into account, Alexander’s bodily comportment is simply one more item to add to the list

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that the crowd was persuaded by this performance, which for them was a sign that Alexander was deserving of the title of prophet. Lucian and the assembled onlookers are (purportedly) watching the same scene, yet they come to different conclusions about Alexander: why is this the case? Lucian’s account dissects the various features of Alexander’s performance: his dress, bodily movements, chosen venue, and speech. The crowd observes the same scene, but are they really seeing the same things? Tim Whitmarsh has pointed out Lucian’s “spectacularization” of Graeco-Roman society;42 Lucian paints the world as a stage upon which performers act out their parts, and this neatly illustrates how he imagines Alexander’s followers being taken in by the scene. While the audience simply marvels, Lucian is able to see past the fanfare into the reality of the mechanics that lie behind the production. His description of Alexander is a critic’s review of the show; he is not watching to be moved, he is watching to dissect. The scrutiny with which Lucian takes apart Alexander’s performance resembles the ways in which biblical scholars reconstruct the discernment practices in texts such as the Didache: instead of seeing the prophet from the perspective of the people in the crowd, they are seeing the prophet from Lucian’s perspective. Scholars do not consider discernment as the embodied assessment of the performance of another embodied subject, a taking-in of the full spectacle, but as a dissection and objectification of each of the acts of the performer. Instead of Alexander speaking, Lucian hears “meaningless words like Hebrew or Phoenician”; instead of seeing Alexander dancing, Lucian observes “an unconfined mane” tossed “like a devotee of the Great Mother in frenzy”. To explain this difference by saying that Lucian is practicing discernment, whereas the crowd is not, is to assume that discernment is necessarily a critical process involving objectification and a scrutiny of details, an assumption the Vineyard example challenges through their cultivation of right perception toward their own thoughts over strict discernment criteria. To return to the Didache, the true prophet is not only the one who speaks in the spirit, but who also inhabits, embodies, or possesses “the ways of the Lord” (Did. 11:8). This single positive assessment strategy can be seen as the holistic evaluation of the embodied performance of the prophet: it is an expression of a sense of prophetic reality that is in fact vague, interiorized, and non-systematic. In other words, discernment practices in the Didache fall in line with the ethnographic representations of the Vineyard congregants, as well as Serapion’s articulation of listening (Plut., De Pyth. 397b), as they all assess the prophet through the embodied cultivation of right judgment. of suspicions that Lucian is cataloging, not necessarily because it evokes ethnic particularity, but because it articulates difference from a perceived norm that Lucian maintains about right performance. 42 Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire, 247–94; esp. 254.

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In addition to this positive strategy of discernment, negative examples are listed: true prophets will not overstay their welcome (11:5), seek monetary compensation (11:6), or fail to act in accordance with their teachings (11:10); if they do, then they are a false prophet. While the prophet speaking in the spirit should not be “tested” (11:7), the true prophet while in the spirit will not eat (11:9) or request things for him or her self (11:12). To the spectator, discernment is not the comparison of the objectified features of the prophet to explicit criteria provided by a group, but the taking in of a performance offered by a prophet, an embodied subject, and its evaluation through a cultivated sense of right and wrong, based on a series of interiorized cultural markers that are set by the group. The negative exempla of Did. 11:5–12 constitute the cultural markers. Instead of constructing these statements as a list on the basis of which to stage a comparison, we can read these in parallel to Luhrmann’s ethnographic accounts: as part of the ongoing cultivation of a sense of right and wrong, and as an essential part of the group process of learning to develop one’s judgment toward a common understanding of true and false. They are not rigid criteria, but loose guidelines. Aaron Milavec has pointed out that several of the rules surrounding the exposure of false prophets are not particular to prophets, but are rules of hospitality for Jewish travellers found in the Mishnah and presumably practiced before the Rabbinic period.43 As such, the negative case against false prophets fits into wider perceptions of right and wrong practice; the false prophet is judged based on the same or similar perceptions of any recognizable newcomer, whether fellow Judean, or prophet of Christ. If we think about the process of discernment in the Didache as a collective cultivation of the sense of what the “ways of the Lord” are, we begin to think about discernment as a dynamic and social process, something that one learns through doing instead of through a codified set of rules. The negative criteria should be taken as the author of the Didache’s choice articulations for conveying the perception of dis-ease and wrongness toward the false prophet, and perhaps newcomers in general. These were characteristics that would not sit well when the purported prophet performed them, and group members would recognize and cultivate their perception in relation to these patterns. In this sense, Aune’s assessment of discernment in the Didache as based on “reputation” can be reconsidered,44 where reputation can be reconceived as the embodied sense of “rightness” toward the prophet based on their countenance, including how their prophetic speech forms part of their embodied stance toward the world. The Didache does not operate as a rulebook for discerning the prophet,  Milavec, ‘Distinguishing True and False Prophets’, 128.  Although I would not go as far as to label discernment a “certification process” as he does, no matter how “informal”. Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity, 226. In addition to this, reputation, from an embodied perspective, would not be judged by a track record in any formalized sense of record-keeping, but as a shifting affect towards the person. 43 44

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but as part of a larger body of ideas about how one appropriately performs or embodies the “ways of the Lord”. Matthew’s “fruits” can also be understood as the “ways” of the purported prophet, encompassing the gamut of actions an embodied subject performs, including, but not limited to, speech, dress, movements, and all other perceptible forms of self-presentation. The metaphor of the false prophet as wolf in sheep’s clothing appropriately represents the dangers of embodied assessment that Matthew foresees: dress and speech are constituent parts of the embodied subject; the speaker speaks while dressed. This is how the false prophets will lead many astray (24:11); because their teachings and words cannot be easily separated from their performance, they are a single package and will be evaluated as such. If the sheep costumes are sufficiently convincing, one may not be able to pick the false prophets out of the flock. Matthew’s concern is with the cultivation of right assessment to avoid this problem. Lucian’s critical description separates Alexander’s costume from his “meaningless words”, but Lucian portrays himself as someone who has, through education, cultivated a refined sense of discernment. Is Matthew a critic, as Lucian, or a spectator? Matthew is aware of the discrepancy between exterior form and interior truth that is reminiscent of Lucian’s philosophical digressions on the state of Alexander’s soul: Alexander’s appearance tells one story, “but his soul and his mind! By God!” (Alex. 4). Yet, Matthew does not take apart the performance of the false prophet beyond the allusion to the incongruity between interior and exterior. As does the Didache, Matthew notes negative criteria and says “not everyone” is a prophet (7:21), but we are left to discover which ones are for ourselves. In this light, Matthew exhibits concern for his untrained flock. The wolves’ performances will encompass speech, and their sheep costumes will add weight to their performance in the eyes of those who have not appropriately cultivated their sense of discernment, or at least not cultivated it to Matthew’s expectations. But Matthew does not answer with clear-cut guidelines for discernment. Instead, he suggests a further refinement of perception toward wolves: you will learn to know them by their fruits.

V. Conclusion The Gospel of Matthew and the Didache both describe discernment as the cultivation of right perception toward prophets, where “fruit” and “ways” can be interpreted as the embodiment of the prophet, who is approached in these texts as a subject, not an object. None of the ancient texts reviewed in this paper exhibit strict criteria for the judgment of prophets, and such criteria should not be pieced together from the loose allusions to “testing” and negative examples of

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the prophet. The prophet as an embodied subject is evaluated in the same way as an observer takes in a performance, where speech may constitute an essential feature of the experience, but not its totality, and may partially dictate its interpretation, but not exclusively. Strategies of assessment include a range of cultural markers that are often described in the texts,45 but, as in the case of the Didache, these markers are unlikely to be exclusive to the evaluation of the prophet. Rather, they are part of a larger cultural or societal lexicon of learned orientations towards other people. Learning right feeling and right perception towards others is a practice of judgment much broader than discernment, but one employed in discernment all the same. The contemporary ethnographic example of the Vineyard congregation provides the luxury of a fuller situation, one in which we can see that strict criteria are unnecessary for the functioning of discernment within a group, and suggest that there is no reason for criteria to govern our analysis of the ancient material. The level of individualization, interiorization, and self-reflection that the Vineyard discernment process entails is not the same as the collective approach to the evaluation of prophets that ancient Christian texts suggest. Yet, at the same time, this does not preclude the cultivation of embodied perceptions towards true and false prophets. Embodiment allows us to focus on discernment as a process instead of an end result, bringing our attention to the performance of the embodied subject under evaluation rather than resting it on the objectification of individual characteristics of the self-contained prophet. This moves us away from thinking of language, speech, teaching, utterances, and words as the necessary object of discernment practices, and thereby avoids the anachronistic result of seeing early Christian texts as proof-texts, manuals, or systematizations of doctrine and discernment principles. Ultimately, embodiment orients our gaze. It shows us that the ancient discerner sees the prophet differently than how New Testament scholarship has described him or her. New Testament scholarship has drawn up a prophet composed of a series of words in a text, a set of objectified traits instead of an embodied subject. If we are to think about how embodied practices, such as discernment, would have been imagined to work in antiquity, we have to disabuse ourselves of the idea that they operated just as scholars operate when engaging with textual materials. Ancient people existed in bodies, and treated each other as subjects.

45  In the excerpts examined above, both Boethus and Lucian cite several examples of gender and status markers that would have affected the perception of the embodied subject at the performance level, and influenced the “rightness” and “trueness” of their claim to true prophet.

Textual Healing: Magic in Mark and Acts William Arnal “The NT miracles of Jesus have no connexion with magic, or with magic means and processes, like the majority of miracles outside the NT. The biblical concept of God forbids this”1 W. Grundmann

Among many of those who broach the topic of magic in the NT, there seem to be two basic points to be made: there is no magic in the NT; or, there is magic in the NT, after all.2 A surprising number of these arguments make their cases without clearly defining what magic actually is, operating instead with a set of essentially random characteristics the scholar in question impressionistically associates with magic. In other cases, magic is defined explicitly, but without any rationale. This is not to say that historians of antiquity or scholars of Christian origins have been unable to do anything productive with this topic; the understanding of magic as a polemical category in antiquity is very well understood, and very nicely described, by a wide range of scholars.3 But there is clearly work to be done, especially with respect to the miraculous in the NT, and its intersection with ideas about, or practices of, the elements of ancient “magic”. The study of magic in late antiquity has become especially sophisticated, and offers some important lessons for those of us interested in a slightly earlier period. Providing some kind of integration of currents in religious studies, anthropology, and ancient history may go some way to allowing a productive redescription of the  W. Grundmann, ‘δύναμαι/δύναμις’, in TDNT, 2:302. noted by R. Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings: A Socio-Cognitive Analysis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 107, “descriptions of Jesus as a magico-religious practitioner are not helpful if they are used merely for assigning various controversial labels to Jesus, such as ‘magician’ or ‘shaman’”. 3 See e. g., W. Cotter, Miracles in Greco-Roman Antiquity: A Sourcebook for the Study of the New Testament Miracle Stories (London, New York: Routledge, 1999); more recently and in detail, K. B.  Stratton, Naming the Witch: Magic, Ideology, and Stereotype in the Ancient World (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007) and H. Marx-Wolf, Spiritual Taxonomy and Ritual Expertise: Platonists, Priests, and “Gnostics” in the Third Century C. E. (Philadelphia PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016). 1

2 As

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concept of “magic” as it applies to the NT, especially the miracles of Jesus in the gospels, and those of the apostles in Acts.4

I. Socio-Anthropological Currents For our purposes, in my opinion the most productive theoretical current for making sense of magic is the one that finds its origins in the works of Émile Durkheim and especially Marcel Mauss. Here, the definition of magic does not rely on features intrinsic to the ritual itself, or upon the cognitive characteristics of the link made between ritual and desired result. Instead, magic is defined positionally, and sociologically, and is distinguished from other forms of ritual by no other features than the context in which it occurs. A given action can only be identified as magic in its immediate context and in terms of its social role. For Émile Durkheim, in his Elementary Forms of Religious Life (1912), the effort to define magic is driven by a need to distinguish it from religion, resulting from a prior assumption (not necessarily a correct one) that religion and magic are in fact two quite distinct things.5 But, as Durkheim (correctly) notes, they do not seem to be especially distinct in terms of substance: “Magic, too, is made up of beliefs and rites. Like religion, it has its own myths and dogmas6 … Magic also has its ceremonies, sacrifices, purifications, prayers, song, and dances. Those beings whom the magician invokes and the forces he puts to work are not only of the same nature as the forces addressed by religion but very often are the same forces”.7 Durkheim therefore asks, rhetorically: “Must we therefore say that magic cannot be rigorously differentiated from religion – that magic is full of religion and religion full of magic and, consequently, that it is impossible to separate them and define the one without the other”?8 Although quite a few scholars of 4  As well as in the letters of Paul, which would provide a fascinating insight into the self-understanding of one such “magician” in Roman antiquity. I have not had the opportunity here to give this element of Paul’s letters the analysis it deserves. But for a brilliant analysis of precisely these sorts of dynamics, see now H. Wendt, ‘Ea Superstitione: Christian Martyrdom and the Religion of Freelance Experts’, in JRS  105 (2015), 183–202; and H. Wendt, At the Temple Gates: The Religion of Freelance Experts in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 146–89. 5 So É. Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, transl. C. Cosman (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 39, emphasis added: “Even so, this definition [of religion] is not yet complete, for it fits equally well two orders of things that must be distinguished even though they are akin: magic and religion”. 6 For the direct role of mythology in the practice of “magic” in antiquity, see especially the discussion of historiolae in D. Frankfurter, ‘Narrating Power: The Theory and Practice of the Magical Historiola in Ritual Spells’, in M. Meyer, P. Mirecki (eds.), Ancient Magic and Ritual Power (Leiden, Boston MA: Brill, 1995), 457–76. 7  Durkheim, Elementary Forms, 39. 8 Ibid., 40.

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antiquity today would answer this question in the affirmative,9 for Durkheim, the answer is no. Magic can be distinguished from religion; not by its techniques or ideational content, but by virtue of the quite different role it plays in society. Religion, for Durkheim, is fundamentally a social activity, “an eminently collective thing”,10 one which binds people together, one which both emerges from, and to a considerable extent represents the collective identity of, a distinct group.11 Such is not the case for those activities normally designated as magic, whatever other similarities they might have to religious practices and beliefs: Magic beliefs … do not bind men who believe in them to one another and unite them into the same group, living the same life. There is no Church of magic. Between the magician and the individuals who consult him, there are no durable ties that make them members of a single moral body … The magician has a clientele, not a Church, and his clients may have no mutual relations, and may even be unknown to one another … the magician has no need whatsoever to congregate with his peers. He is more often a loner. In general, far from seeking company, he flees it.12

None of this is to deny that, once defined in this manner, magic is associated with certain characteristics, such as a tendency to have a more simplistic or limited theology and mythology, or to work according to fixed and common principles of thought, or to be focused on pragmatic issues. Durkheim directs our attention to the real effects of ritual (not necessarily magic, specifically) in terms of the emotional outcome for the participants,13 and further notes that religion and magic frequently appear in opposition to one another. He engages with the more content-oriented approaches of Tylor and Frazer,14 repeating their designation of  9  Emphatically, see, inter alia, K. B.  Stratton, ‘Magic Discourse in the Ancient World’, in B. Otto, M. Stausberg (eds.), Defining Magic: A Reader (Sheffield: Equinox, 2013; Nashville TN: Abingdon, 2014), 243–54; Stratton, Naming the Witch; Marx-Wolf, Spiritual Taxonomy. 10  Durkheim, Elementary Forms, 44. 11 Ibid., 41: “… wherever we observe religious life, it has a definite group as its basis”. 12  Ibid., 42, emphasis original. 13 A point later taken up and developed, very productively, for the interpretation of magical/ ritual practice by B. Malinowski (see ‘Magic, Science, and Religion’, in Id., Magic, Science and Religion and Other Essays by Bronislaw Malinowski [Garden City NY: Doubleday, 1954], 1–71) and especially M. Douglas, who has this to say: “Thanks to Durkheim the primitive ritualist was no longer seen as a pantomime magician. That was a notable advance on Frazer … . Malinowski’s magician became no different from any flag-waving patriot or superstitious salt-thrower … . Ritual was no more mysterious or exotic” (M. Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo [London, Henley: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966], 65). For a brief discussion of Malinowski, Douglas, and the expressive interpretation of magic, see J. Z. Smith, W. S.  Green (eds.), The HarperCollins Dictionary of Religion (San Francisco CA: HarperSanFrancisco, 1995), 674–5. 14  E. Thomassen, ‘Is Magic a Subclass of Ritual?’, in D. R. Jordan, H. Montgomery, E. Thomassen (eds.), The World of Ancient Magic: Papers from the First International Samson Eitrem Seminar at the Norwegian Institute at Athens, 4–8 May 1997 (Bergen: Norwegian Institute at Athens, 1999), 55–66, here: 56, offers a brilliant summation of the intellectualist approach to magic, as follows: “One of the first things our founding fathers did was to separate

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two distinct principles on which magic is based – communication of properties by contact, and like produces like – if disagreeing with the details of their analysis.15 Most especially, he views magic and religion to have a sequential or causal relationship, but one that is the exact opposite of what J. G. Frazer claims: “Thus magic is not, as Frazer held, a primary datum and religion only its derivative. Quite the contrary, the precepts on which the magician’s art rests were formed under the influence of religious ideas, and only by a secondary extension were they turned to purely secular applications”.16 These common characteristics of magic are not, however, the basis upon which it is to be considered a separate class of behavior – that basis, rather, is its detachment from the socially-enacted, communal aspects of religion proper.17

magic from religion. According to the most influential classification scheme, which goes back to E. B. Tylor and, above all, to Sir James Frazer, magic differs from religion with respect to the action type of the magical act. Magic, it is thought, is the performance of instrumental acts. The intention of the magical act is to cause an effect, and is based on the belief in the existence of invariable mechanisms which automatically link the effect to the cause. Religion, on the other hand, addresses the powers which govern us as autonomous personalities, and religious acts are therefore not instrumental, but communicative in their essence. Consequently, while magic intends to coerce the powers operating in the world, religion proposes to negotiate with the powers as deities”. 15  See Durkheim, Elementary Forms,  360–1. For Tylor and Frazer, see, fundamentally, E. B.  Tylor, Primitive Culture: Researches Into the Development of Mythology, Philosophy, Religion, Language, Art, and Custom (London: John Murray, 19206); and especially J. G. Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, abridged ed. (London: MacMillan, 1933). The discussion of the principles according to which magic is thought to operate continues, almost 150 years after Tylor’s groundbreaking work, and does so in essentially the same terms: as the twofold belief in contact-magic and imitative magic. At the present time, much of this discussion is taking place in the context of the cognitive study of religion. See especially now the work of J. Sørensen, A Cognitive Theory of Magic (Lanham MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2007) and ‘Magic Reconsidered: Towards a Scientifically Valid Concept of Magic’, in Otto, Stausberg (eds.), Defining Magic, 229–42. I. Czachesz, ‘A Cognitive Perspective on Magic in the New Testament’, in Id., R. Uro (eds.), Mind, Morality and Magic: Cognitive Science Approaches in Biblical Studies (Durham: Acumen, 2013), 164–79 adds a third principle: action at a distance. In skimming over this enormous body of scholarship, I am neither dismissing it or its relevance, nor am I especially willing to prematurely deny that specific cognitive processes may help distinguish certain approaches to ritual from others; as Sørensen notes, it may indeed be possible to preserve “magic” as a second-order analytic category which enhances our understanding. The issue here is simply the question which I have set for myself, which is more a matter of how and why we (or others) see magical elements in the healings of Jesus (and his followers) than it is a matter of the cognitive processes which underlie (and make possible) the belief in and practice of magic cross-culturally. 16 Durkheim, Elementary Forms, 366. 17  Such a position is endorsed by J. D. Crossan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant (New York: HarperCollins, 1991), 305: “Magic and religion can be mutually distinguished, in the ancient world or in the modern one, by political and prescriptive definitions, but not by substantive, descriptive, or neutral descriptions. Religion is official and approved magic; magic is unofficial and unapproved religion”.

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In Outline of a General Theory of Magic (1902/03),18 Marcel Mauss and Henri Hubert had already offered a similar, if in some ways superior and rather more nuanced, account of magic. Their work is especially important for its finding fault with J. G. Frazer’s substantive distinctions between magic and religion, and for noting the extreme subjectivity of such designations. When examined, in fact, magical actions have the same set of generic characteristics as any (other) ritual activities.19 Frazer’s efforts to distinguish magic from religion by associating the former with the notion of “sympathy”, and with mechanical, direct action (in contrast to actions resulting from the activities of spiritual beings), simply do not hold up to scrutiny: many religious rituals are sympathetic and mechanical; many magical activities appeal to supernatural intermediaries.20 The real clue to understanding this distinction, Mauss and Hubert claim, is that magic is consistently associated with evil, and so prohibited.21 Jonathan Smith, three-quarters of a century later, makes the same point when he asserts (in a remarkable overstatement) that “the one, universal characteristic of magic [is that] it is illegal; within the Greco-Roman world it carried the penalty of death or deportation”.22 With this in mind, Mauss and Hubert define a magical ritual very simply and straightforwardly as “any rite which does not play a part in organized cults – it is private, secret, mysterious, and approaches the limit of a prohibited rite”.23 In defining magic in this fashion they were well aware of the way their definition differed from others, and they explicitly note that “we do not define magic in terms of the structure of its rites, but by the circumstances in which these rites occur, which in turn determines the place they occupy in the totality of social customs”.24 Throughout, of course, they recognize that the division they are 18  M. Mauss, A General Theory of Magic, transl. R. Brain (London, New York: Routledge, 1972). 19  So also W. Burkert, Greek Religion (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1985), 55. 20  So Mauss, General Theory of Magic,  26. See L. Wittgenstein, ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough’, in J. Klagge, A. Nordmann (eds.), Philosophical Occasions 1912–1951 (Indianapolis IN, Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company, 1993), 115–55, for a devastating critique of the Frazer’s claim that magic operates on principles similar to science. For discussion of Wittgenstein’s critique, see S. J. Tambiah, Magic, Science, Religion, and the Scope of Rationality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 54–64. 21  So Mauss, General Theory of Magic, 27. 22   J. Z.  Smith, ‘Good News Is No News: Aretalogy and Gospel’, in Id., Map Is Not Territory (Chicago IL, London: University of Chicago Press, 1978), 190–207, here: 192. In basic agreement, see, inter alia, D. E.  Aune, ‘Magic in Early Christianity’, in Id., Apocalypticism, Prophecy, and Magic in Early Christianity (Grand Rapids MI: Baker Academic, 2006),  368–420, here: 375–6; S. I. Johnston, ‘Magic’, in Id. (ed.), Religions of the Ancient World: A Guide (Cambridge MA, London: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2004), 139–52; here: 141; J. P. Meier, A Marginal Jew: Rethinking the Historical Jesus. Vol. 2: Mentor, Message, and Miracles (New York: Doubleday, 1994), 540–1; H. Remus, ‘“Magic or Miracle?”: Some Second-Century Instances’, in Second Century 2 (1982), 155; A. F. Segal, ‘Hellenistic Magic: Some Questions of Definition’, in Id., The Other Judaisms of Late Antiquity (Atlanta GA: Scholars, 1987), 79–108, here: 91. 23  Mauss, General Theory of Magic, 30. 24 Ibid., 30.

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describing is more a continuum than a dichotomy.25 They also note (as does Durkheim, in fact), that although the magical rites are distinct from the approved cult, and may be individual in orientation rather than collective, they nonetheless draw their elements from shared cultural understanding of ritual, and of how the magic in question “works”.26 It is easy enough to conjure up examples of how such a distinction operates. In The Golden Ass, Apuleius – the author himself actually accused of magic and forced to defend himself in court27 – describes two rituals, one in book 3, the other in book 11. In the first ritual, the main character, Lucius, secretly watches while Pamphile, the sorceress mistress of his lover Photis, transforms herself into an owl. The ritual takes place at night, in the upper room of a private house: First Pamphile completely stripped herself; then she opened a chest and took out a number of small boxes. From one of these she removed the lid and scooped out some ointment, which she rubbed between her hands for a long time before smearing herself with it all over from head to foot. Then there was a long muttered address to the lamp during which she shook her arms with a fluttering motion. As they gently flapped up and down there appeared on them a soft fluff, then a growth of strong feathers; her nose hardened into a hooked beak, her feet became talons – and Pamphile was an owl.28

Lucius attempts to duplicate the feat, but is only partly successful, being transformed not into an owl, but a donkey. The end of the novel describes Lucius’ transformation back into a human being. Having encountered a vision of the goddess Isis, he is directed to go to a ritual procession for the goddess the next day, and to eat a garland of roses held by one of her priests. I did not press forward roughly, fearing that the abrupt incursion of an animal would disturb the peace and order of the ceremony. Moving cautiously at an even, almost human, pace, I gradually insinuated myself sideways into the crowd … The priest, mindful, as I could tell from his actions, of last night’s prophecy and marvelling at how exactly everything agreed with his instructions, at once stopped and of his own accord held the garland to my lips. I greedily took the plaited wreath of lovely roses in my mouth … The goddess was true to her word: in a moment my hideous beastly shape fell away.29

For Apuleius, and probably in our own intuitive judgments, the first action is magic, and the second is not. Yet they share a surprising number of features in common. Both are pragmatic actions undertaken for an individual:30 indeed, 25 Ibid., 27–8.

26 As Durkheim says (Elementary Forms,  42): “magic beliefs are never without a certain currency”. This approach to distinguishing magic from religion seems to be adopted by W. Bur­ kert, Greek Religion: Archaic and Classical, transl. J. Raffan (Malden MA: Blackwell, 2004), 55: “Religious ritual is given as a collective institution … conscious magic is a matter for individuals”. 27  His defense, or an embellished version thereof, is found in his Apology. 28  Lucius Apuleius, The Golden Ass, or, Metamorphoses, transl. and ed. E. J. Kenney, Penguin Classics (London, New York: Penguin Books, 1998), 50–1. 29  Apuleius, 202. 30 One of the supposedly distinct features of magic.

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they are both the exact same kind of action, the transformation of a person’s body. Both take place in ritual contexts: the ritual dimensions of the first transformation are underscored by the ceremonial motions of Pamphile (rubbing her hands together, and over her body, and flapping her arms, the last an act that is imitative of the desired result of the ritual), her use of a special object (ointment), and especially by her use of a spell, that is, a formulaic set of words in the form of “a long muttered address to the lamp”. The ritual dimensions of the second transformation are especially marked, with Apuleius introducing the scene by offering first a long and fulsome characterization of the Isis-procession, its implements, its sounds, its functionaries. Even the imitative dimensions are present in both stories: Pamphile flaps her arms like an owl to effect her transformation; Lucius, in donkey form, acts like a human in effecting his. What separates the two sets of actions – as Durkheim and especially Mauss would predict – is that the one set is authorized, the other unauthorized. The distinction is conveyed in a variety of ways. The “magical” act is done at night, the “religious” act in broad daylight. The former is undertaken by lay-persons, the latter by a priest. The first ritual is in private space and at an arbitrary time, while the latter is part of a highly-public and fixed liturgy, an actual parade. The concluding ritual is authorized from multiple sources: the public, the legitimate priests, the goddess herself. Even the goals can be understood as first non-legitimate (it is not reasonable to want to transform yourself into an owl, or a donkey for that matter), and then legitimate (it is very reasonable for a human being to wish to have a human form). None of which is to say that there are not substantive characteristics that tend to appear in connection with magic, as indeed both Mauss and Durkheim recognized. But those characteristics should probably be understood as a function or reflection of the real definitional criterion of magic, the non-authorized character of its ritual.31 Magic is typically (seen to be) selfish,32 technocratic, pragmatic, in31 That magic belongs in the larger category of ritual, I am here taking completely for granted, as in fact do most scholars of magic today. See, brilliantly, Thomassen, ‘Is Magic a Subclass of Ritual?’. Such a view is held by scholars of widely differing opinions, such as, e. g., J. Z. Smith, ‘Trading Places’, in Id., Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago IL, London: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 215–29, here: 218, who denies the utility of the category of magic; and equally by Sørensen, ‘Magic Reconsidered’, 235–6), who affirms it. I must again stress that there is a broad track of quite brilliant and interesting scholarship, associating magic (and more broadly, the idea of ritual efficacy: see now especially R. Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings), with distinct cognitive errors (Tylor, Frazer), specific cognitive modules (Sørensen), emotional outbursts (Malinowski), an expression of categorical distinctions (Douglas), intellectual apprehensions of the world (see R. Horton, Patterns of Thought in Africa and the West (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997),197–258), exaggeration of human analogies (Claude Lévi-Strauss) or illocutionary discourse (Stanley Tambiah), among other options. The influence of Tambiah on R. A. Horsley, Jesus and Magic: Freeing the Gospel Stories from Modern Misconceptions (Cambridge: James Clarke & Co., 2015) is quite clear, especially when the latter discusses healings preceded by forgiveness of sins. Tambiah is criticized in C. I. Lehrich, The Occult Mind: Magic in Theory and Practice (Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 2007), 104, 117. While I think defining magic in a positional or contextual way is the best approach for the

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dividual, or addressing low-level concerns (“will my sweetheart love me?” rather than “will the nation receive the god’s blessings?”) precisely because to be counted as “magic” the ritual has to be viewed as marginal, and so as not engaging with the broader concerns of society as a whole, which, it is assumed, non-magical rituals normally do.33 This also helps explain why any ritual, even a thoroughly authorized one, may have a whiff of magic about it, especially to outsiders, when it is undertaken non-communally, or to the benefit of specific individuals (e. g., exorcism in the Roman Catholic tradition): such a focus makes the ritual appear to be too individualized to be properly sanctioned, even if, in fact, it is. Beyond these broad tendencies that emerge as direct consequences of the definition of magic as non-authorized, substantive efforts to define magic too often34 present it as simply an antithesis to whatever one’s own approved vision of religion happens to be. Defining magic in substantive terms therefore runs the risk of devolving into the theological or insider practice of decrying those elements that are absent in one’s own vision of religion, and thereby inflating the value and purity of the features that are typical of it. But this must all be qualified: the identification of magic as unauthorized ritual is not and cannot be an objective assessment; Durkheim notwithstanding, society is not a unified whole which consistently grants authorization to a stable set kind of data we are dealing with, I do not claim that these broader questions about how magic is thought to work, or what it is thought to mean, are not worth pursuing, or have not already been pursued with fertile result. They are especially productive, I think, precisely when viewing magic as a subset of ritual (on which see e. g. Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings, 66), but in turn this makes the question far broader than the scope of this paper. And the sheer variety of answers to these questions (continued in more recent work) suggests that we have not yet arrived at a satisfactory conclusion. 32  It is probably this view of magic (that is, unauthorized ritual) that is responsible for the linkage of the performance of magic with money and especially the requirement of payment, as noted by J. N. Bremmer, ‘Magic in the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles’, in Id., J. R.  Veenstra (eds.), The Metamorphosis of Magic from Late Antiquity to the Early Modern Period (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 51–70, here: 55–6. In my view, the demand for money is part of the terminology of abuse, a narrative indication that the act is selfish. It cannot, therefore, be taken as an objective litmus for magical over against religious practice. The ancient texts, moreover, do not consistently treat it this way. In the Golden Ass, for instance, the illegitimate magical act which transforms Lucius into a donkey involves no payment; while the legitimate religious act that transforms him back into a human being does eventually necessitate initiation payments. 33  Cf. Mauss, General Theory of Magic, 28–30. And cf. Thomassen, ‘Is Magic a Subclass of Ritual?’, 64: “… destructive use of the magical ritual is not in itself the basis of the practice of magic, but the individualistic form of ritualization which constitutes the magical ritual as such opens up the possibility of using it for such blacker purposes”. Czachesz, ‘Cognitive Perspective on Magic’, 169, notes that we tend to view untheorized ritual as “magic” and theorized ritual as theology. This observation meshes very well with the authorized/unauthorized distinction. 34  But again, not always! I am particularly intrigued by Einar Thomassen’s suggestion (Tho­massen, ‘Is Magic a Subclass of Ritual?’, 64) that one of the key features that distinguishes magic from other rituals is the absence of intersubjective communication. It is notable that Thomassen arrives at this conclusion by adopting an essentially Durkheimian-Maussian definition of magic, and only subsequently finding in it some distinctive substantial characteristics.

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of rituals, and refuses it to another stable set.35 In a society of any sophistication, there will be no single criterion of authorization agreed to by everyone.36 This means that the identification of a ritual as “magic” is always positional: what one person, at one time, in one location may view as “authorized”, another person, or the same person at another time or place, may regard as unauthorized (and vice-versa).37 One must pay attention to who is making the judgement.38 The assessment of a ritual as unauthorized can be undertaken by three different sorts of agents. First, the actual participants in the ritual may regard it to be unauthorized, secret, or illegitimate. In such instances a set of ritual actions deemed powerful in a communal context is self-consciously adapted and appropriated to different ends by the people who perform the actions and/or the people on whose behalf they are performed.39 Second, contemporary observers of (as opposed to participants in) ritual acts may deem them to be in some way illegitimate. These 35   Likewise, J. N.  Bremmer, ‘Preface: The Materiality of Magic’, in D. Boschung, J. N.  Bremmer (eds.), The Materiality of Magic (Paderborn: Wilhelm Fink, 2015), 7–19, here: 11: “Yet cultures may differ in what they disapprove of, and even within cultures people [may] not necessarily approve or disapprove of the same magical activities”. He asks, “What is the authority that would sanction or license these activities?”. 36  As noted by Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings, 128–9, a strict Durkheimian definition of magic would render Matthew’s account of the healing of the epileptic boy (Matt 9:37–43) a magical action, and Paul’s understanding of the Corinthians’ practices in 1 Cor 14:26 a properly religious ritual. In my view, these actually seem rather reasonable conclusions, but what I think Uro is pointing to is the apparent incoherence of the private/public dichotomy. That incoherence, I am suggesting, is due to the fact that there is no single Archimedean vantage point from which to establish the distinction. 37  Hence the insistence of some scholars on viewing magic not as a practice but as a discourse. So, emphatically, Stratton, ‘Magic Discourse’; R. Styers, Making Magic: Religion, Magic, and Science in the Modern World, Reflection and Theory in the Study of Religion (Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 2004); Marx-Wolf, Spiritual Taxonomy. See also Johnston, ‘Magic’,  141: “Thus, magic was almost always a normative, rather than a straightforwardly descriptive, term, and looking at the ancient world from our own vantage point, we can make no clean division between it and religion. Not only were the many gods and religious leaders reputed to employ techniques that we might call magical (in Egypt, Persia, Mesopotamia, and Anatolia, in fact, some forms of what we call magic were in the purview of official priests), but when we examine the techniques themselves, we discover that they differ from other religious practices more in details than in substance or attitude”. 38  It is precisely because of this problem, and because of the absence of a God’s-eye view of “society”, that I am not satisfied with Crossan’s characterization of magic as “religious banditry” (so Crossan, Historical Jesus, 304–10). Crossan here is drawing especially from the discussion of magic in R. MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order: Treason, Unrest, and Alienation in the Empire (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1966),  95–127. MacMullen stresses, however, the ambivalence of “magic”, and the ways in which its designation as such is indeed positional. He also notes that the implications of such a designation could be quite concrete. 39  It is probably under this rubric that we should place the many cursing and binding spells that survive from antiquity. Here we have instances in which one is deliberately “cheating” by using ritual forces to advance one’s own agenda. In cases in which the practitioner is him‑ or herself aware of the illicit character of their actions, the more nuanced kind of analysis which follows is hardly necessary.

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may be individuals for whom the authorizing tradition itself is foreign, exotic, and suspect, and for whom therefore any of its rites are questionable. Or they may be people who do in fact subscribe to that tradition, but who view some of its features as problematic or some of its practitioners as non-legitimate.40 Finally, and worth keeping in mind, ritual actions may be deemed to be unauthorized by present-day scholars analyzing them, whether or not participants or contemporaries shared this opinion.41 This can take the form of constructing an abstract system from a given set of religious behaviors in antiquity (or at any other time, for that matter), defining that system as a particular “religious tradition”, and then using that construct to evaluate whether any given behavior conforms or fails to conform to the system.42 Or it can take the looser form of simply designating as “magic” those features of a tradition that a given scholar does not happen to like.

II. Magic in Antiquity The kind of approach advocated above (and its related views on how magic can – and cannot – be defined) meshes very well with one of the more notable features of ancient magic: its deployment as a polemical, abusive, and even criminal category, used to characterize foreign or otherwise disreputable religious practices, and especially individual religious functionaries, as fraudulent, malefic, or subversive. This usage falls mainly into the second category noted above, i. e., contemporary but outsider judgments on the legitimacy of a given ritual act. 40  See also Segal, ‘Hellenistic Magic’, 91–2. As an example, albeit from late antiquity, see D. Frankfurter, ‘Beyond Magic and Superstition’, in V. Burrus (ed.), A People’s History of Christianity: Late Ancient Christianity, A People’s History of Christianity (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2005), 2:255–84, here: 265: “ … the church leaders we read as sources for popular piety and pagan survival were, in fact, actively trying to construct an area of marginal or illegitimate Christian practice, partly in continuity with Roman imperial notions of superstitio and magia – subversive ritual – and partly out of a distinctive Christian ideology of the demonic”. 41 Horsley, Jesus and Magic, 163, makes this observation the crux of his argument against using the concept of magic to discuss antiquity: “Jesus was not performing miracles or practicing magic. To apply these concepts to the healing and exorcism (stories) of Jesus is to modernize him. The investigations in these chapters indicate that the concepts of miracle and magic under which the healing and exorcism (stories) of Jesus have been classified and interpreted are the products of Enlightenment Reason shaped by (natural and social) scientific perspective. The concept of miracle and especially the concept of magic were also influenced by colonial and Orientalist attitudes”. While some of this argument is well-taken (though not all: the concept of magic as fakery was indeed used in antiquity; it simply was not a stable concept), what I think Horsley points to is a need to rethink and redescribe the categories in question, rather than simply to dismiss them. 42  This was part of what I was complaining about, with respect to Judaism, in W. E. Arnal, The Symbolic Jesus: Historical Scholarship, Judaism and the Construction of Contemporary Identity, Religion in Culture: Studies in Social Contest and Construction (London, Oakville ON: Equinox, 2005).

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The terms from which the English word “magic” derives reflect this Hellenistic-Roman heritage. Greek μαγεία (from which the Latin magia derives) stems from μάγος, a noun which originally referred to a member of a Median tribe and subsequently to a seer or ritualist associated with exotic practices.43 Hence the term refers in many instances to the legitimate practitioners and legitimate practices of a religion, but that religion happens to be a foreign one, and as such may be assessed differentially. Insofar as that religion is held to be a repository for real and legitimate knowledge, the term μάγος is sometimes used positively, as occurs even in the NT (Matt 2:1).44 But insofar as the practices of the μάγοι, their μαγεία, are foreign, questionable, or simply deemed to be false, the term comes to designate superstition, fraud, or maleficent religious/ritual actions of the sort described by the much more consistently negative term, γοητεία. A γόης is associated less with foreign ritual than with a particular kind action, the casting of spells. The word derives from a verb, γοάω, meaning to groan or weep,45 and perhaps associated with the mourning rituals which conveyed the dead to the underworld.46 Like μαγεία, it is used to characterize sorcery, maleficent ritual,47 and similarly deauthorized practices. Such a use of the terminology of deauthorization can be directed to any religious (or non-religious) tradition whatsoever, to any practices, to any practitioners. In this respect, “magic” is akin to, and caught up with, the religiously 43  ‘μάγος’, in LSJ, 1071; ‘μάγος’, in TDNT, 4:356–9; H. S. Versnel, ‘Magic’, in Oxford Classical Dictionary, 908. See also J. N. Bremmer, ‘The Birth of the Term “Magic”’, in ZPE 126 (1999), 1–12; F. Graf, ‘Magic and Divination’, in Jordan, Montgomery, Thomassen (eds.), The World of Ancient Magic, 283–98, here: 294; J. N. Bremmer, ‘From Books with Magic to Magical Books in Ancient Greece and Rome?’, in Boschung, Bremmer (eds.), The Materiality of Magic, 241–70, here: 247–9; and for ancient awareness of this, see (among others), Philo, Spec. Leg. 3,100. 44  See Graf, ‘Magic and Divination’, 294: “Magi, on the other hand, in Rome could always mean both sorcerers and Persian priests – that is adepts of Oriental astrology, like the Greek μάγοι; more illuminated spirits, such as the unknown author of a Hellenistic book ‘On the magoi’ (Arist. fr. 36 Rose), would protest against this double meaning which ascribed to the noble Persians a foul art, and it may be that this is one reason why Latin preferred the descriptive veneficus ‘poisoner’ and later the more drastic maleficus ‘evil-doer’ to designate the sorcerer”. Horsley, Jesus and Magic, 164, complains that this observation has not been taken seriously enough. Cf. also G. Bohak, Ancient Jewish Magic: A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 80. 45  R. Beekes, ‘γοάω’, in Etymological Dictionary of Greek, Leiden Indo-European Etymological Dictionary Series (Leiden, Boston MA: Brill, 2010), 1:280–1. 46 So Stratton, Naming the Witch,  27–8; Graf, ‘Magic and Divination’,  296. For more extended discussion, see S. I. Johnston, Restless Dead: Encounters between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Greece (Berkeley CA, Los Angeles CA, London: University of California Press, 1999), 82–123; and W. Burkert, ‘ΓΟΗΣ: Zum Griechischen “Schamanismus”’, in Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 105 (1962), 36–55. 47  Interestingly, M. Eliade, The Myth of Eternal Return; or, Cosmos and History, transl. W. R.  Trask (Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991),  96–8, describes magic as a meaningful explanation for misfortune; suffering, he argues, can be endured, as long as it has a meaning, and is not absurd. Appeal to malicious magic then provides this meaning.

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deauthorizing term “superstition”.48 All that is required is that the accuser dislike or aim to undermine the target of their rhetoric, often (though perhaps not always) in the interests of advancing, by the contrast, his or her own prestige. Such a usage is widespread in antiquity. “Hippocrates”, in a treatise on epilepsy, promotes his/her own understanding of the disease in part by ridiculing other approaches as fraudulent, the conclusions of quacks and incompetents, describing such people as, among other things, μάγοι.49 As Harold Remus notes, this is less an indication that the author’s contemporaries were frauds, and more that there was a power struggle between different and competing classes of experts.50 Or again, Fritz Graf notes that it was only in the early Imperial period that divination came to be associated with μαγεία and γοητεία. The reason for the novel conjunction, he says, “had something to do with the status of divination in Imperial Rome: questions about the future of the reigning emperor were construed as high treason already under Tiberius, as the case of Libo Drusus showed. This is but a special instance for a more general problem. The Roman state very much insisted on its monopoly of divinatory contact with the gods”.51 Here we see that, far from a practice being designated as magic because it possessed objectively-determined “magical” characteristics that made it suspect, it was the similarity between private acts of divination and those undertaken by the Roman state that led to the prohibition: the state wanted a monopoly on such practices, and so designated analogous practices not under their purview as illegitimate and even illegal. We can see this back and forth, opportunistic accusation and counter-accusation, in the critique and defense of second-century Christianity. Celsus claims Jesus was a γοής,52 and Christians returned the favor by claiming non-Christian  See Frankfurter, ‘Beyond Magic’, 258: “In the imperial period, for example, magia and superstitio were epitomized in techniques of divination that lay outside the work of the Roman haruspices and augures (the traditional divination priestly ranks), associated instead with prophets and foreign technologies. Thus the discourse of ritual censure revolved around foreignness, subversion, manipulation, social breakdown, and fantasies about wizards and witches who gleefully engaged in such deviance, often in the context of monstrous sacrifices. Articulating cultural difference and its ambiguity in terms of ritual practice became central to the Roman imperial worldview. Were foreign rites and their often itinerant experts a threat or a resource? This ambiguity preoccupied Roman thought on religious practice”. 49  So The Sacred Disease (Hippocrates, LCL, 2.1–14:140–1): “My own view is that those who first attributed a sacred character to this malady were like the magicians, purifiers, charlatans and quacks [μάγοι τε καὶ καθάρται καὶ ἀγύρται καὶ ἀλαζόνες] of our own day, men who claim great piety and superior knowledge. Being at a loss, and having no treatment which would help, they concealed and sheltered themselves behind superstition, and called this illness sacred, in order that their utter ignorance might not be manifest”. 50 Remus, ‘Magic or Miracle’, 144. 51  Graf, ‘Magic and Divination’, 294–5. 52  See Origen, Contra Celsum 1,71. Note also Remus, ‘Magic or Miracle’, 135: “… Origen interprets the word Celsus used to denote the invocation of daemons – κατακλήσεις – as equivalent to καταπᾳδειν, a common term for casting spells”. Cf. also Justin Martyr, The First and Second Apologies, transl. L. W. Barnard (New York, Mahwah NJ: Paulist, 1997), 1 Apology 30. 48

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practices were really acts of sorcery.53 Remus, commenting on this phenomenon, describes it precisely as a social contest: “Against this background, pagans’ and Christians’ labeling each others’ miracles as ‘magic’ is intelligible as one facet of rivalry between pagan society and culture, on the one hand, and, on the other, Christianity as an alien social group, barely legal or considered illegal, and nurturing a counterculture with many practices little known or little understood by outsiders”.54 Lucian, as is fairly typical of philosophical critiques of various religious practices,55 ridicules the credulity of the foolish in his “Lover of Lies” (Φιλοψευδής). One of his characters, Tychiades, reacts negatively to the recommendation that a weasel’s tooth be applied to an ill person’s body: … not being altogether full of drivel, so as to believe that external remedies which have nothing to do with the internal causes of the ailments, applied as you say with set phrases and hocus pocus of some sort [γοητείας τινός], are efficacious and bring on the cure. That could never happen, not even if you should wrap sixteen entire weasels in the skin of the Nemean lion.56

Similar controversies are also described in a range of sources, with the authors quite clearly recognizing the agonistic character of such accusations. Philostratus, for example, has Apollonius of Tyana say in response to a witchcraft accusation: Now simple-minded people attribute such acts as this to wizardry (γοήτας), and they make the same mistake in respect of many purely human actions. For athletes resort to this art, just as do all who have to undergo a contest in their eagerness to win; and although it contributes nothing to their success, nevertheless these unfortunate people, after winning by mere chance as they generally do, rob themselves of the credit and attribute it to this art of wizardry.57

Likewise, Apuleius raises the question quite explicitly, and in a forensic context, whether designating someone a magician is a fundamentally arbitrary and contestable assertion: “I should therefore like to ask his most learned advocates how precisely they would define a magician? If what I read in a large number of authors be true, namely that a ‘magician’ is the Persian word for priest, what is there criminal in being a priest and having due knowledge, science and skill?”58 53  Remus, ‘Magic or Miracle’,  127: “Christians in the second century employed the label ‘magic’ to deny miracle claims by pagans and by other Christians. What little direct evidence there is indicates that pagans were apt to treat Christian miracle claims in the same way”. 54 Ibid., 155. 55  Plato thinks abuse of magic should be punished, and Cynics also are fond of mocking it. So Versnel, ‘Magic’, 909. 56 Lucian, ‘The Lover of Lies’ (Φιλοψευδής), LCL Lucian, vol. 3. 57  Philostratus, Life of Apollonius of Tyana 7,39 (vol. 2:257). It is notable that the specific accusations against Apollonius, including the assertion that he ritually sacrificed a young boy, do not admit of any legitimate interpretation whatsoever. Apollonius of course denies the factual accuracy of these charges, as well as contesting the definition of magic itself. 58 Apuleius, Apology, books 25–6, as quoted in Segal, ‘Hellenistic Magic’, 93.

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In spite of the clear positionality of the language of magic and sorcery,59 we can, in my view, find a rough “family resemblance” among the kinds of things that tend to get identified as “magic” in antiquity. That is to say, discursive features notwithstanding, there are certain kinds of things in antiquity that are treated, more often than others, whether by their ancient contemporaries or by modern scholars, as somehow non-authorized or questionable, as serving interests more individual than collectively religious. This set of behaviors may be isolated, grouped together, and redescribed in a productive way. The actions that fall into this category are of a ritual nature; and they share a very wide range of similarities with other, “non-magical”, ritual actions. But if we focus on characterizing the things supposed to be magic, rather than distinguishing them from “legitimate” ritual, a series of common (as in frequent, not as in universally shared) features emerges.60 If we gather together the ritual acts and descriptions of ritual acts decried by their contemporaries as magic, together with the kinds of actions that modern scholars have typically so designated, along with the literary corpus from antiquity most emphatically associated with magic by scholars, that is, the Papyri Graecae Magicae (PGM),61 a range of similar ideas can be identified. The description of Vespasian’s act of “magic” as recounted by Suetonius is reasonably typical:62 Vespasian as yet lacked prestige and a certain divinity, so to speak, since he was an unexpected and still new-made emperor; but these also were given him. A man of the people who was blind, and another who was lame, came to him together as he sat on the tribunal, 59 Again, for the view that magic and religion cannot be objectively separated in antiquity, see also D. Collins, Magic in the Ancient Greek World (Malden MA, Oxford: Blackwell, 2008). 60  So also, e. g., Remus, ‘Magic or Miracle’, 134: “One distinguishing mark of magic is commonly said to be the presence of manipulations. Incantations, recipes for portions and directions for obtaining and use of other materia magica, instructions on bodily movements and gestures, and the like fill the papyri labeled ‘magical’ by moderns and appear in literary descriptions of persons called magicians or sorcerers by ancients”. 61  It should be stressed that not everyone is happy with the designation of the PGM as “magic”. See e. g. Marx-Wolf, Spiritual Taxonomy, 3: “The tendency to classify the ritual handbooks and other artifacts published together as the Papyri Graecae Magicae (PGM) as ‘magical’ or as some problematic and degenerate subcategory of ‘religion’ has meant that until very recently it has been difficult to entertain, much less trace, concrete connections between the priests behind these texts and contemporary philosophers and other intellectuals”. She is here a taking a page from Smith, ‘Trading Places’, 218: “… I see little merit in continuing the use of the substantive term ‘magic’ in second-order, theoretical, academic discourse … . we can trade places between the corpus of materials conventionally labelled ‘magical’ and corpora designated by other generic terms (e. g., healing, divining, execrative) with no cognitive loss”. 62 In Vespasian 7,2–3. This is a particularly excellent example, because of the way it pushes us to recognize how complex the notion of authorization is. On the one hand, Vespasian, as emperor, is filled with power and is an appropriate vehicle for the actions of the god in question, Serapis; few will claim that he is a γόης! On the other hand, Vespasian is not an authorized functionary of Serapis, not a priest, and his action does not take place in the context of a festival or of sacred precincts. Perhaps of even greater interest, the event takes place at a time when Vespasian’s status as emperor is new and untested, a point explicitly noted by Suetonius.

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begging for the help for their disorders which Serapis had promised in a dream; for the god declared that Vespasian would restore the eyes, if he would spit upon them, and give strength to the leg, if he would deign to touch it with his heel. Though he had hardly any faith that this could possibly succeed, and therefore shrank even from making the attempt, he was at last prevailed upon by his friends and tried both things in public before a large crowd; and with success.

An example from the PGM, selected as much for its brevity as its typicality, is found in 1.247–62: Tested spell for invisibility: A great work. Take an eye of an ape or of a corpse that has died a violent death and a plant of peony (he means the rose).63 Rub these with oil of lily, and as you are rubbing them from the right to the left, say the spell as follows: “I am Anubis, I am Osir-Phre, I am Osot Soronouier, I am Osiris whom Seth destroyed. Rise up infernal daimon, Iō Erbēth Iō Phobēth Iō Pakerbēth Iō Apomps; whatever I, NN, order you to do, be obedient to me”. And if you wish to become invisible, rub just your face with the concoction, and you will be invisible for as long as you wish. And if you wish to be visible again, move from west to east and say this name, and you will be obvious and visible to all men. The name is: “Marmariaōth Marmaripheggē, make me, NN, visible to all men on this day, immediately, immediately; quickly, quickly!” This works very well.64

With these and similar examples in mind, one can simply list off their features, including: – tightly controlled and formalized movements (as is typical of any ritual); – nonsense words and foreign terms and phrases (prominent throughout the entire corpus of the PGM, and sometimes extending to foreign alphabets, ciphers, and pictorial images);65 – appeals to known deities or variants thereupon (Serapis in the case of Vespasian; Osiris and Anubis in the PGM spell), or other supernatural agents; 63  Note also the use of roses in the account of Lucius’ restoration to human form as described in The Golden Ass, above. 64 Text in K. Preisendanz (ed. and transl.), Papyri Graecae Magicae (Munich, Leipzig: K. G. Saur, 2001), 1:14. Translation and formatting from H. D. Betz, The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation (Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press, 19922), 9–10. 65 This feature is often appealed to as definitional for magic. Thomas Ady, in the mid-1600s, quoted in O. Davies, Magic: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 53, claimed that magical frauds used nonsense words not to effect magical results but to distract the viewer while the magician pulled a fast one: “One man … at the playing of every Trick, he used to say, Hocus pocus, tontus talontus, vade celeriter jubeo, a dark composure of words, to blinde the eyes of his beholders, to make his Trick pass the more currantly without discovery, because when the eye and the ear of the beholder are both earnestly busied, the Trick is not so easily discovered, nor the Imposture discerned”. This is one of the reasons Thomassen, ‘Is Magic a Subclass of Ritual?’ claims that magic is essentially anti-communicative. Note also the qualification offered by Johnston, ‘Magic’, 145: “Some magical words do work automatically insofar as they function by virtue of their inherent power alone; others can be understood as signals that immediately and unconditionally put other forces into action (what might be called the ‘Open Sesame’ effect); but others function in the same way as ordinary speech acts among humans do, even if they have greater potential than other speech acts – that is, they may not work all of the time, or at least not immediately”.

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– the use of a supernatural assistant (πάρεδρος) who would do the magician’s bidding, present above in the form of the daimon appealed to in the invisibility spell;66 – the practitioner may be marked by some kind of special status (e. g., Vespasian),67 though this is not necessary (the PGM spell seems to be capable of performance by anyone); – the application of some materia magica or ousia, ranging from spittle (Vespasian) to special ointments (oil of lily) and objects of power (the eye of an ape or of someone who died violently);68 – manipulation of relevant objects (see especially the use of eyes in the PGM spell, which is focused on visibility and invisibility); – physical contact of some sort either with the magician or with an object associated with him (Vespasian’s spittle, and his heel); – an external sign of efficacy (Vespasian succeeds), or an assertion that the spell really works (“a great work … this works very well”); – performance outside of, or without reference to, ritually sacred space, often domestic space69 (Vespasian’s tribunal, no particular location specified in PGM spell); – performance by an individual (e. g., Vespasian), sometimes though hardly always in isolation. There are also some common features which are not encountered in the examples above, but which merit comment, especially as they are features which tend to distinguish “magic” from other rituals: 66  See Czachesz, ‘Cognitive Perspective on Magic’, 169. PGM 1.96–103 (Preisendanz, 1:8; Betz, 5–6) describes the acquisition of such a servant: “This is the sacred rite for acquiring an assistant. It is acknowledged that he is a god; he is an aerial spirit which you have seen. If you give him a command, straight-way he performs the task: he sends dreams, he brings women, men without the use of magical material, he kills, he destroys, he stirs up winds from the earth, he carries / gold, silver, bronze, and he gives them to you whenever the need arises. And he frees from bonds a person chained in prison, he opens doors, he causes invisibility so that no one can see you at all”. 67  We encounter the same association of “magical” power with political status in Plutarch’s Life of Sulla 35,4, where a portion of Sulla’s clothing is sought out as a good luck charm; see A. Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2007), 282. It should be stressed that this special status can come from a variety of different social arenas: political power, intellectual accomplishment, charisma, or even sheer exoticism. 68 See Golden Ass 3,17 (Apuleius,  49): “she set out all the usual apparatus of her infernal laboratory: every kind of strong-smelling drug, metal plaques inscribed with mysterious characters, the remains of birds of ill-omen, and whole array of different parts from dead and buried bodies – here noses and fingers, there nails from gibbets with flesh sticking to them, elsewhere a store of blood from men who have died a violent death”. Cf. Remus, ‘Magic or Miracle’, 134. 69  Cf. location of magic in the Golden Ass; and see PGM 1.83, 84; 2.148; 3.193; 4.2188; in the client’s domestic space, PGM 8.59; 12.104; in “your bedroom” (2.1–182; 4.62; 7.490, 593–619, 628–42, 664–85), rooftops (1.56, 70; 4.2469, 2711; 56.6), upper room (4.171). See Smith, ‘Trading Places’, 223.

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– Secrecy is an important characteristic.70 If a ritual is in some way questionable, non-authorized, open to potential challenge, it is all the more likely to take place away from prying, and potentially judgmental, eyes.71 Inversely, the more authorized a ritual is, the more likely, and easier, it is to be performed in public. The reverse is also true: the performance of a ritual in secret can give the appearance of its being illicit, while its performance in public can give the appearance of its being licit.72 Injunctions to secrecy appear throughout the PGM, e. g., 4.922: “Now you have received full knowledge of these things. Keep it secret”.73 Nonetheless, in the cases of some “legitimate” rituals as well, secrecy may be a dimension. – We will also of course find that magic – that is, ritual action that is claimed to be, or appears to be, unauthorized – is more strongly associated with marginal social groups (of various sorts) or contested social spaces. A final feature worth laying some stress on is that very many of the rituals in the PGM (and elsewhere) incorporate writing as a central aspect of the activity in question. The term γόης links magic in directly to speech, and especially to peculiar speech: patterned, rhythmic, fixed.74 In our period, writing was a principal technique for fixing and disseminating these kinds of efficacious utterances (as well as describing the fixed movements that were to accompany them).75 The PGM itself is a set of recipes or instructions for spells; but much of our knowledge of magic in antiquity comes from the written detritus of spells, the leftover remains of rituals that required some form of inscription or drawing,76 on os70  See, among others, Frankfurter, ‘Beyond Magic’, 258; Versnel, ‘Magic’, 909–10; Johnston, ‘Magic’, 144; J. Z. Smith, ‘Here, There, and Anywhere’, in Id., Relating Religion, 323–39, here: 334; Segal, ‘Hellenistic Magic’, 96; G. Theissen, The Miracle Stories of the Early Christian Tradition, ed. J. Riches, transl. F. McDonagh (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2007), 140–2. 71  This is all aside from the prestige or (to invoke Bourdieu) distinction communicated by possession of “secret” knowledge. 72  I think this is one of the main reasons that Luke is so interested in portraying Jesus’ activity as public: this makes it appear to be above-board, legal, non-subversive, all the things that secret magic is not. 73  Cf. PGM 1.40, 130, 146–7, 193 ff.; 3.199–200, 204; 4.75 ff., 84–5, 2518 f.; 7.320–3. 74  See Versnel, ‘Magic’, 909: Magical utterances may consist of inarticulate noises, cries, animal sounds, bells, whistles, hissing, but especially of words or formulae that seem odd, foreign, uncanny, “whose (alleged) foreign origin and lack of normal communicable meaning were believed to enhance their magical power”. 75 Some speculate that the origins of the Coptic alphabet are to be traced to the need to use a phonetic writing system to accurately render the sounds of Egyptian spells; certainly our oldest “Old Coptic” texts are in fact magical formulae. 76 Among many possible examples of instructions to perform (additional) writing, PGM 12.14–95, lines 79–96 provide (in writing, of course) an extended verbal invocation, which the reader is instructed to write (again) on a piece of papyrus (Preisendanz, 2:62, 64; Betz, 156). Cf. PGM 7.193–6 (in Preisendanz, 2:8; Betz, 120): “For scorpion sting: On a clean piece of papyrus, write the characters and place on the part which has the sting; wrap the papyrus around it, and the sting will lose its pain immediately” [there follows an 11-character string of wing-dings].

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traka, on papyrus, on lead curse-tablets, as amulets and phylacteries.77 Jonathan Smith, with characteristic insight (and overstatement), claims that: If one reads through the entire corpus with an eye toward ritual activities, it is not purification, nor incubation, nor even sacrifice that predominates. Rather, the chief ritual activity within the Greek Magical Papyri appears to be the act of writing itself … Alongside the evident concern for the accurate transmission of a professional literature marked, among other features, by scribal glosses and annotations, is an overwhelming belief in the efficacy of writing, especially in the recipes that focus on the fashioning of amulets and phylacteries – themselves miniaturized, portable, powerful written texts of papyrus, metal, stone, and bone.78

Magical spells were also linked to broader (and often, if not necessarily always, written) cultural traditions via the use of historiolae, stories aiming to link the petitioner’s problem or situation to one drawn from myth or legend.79 The association with writing also involves an association with scribes. The god of scribes, Thoth, was also the god of magic.80 Scribes are cited as the authors of magical spells.81 One of the most common motifs of scribal wisdom literature, the address to one’s son,82 appears quite frequently in the PGM. Typical is PGM 13.755: “Learn and conceal, child, the name [composed] of the nine letters, AEĒ EĒI OYŌ …”.83 77   See, e. g., Versnel, ‘Magic’, 909; J. Dieleman, ‘Coping with a Difficult Life: Magic, Healing, and Sacred Knowledge’, in C. Riggs (ed.), Oxford Handbook of Roman Egypt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 337–61, here: 346; Frankfurter, ‘Beyond Magic’, 269; D. Frankfurter, Religion in Roman Egypt: Assimilation and Resistance (Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998), 212; and especially Smith, ‘Trading Places’, 226. Cf. PGM 7.197–8 (Preisendanz, 2:8; Betz, 121): “For discharge of the eyes: Write [this] on a piece of papyrus and attach it as an amulet: ROURARBISAROURBBARIASPRĒN”. And of course tefillin contain written Torah passages. 78  Smith, ‘Trading Places’,  226, emphasis original. See also Bremmer, ‘Books with Magic’, 250–69, for discussion of books of magic. 79  See Versnel, ‘Magic’, 909, referring to spells or instructions in which the goal in question is compared with something in a legend or myth; and of course Frankfurter, ‘Narrating Power’. It seems to me that future research may wish to consider this feature of Hellenistic-Roman magic in conjunction with the observations on Ifá oracle practice offered in M. Holbraad, ‘Truth Beyond Doubt: Ifá Oracles in Havana’, in HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory  2.1 (2012), 81–109. The historiolae seem to represent another instance of what Holbraad claims is the typical function of divination, that is, to convey a temporal conjunction between two otherwise separated causal trajectories. 80  See Johnston, ‘Magic’,  142. The linkage in Egypt of writing, priesthood, and magic is stressed especially by David Frankfurter. See, e. g., Frankfurter, Religion in Roman Egypt, 210–2. 81  E. g., PGM 1.42–5 (Preisendanz, 1:4; Betz, 4): “The spell of Pnouthis, the sacred scribe, for acquiring an assistant: … Pnouthis to Keryx, a god-fearing man, greetings. As one who knows, I have prescribed for you [this spell] …”. Cf. also PGM 5.96–172, which opens with an ascription to “Jeu, the hieroglyphist” (Betz, 103). 82  See, of course, J. S.  Kloppenborg, The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections, Studies in Antiquity and Christianity (Philadelphia PA: Fortress, 1987), 274. 83  In Preisendanz, 2:121; Betz, 190. Similar addresses occur in, e. g., PGM 4.2518 (“keep it secret, son”); PGM 1.193 (“Therefore share these things with no one except [your] legitimate son

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In terms of the goals or objects of these kinds of ritual activities, they often include healing; protection (from bad luck, envy or malice, demons, magic [!], poison, venomous or aggressive animals); the acquisition of special powers; the acquisition of love or sexual passion; the acquisition of power and control over others; and success, especially in agonistic contexts like games, gambling, business competition, and lawsuits.84 Again, it is worth stressing that these are goals also sought, albeit on a more macrocosmic scale, via public ritual and “authorized” religion, e. g., incubation at an Asklepeion, rituals seeking victory in war,85 and so forth. So what is to be made of these “family resemblances”? Having stressed that magic is a social designation and a variable one, a “discourse of ritual censure”,86 are we forced to conclude after all that magic does constitute a substantively distinct and objective category of ritual? In fact, I would argue, no. The features listed above are remarkable especially for their nearly-total overlap with the features of religious ritual writ large. Here too we encounter formalized movements, exotic (and often archaic) phrasing, appeals to deities or other supernatural agents, the use of special equipment, the manipulation of objects resembling or in contagious connection with divine agents or desired liturgical outcomes, emphasis on the status of the ritual actor, and so on. The features which tend to be associated with magic and not with “authorized” forms of ritual, that is, the distinguishing features of magic, are more or less by-products or co-occurrences of the ritual in question having dubious or contested social standing. The prominence of individual actors in “magical” rituals, likewise, directly follows from their occurrence outside of fixed sacred space and fixed liturgical pattern.87 The association of magic with fraud and quackery is a direct consequence of calling into question the legitimacy of the ritual actor. Functioning as a priest without “credentials”, as it were, the ritualist is obviously and naturally open to charges of fraud. But perhaps the most interesting recurrent feature of the kinds of things alone when he asks you for the magic powers imparted [by] us”); PGM 13.214 (“Find out, child, to which god the day is subject in the Greek reckoning”); PGM 13.343 (“You have now received, child, the sacred and blessed book, Unique, which no one [hitherto] was able to translate or put into practice. Keep well, child”); PGM 13.719 (“Find out, child, to which god the day is subject in the Greek reckoning”). 84   See e. g., Aune, ‘Magic in Early Christianity’, 379; and Czachesz, ‘Cognitive Perspective on Magic’, 170. 85 It seems to me that situations of war illuminate another aspect of the positional approach to magic, and in general to authorization of ritual: even an established priesthood and a fixed temple can be treated as unauthorized and therefore guilty of “magic” when they are constituted by a nation at war with one’s own. 86 So Frankfurter, ‘Beyond Magic’, 257; cf. Horsley, Jesus and Magic, 165. 87  This individualism may also be somewhat illusory: it is, after all, sometimes the case that a single functionary performs a ritual act, but because the act has been prescribed in advance, we view it as a collective act. This is discussed, with tremendous insight, by Thomassen, ‘Is Magic a Subclass of Ritual?’, 64, although I should note that these observations lead him to a different conclusion than I am promoting here.

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labelled “magic” is the performance of the ritual in unconsecrated space (or rather, space that has not been publicly or permanently consecrated).88 In fact, however, magical rituals often begin with the temporary consecration of private space. E. g., PGM 2.147–52 directs the magician to: “Let your place be cleansed of all pollution, and having purified it, begin in purity the supplication to the god, for it is very great and irresistible. Take mud and purify the doorposts of your bedchamber, in which you are observing ritual purity, and having thus smeared on the mud, write the following inscription …”.89 So once again what we encounter with “magic” is a practice more or less completely coextensive with ritual, but undertaken in a context (social, physical, etc.) that is microcosmic rather than macrocosmic, that is private rather than public, that is ad hoc rather than regular and formalized. Under such circumstances, it seems reasonable, too, to make a virtue of necessity, and replace the prestige associated with public performance with a prestige invoked by (a largely factitious) secrecy. A productive direction to take with this material was already suggested by David Aune in 1980: “Throughout the remainder of this study, therefore, magic is defined as that form of religious deviance whereby individual or social goals are sought by means alternate to those normally sanctioned by the dominant religious institution”.90 He further asserts that “Magic is a phenomenon which exists only within the matrix of particular religious traditions; magic is not religion only in the sense that the species is not the genus. A particular magical system coheres within a religious structure in the sense that it shares the fundamental religious reality construction of the contextual religion”.91 This claim must be qualified: for our period and cultural matrix there is no single dominant religious institution, but many competing ones; this means accusations of magic are to be expected from competing actors, and that there will be no universal agreement on, or single authoritative source for, which groups or individuals happen to be “deviant”. Aune’s explanation for magic at the origins of Christianity is not very illuminating either. He argues that earliest Christianity was a millennial movement, that such movements are (apparently, always and by definition) deviant, and that therefore the religious practices promoted by such a group are (objectively) deviant: “Sociologically, millennial movements are a collective form of deviant behavior. Consequently, in line with the definition of magic which we have formulated above, we are disposed to regard wonderworking within the context of a millennial movement as essentially magical”.92 In support, he notes that Josephus describes millennial wonderworkers such as Theudas (around 88 Though it is notable that religious festivals of various sorts also involve, e. g., ritual processions through ordinary, i. e., non-consecrated space. This space is usually public, however. 89  In Preisendanz, 1:28; Betz, 17. 90  Aune, ‘Magic in Early Christianity’, 376. 91  Ibid., 377. 92 Ibid., 389.

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45 ce or so) with the term γόης.93 Setting aside my own disinclination to think of the first followers of Jesus as a millenarian movement, this explanation is unsatisfying because it does not in fact account for the actual ritual practices in question or explain how we should think about them. That is, even if historically accurate, it only accounts for polemical accusations against the first followers of Jesus, something that hardly needs much accounting for in the first place, since it was a common deauthorizing practice employed in a wide range of polemics, and not limited to millenarian groups. More useful for our purposes, I think, though moving in the same general direction, is the theorization of ancient magic proposed by Jonathan Smith, and, rather more sharply, by David Frankfurter. Smith’s work on magic established a Mauss-style definition for it, stressing (again, hyperbolically94) its illegality.95 But at the same time, Smith also stresses a feature that appears most commonly among those actions or actors associated with magic. That feature is mobility.96 For Smith there is “… a large class of cultic phenomena that exhibit the characteristics of mobility, what I would term religious entrepreneurship, and which represent both a reinterpretation and a reaffirmation of native, locative, celebratory categories of religious practice and thought”.97 Ritual mobility is especially facilitated by the tools of literacy: it is the book, fixed and written accounts of liturgy, meditations on sacrificial ritual, and so on, that allow or at least expedite the transfer of location from fixed and permanent sacred space to a mobile and variegated physical context. Smith cites Thessalos as an example of this movement,98 but one could just as easily invoke the Pharisaic transfer to laity and to domestic dining space of the purity rules of priesthood and temple. In “Here, There, and Anywhere”,99 Smith sharpens these observations into a three-fold typology (corresponding to the article’s title) of ancient religion: 1) domestic religion of “here” (home and hearth), 2) state religion of “there” (temples), and 3) mobile religions of “anywhere”. In the Hellenistic and Roman periods, traditional senses of identity and homeland were troubled by massive social (and demographic) changes; it is precisely as a response to this dislocation that we see an increased prominence100 of the mobile religions of “anywhere”, including the activities designated as “magic”:  Ibid. ibid., 376.  95 Smith, ‘Trading Places’, 219; Id., ‘Good News Is No News’, 192.  96  See the discussion above regarding the location of magical activities.  97  J. Z.  Smith, ‘The Temple and the Magician’, in Id., Map Is Not Territory, 172–89, here: 186.  98 Ibid., 189. For the text of this letter, see http://www.philipharland.com/travel/Thessalos. htm. Note Thessalos’ explicit claim that “According to the foresight of my soul and without the priest’s knowledge, I brought a papyrus roll and black ink in order to write down what was said, if necessary”.  99  Smith, ‘Here, There, and Anywhere’. 100 He notes, however, that the religions of anywhere are not new to the Hellenistic and later  93

 94 Cf.

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Late Antique magic, often conceptualized as a religion of “anywhere”, represents, among other things, a fascinating and creative combination and re-formation of elements characteristic of both the religion of “here” and of “there”. Like the religion of “here”, its prime space is domestic, its rituals are small-scale. It may seek relations with the dead or with exceedingly local divinities. But just as frequently it treats with the sorts of deities more commonly associated with the religions of “there”.101

“Magic” thus serves a bridging function between public and private, between national and local, between state (or state-sanctioned) religion and personal needs.102 A similar but more specific argument is offered by David Frankfurter, focusing on a particular instance of the broader pattern Smith describes. Looking at Roman Egypt in the third century and later, Frankfurter observes that instances of what we might call “magic” are very often linked to the Egyptian priesthood.103 The key feature of Egyptian priests, their source of power, was precisely their ritual expertise. With the diminution of livelihood for priests brought about in the third century ce through a combination of economic crisis and the burgeoning of Christianity, they were forced to fall back on their ritual authority at a local level, bringing the prestige of an ancient religious tradition to bear on more quotidian and extracultic matters, and becoming “the local healer, diviner, manufacturer of amulets, and dispenser of spells”.104 While Frankfurter’s analysis is focused on Roman Egypt, he is willing to generalize his conclusions: “… it has happened in the history of religions that, under certain types of cultural disintegration, a professional priestly class will scatter into so many local ritual specialists, each flung back upon his or her lineage, overt priestly traits, knowledge of traditional ritual language and gesture, as the only available means of professional income and social esteem”.105 This is to view things from the perspective of the “magician”. But what about those who hired them? What demand did these experts or entrepreneurs fulfill in lieu of their more traditional, fixed, ritual practices? What eras; manifestations of this function occur earlier as well: “In archaic or classical formations, religions of ‘anywhere’ include religious clubs and other forms of associations, entrepreneurial religious figures (often depicted as wandering), and religious practitioners not officially recognized by centers of power” (ibid., 330). 101  Ibid., 333. 102  Dr. William Richards has helpfully pointed out to me that the rather stark characterization offered by Smith requires qualification. Citing especially ‘An Ephesian Tale’, he notes that the mobile heroes of second and third century novels, at least, are careful to touch base with and show appropriate reverence to local sacred places, temples, and so on. To my mind, this reinforces what I am claiming about the bridging function of these kinds of characters, but does indeed undermine any sharp distinctions between the religion of “there” and the religions of “anywhere”. It also underscores the profound complexity of the behavior here under consideration. 103  Frankfurter, Religion in Roman Egypt, 211, further observes that nearly all of the references to magicians in the ER period show some form of connection with temples. 104  Ibid., 210. For the specific social dynamics involved, in light of the urban-rural divide, see especially 232–3. 105 Ibid., 213–4.

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was the location of mobile ritual specialists in the religious and social ecology of the time?106 It is here that I think Frankfurter draws his most remarkable conclusions. The religion-magic relationship, he argues, can be coordinated (with adjustments) to Redfield’s model of great and little tradition. This makes the kind of thing encountered in Late Roman Egypt, and further, in the use of “magic” in Christian Egypt, an instance of a broader kind of interaction, but one that was (and is) more interactive, and less dichotomous, than is sometimes imagined: “… local religion … is not a partner to dichotomies – for example, contrasted to a putative world religion or official religion – even if we can speak, in Robert Redfield’s heuristic sense, of a ‘great tradition’ representing that sense of authority, hierarchy, and learned tradition with which local communities claim participation. In practice, even the great tradition that local communities encounter and indigenize through texts and doctrines exists only in local or regional forms”.107 In short, to borrow Smith’s language and typology, much of what we view today (and much of what would have been viewed at the time) as “magic” is a bridge, synthesis, linkage, between the power, authority, and techniques of the religions of “there”, i. e., the great and ancient temple traditions of the ANE; and the agenda and goals of the religions of “here”, i. e., household, family, and personal concerns. This kind of observation allows us to consider the wide range of agents – philosophers, priests, scribes, healers, exorcists, and religious entrepreneurs108 – engaging in “magic” in antiquity as fulfilling a distinct and necessary social function, as integrative agents,109 establishing connections between lived life at the local level, and those broader and grander ideologies invoked by civic or national institutions of temple and priesthood. We can further view the back and forth between “legitimate” ritual and “magic” as a fundamental and perennial feature of ritual writ large, and as one of the primary mechanisms by which rituals are changed, reinterpreted, and resignified.110 106  For a brilliant exploration of this question, with significant implications for Roman persecution of Christians, see now Wendt, ‘Ea Superstitione’. 107 Frankfurter, ‘Beyond Magic’, 271, emphasis added. Cf. ibid., 269: “Religion takes place not according to a series of levels of sophistication but rather within the context of the village, the city, the distinct, in dialectic with broader frames of reference, like regional cults, national cults, and textual traditions and their interpreters”. 108  This terminology was broached by Smith, ‘Here, There, and Anywhere’, 330; Id., ‘Temple and Magician,’ 186; but has since been picked up and applied by others in various ways. Cf. Marx-Wolf, Spiritual Taxonomy, 113–4; and especially S. Stowers, ‘The Concept of Community and the History of Early Christianity’, in MTSR 23.3 (2011). 109 Cf. Horsley, Jesus and Magic, 166, referring to the “interaction of healer and healed and supporters in village communities”. 110   H. S.  Versnel, Inconsistencies in Greek and Roman Religion I: Ter Unus – Isis, Dionysos, Hermes, Three Studies in Henotheism, Studies in Greek and Roman Religion (Leiden: Brill, 1998),  116: “The universal tendency to associate prophets of a new religion with sorcery or magic, so typical of various periods in classical antiquity and especially of the Roman imperial period, was not lacking in classical Athens either”. Cf. H. S. Versnel, Coping with the Gods:

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III. In the New Testament In the NT we of course encounter instances of the pejorative use of the language of magic, insofar as the practices of some characters are deauthorized by associating them with the terminology of μάγος or γόης, or by associating them with the kinds of practices that such quacks and/or evil-doers were wont to do.111 These accusations are easy enough to understand. As Aune notes, “In view of the general illegality of magic in the Roman empire, the accusation of magic is, among other things a form of social control used by those within the dominant social structure to label and exert control on those in the ambiguous and unstructured areas of society”.112 Here the effect of such accusations is emphasized: calling someone else’s ritual practice “magical” (or implying it in some way) is an act of social control. Aune’s view however is too limited. One need not have a dominant role in the social structure to employ this rhetoric. Harold Remus is more accurate when he emphasizes that such accusations can be, and are, exchanged between rival groups.113 And the evidence of the NT bears this out. One of the more significant magic accusations occurs in the so-called “Beelzebul” controversy in Q 11:14–23//Mark 3:22–30, directed at Jesus.114 Here Jesus comes under scrutiny as a potentially marginal social figure, and an effort at deauthorization is made against him by rivals. In the Markan version, Jesus is accused of demonic possession, of a piece with the immediately prior (3:19) accusation of insanity (ἐξέστη); but in Q’s account, it is claimed that Jesus’ exorcisms are made possible ἐν Βεελζεβούλ, that is, by his use of a πάρεδρος, a supernatural assistant under the magician’s control.115 Here it is not difficult to see a straightforward attempt at delegitimation: Jesus is accused of undertaking an apparently-positive act by invoking or controlling malign agents, an accusation that would resonate with the widespread perception that maleficent magic-workers do precisely this. Notably, Jesus’ defense in the Q version is not to reject the characterization of the kind of activity he is engaged in, but to re-identify the supernatural power he is Wayward Readings in Greek Theology, Religions in the Graeco-Roman World (Leiden, Boston MA: Brill, 2011), 139. 111  “Magic” (μαγεύω) and “sorcery” (φαρμακεύω) are treated as self-evident vices in the “two ways” material in Barnabas (20:1) and the Didache (2:2). In Didache 5:1 it is combined in a vice-list with idolatry. 112 Aune, ‘Magic in Early Christianity’, 384. 113 Remus, ‘Magic or Miracle’, 127. 114  Horsley, Jesus and Magic, 164, claims that “In the Gospels, moreover, Jesus is not accused to practicing magic”. Cf. also Bohak, Ancient Jewish Magic, 76, who cites this particular passage to make a distinction between magic accusation and demon-possession accusations. 115  See H. Remus, Jesus as Healer, Understanding Jesus Today (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997),  30: “Some scholars have suggested that as practitioners of ‘magic’ used spells and rituals to summon spirits into their service, perhaps entering a trance (‘madness’) as they did, so too did Jesus – or at least knowledge of such practices may have led to the charge that he ‘had’ a demon and used it to cast out demons”.

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channelling as the “finger of God” rather than Beelzebul (Q 11:20).116 Similar accusations are made in Acts, but this time they are levelled by the narrator against rivals of the apostles. A Samaritan charismatic wonder-worker named Simon is accused of essentially the same thing that Jesus is accused of in Q: he is undertaking his ritualistic acts of power for selfish or malign purposes, or fraudulently, or both. All Luke needs to do to convey this is to describe Simon’s actions as magic (Acts 8:9: μαγεύων); he is subsequently won over to the right side (8:13). Likewise Elymas bar-Jesus, a Jewish magician, is out-magicked by Paul, who renders him blind (Acts 13:6–12). Both individuals have strong similarities to Jesus and Paul; but both are opposed to the program Luke attributes to his heroes, and so they are deauthorized; essentially, simply for being wrong. There is no real difference between a “magician” and a false prophet, which latter term Luke also applies to Elymas (13:6: ἄνδρα τινὰ μαγόν ψευδοπροφήτην  Ἰουδαῖον). Both Simon and Elymas are described as figures very similar, in fact, to Jesus: charismatic wonder-workers bringing the religious power of the Jewish God to bear in concrete, localized, and immediately-present ways. Luke similarly describes Paul’s “decommissioning” of a girl with a πνεῦμα πύθωνα, who engages in “soothsaying” (μαντευόμενη), in Acts 16:16–9. The story does not, in fact, make use of the vocabulary of abuse associated with magic: the girl is not called a γόης, for example. Her gift of prophecy is deemed to be legitimate, if derived from a perhaps ungodly source (the πνεῦμα exorcised by Paul in v. 18), insofar as she correctly identifies the status of Paul and his comrades as “servants of the Most High” (v. 17).117 Paul does not exorcise the girl’s spirit as part of an overarching program of opposition to mantic or oracular practices, but simply because she has become an annoyance (v. 18: he was διαπονηθείς). Acts 19 likewise describes Paul and his retinue overcoming practices that Luke characterizes, pejoratively, as “magical”. After Paul has made an impressive showing in the city of Ephesus, Luke states that “A number of those who practiced magic arts [τὰ περίεργα, a word referring to waste of time, or superfluity, i. e., quacks] brought in their books118 together and burned them in the sight of all; and they counted the value of them and found it came to fifty thousand pieces of silver. So the word of the Lord grew and prevailed mightily” (Acts 19:19–20). Again, this is not so much a principled opposition to magic, either on Luke’s part or on the part of his characters, as it is a competitive notice.119 After all, just prior to this Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings, 113.  This is also true of the demons that Jesus casts out, who correctly identify him as son of God, etc. 118 Note once again the connection between μαγεία and writing. 119  Arguably, something similar occurs in the Didache. While astrology, magic, and sorcery are condemned, prophetic speech “in the spirit” is both approved and even protected from examination in regards to its legitimacy (11:7). The distinction between the two probably owes more to the distinction between false religion (εἰδωλολατρίαι, ψευδοπροφήται, etc.) and the true religion practiced by the author of the text. That is, it is only an evaluative distinction. 116 See 117

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account, Acts 19:11–2 tells of Paul performing miracles that seem to involve precisely the kinds of mechanical actions predicated on contact, analogue, or action at a distance that so often (and, as I have argued, unhelpfully) are understood as magic (but which we can understand as acts that channel supernatural power): “God did extraordinary miracles (δυνάμεις τε ου’ τὰς τυχούσας) by the hands of Paul, so that handkerchiefs (σουδάρια) or aprons (σιμικίνθια) were carried away from his body to the sick, and diseases left them and the evil spirits came out of them”.120 Actions that, when Paul performs them are δυνάμεις, are μαγεία or περίεργα when others do them.121 Indeed, the Jewish exorcists of Acts 19:13–6 are described as engaging in exactly the same activity as Paul, but, since they are not authorized to do so, they fail. Luke is therefore describing a rivalry between his own program of local access to a divine power, and those of his competitors, with (of course!) his heroes so effectively providing what others could not, that there was no longer any need for the population of Ephesus to even consider what others had to offer, whether books of magic, or the devotional products of silversmiths (19:24–7). In calling this material “magic” he is deauthorizing practices very similar to his own (or those of his protagonists), trying to establish his own authorization in the midst of a sea of competing “unauthorized” practitioners. Such a pattern finds very precise parallels in other (more or less) contemporary literature. Philo of Alexandria, for instance, identifies the acts of the Persian magoi as belonging to the same basic type of activity as that of quacks and frauds, but claims that the former are exhibiting real knowledge (importantly, derived from authentic sources, whether deeply traditional or divine) while the latter are only ignorant pretenders. Philo claims regarding the latter, for example, that it is “a counterfeit of this, most properly called an evil art, pursued by mendicant priests and altar parasites and by the basest of the women and slave population, who make it their profession to deal in purifications and disenchantments and promise with some sort of philters and incantations to turn men’s love into deadly enmity and their hatred into profound affection”.122 It is this latter form of mageia that, Philo claims, is (properly) condemned by Moses. Likewise, Heliodorus of Emesa’s Aethiopica makes just this distinction, only this time with respect not to Persian but to Egyptian lore. That lore, on the one hand, is powerful and legitimate; on the other hand, some people misuse it. Once again, as with Philo, the source of the distinction lies largely in the authorization of the doer: legitimate Egyptian mystical lore is derived from a life-long education, given only 120 Similarly, touching the clothing of the holy or powerful man in (fulfilled) hopes of a cure is described in Mark 5:27–9; and again in Mark 6:56 (par. Matt 14:36). Yarbro Collins, Mark, 282, notes that Plutarch’s Life of Sulla (35,4) has a very similar story: someone seeks out a bit of the “nap of his mantle” to partake of Sulla’s good luck. 121  Remus, Jesus as Healer, 101, notes that in Acts, “magical” powers are also used to harm: Acts 5:1–11; 9:3–9; 12:20–3; 13:6–11. 122 Philo, Spec. Leg. 3,101. For discussion, see Bohak, Ancient Jewish Magic, 78–80.

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to a special class of people; illegitimate magic, by contrast, comes from those of a lower class, and consequently seeks after lower aims. The narrator comments thus on an individual who seeks a love-spell from him: he was … laboring … under the common misapprehension that the wisdom of Egypt is all of one and the same kind. On the contrary: there is one kind that is of low rank … no good ever comes out of it … it devises wickedness and panders to corrupt pleasures. But there is another kind, my son, true wisdom, of which the first sort is but a counterfeit that has stolen its title; true wisdom it is that we priests and members of the sacerdotal caste practice from childhood.123

Acts of the Apostles is hardly unique, then, in making such a distinction, and in basing that distinction upon the status of the practitioner rather than the nature of the act itself. In addition to accusations of μαγεία, numerous activities very similar to the kinds of practices most frequently labelled this way occur in the NT. The examples of Jesus’ hem or Paul’s apron as described above are just such instances, but, as I read them, simply are expressions of the functions of Jesus and Paul to channel or communicate divine power,124 which extends to their clothing or personal items. The same occurrence is found in the figure of the priest, who (more “legitimately”) functions as a channel of divine power and will.125 These “magical” actions can be somewhat illuminated by appeal to the principles of contagion, action at a distance, and imitation; all features of magic, but also (as I suggest above), features of ritual action more broadly.126 A more interesting and complex example is found in the miraculous healing described in Mark 7:32–6 (RSV):127 123  Aethiopica 3,16, in B. P. Reardon (ed.), Collected Ancient Greek Novels (Berkeley CA, Los Angeles CA, London: University of California Press, 1989), 421. 124  Something apparent, for example, in the instances where God renders his people impervious to snakebites, as in Mark 16:18; Acts 28:23–6. 125  The distinction is nicely rendered by Theissen, Miracle Stories, 233: “More important is a second distinction between institutionalised, charismatic and ‘technical’ forms of miraculous activity. Healing sanctuaries and oracles are recognised institutions of social and religious life. Their legitimation is traditional and achieved by means of foundation legends … . This sort of legitimation is not available to individual prophets or miracle-workers. They are inspired. Their charisma is attached to their person and generally disputed by the public. Distinct from the charismatic is the ‘technician’: soothsayers and magicians exercise their activities as the result of a skill they have learned. They have a ‘technical’ legitimation and can transmit their skill without any consideration of persons”. 126 In support of the notion that Jesus’ healings are ritual activities, see Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings, 100–1, albeit with the caveat (shared by Theissen) that the ritual elements are understated (Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings, 113–4). 127 There is a matching miracle story in Mark 8:23–6. The distinct feature of this story that seems to mark it for many as “magic” rather than “miracle”, as a description of technique rather than divine intervention, is the fact that the action is unsuccessful the first time, and has to be performed twice. But there is a very clear literary reason for this repetition: Mark is encouraging the reader to “look intently”, and a second time, at Jesus’ identity. See Yarbro Collins, Mark, 391–2. She notes a fascinating parallel: an inscription from the Asclepium in Epidaurus, 2nd half of 4th cent bce: “Alcetas of Halieis. The blind man saw a dream. It seemed to him that

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And they brought to him a man who was deaf and had an impediment in his speech; and they besought him to lay his hands upon him. And taking him aside from the multitude privately, he put his fingers into his ears, and he spat and touched his tongue; and looking up to heaven, he sighed, and said to him, “Ephphatha”, that is, “be opened”. And his ears were opened, his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly. And he charged them to tell no one.

In this and other healing and exorcism stories, we encounter not all, but many, of the features above suggested to characterize the “unauthorized” – or, better, unfixed and mobile – ritual actions that may be described as “magic”.128 “magical” feature

in Mark 7:32–6

other Markan examples129

formalized movements

“to lay his hands upon him” 1:31; 1:41; 8:22

formulaic words, odd manner of speech

“Ephphatha”; Jesus sighs (στενάζω)130

1:25; 2:11; 5:41

appeal to deity

“looking up to heaven”

implicit throughout; 6:41 (“looked up to heaven”)

use of πάρεδρος

not explicitly, but Mark ­regards Jesus to be spirit-­ possessed (1:10–2)131

3:22

status of practitioner marked

implicit throughout Mark

1:22; 2:10; 3:11; 10:47

application of materia magica

spittle

8:23

manipulation of objects

fingers in ears

1:31 (“lifted her up”); 6:41; 8:25

physical contact

touched his tongue

1:41; 3:10; 5:41; 6:41; 8:23, 25

evidence of efficacy

“he spoke plainly”

1:26; 1:31; 1:42; 2:12; 5:42; 6:42–3; 8:24–5; 10:52

outside of sacred space

v. 31: “the region of the Decapolis”; “they brought to him”

1:21 (!); 1:39; 2:1; 3:1 (!); 5:38 (private house); 8:22

the god came up to him and with his fingers opened his eyes, and that he first saw the trees of the sanctuary. At daybreak he walked out sound”. 128 For discussion of these features as ritualistic elements, see Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings, 109–14. For Jewish attitudes about exorcism in the second temple period, see the detailed treatment in Bohak, Ancient Jewish Magic, 88–114, and especially 96–7, 104–5. 129 There is no effort here to be comprehensive; I am simply trying to demonstrate that the features found in Mark 7:32–6 are not unique to that story. 130  See Cotter, Miracles in Greco-Roman Antiquity, 177: “The deep sighs of Jesus and his pronouncing of foreign phrases in Mark have been removed by these evangelists (i. e., Matthew and Luke) precisely because they seem to fit so well into a magical tradition of healing”. And see Aune, ‘Magic in Early Christianity’, 396. 131 Cf. Remus, Jesus as Healer, 30.

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“magical” feature

in Mark 7:32–6

other Markan examples

performance by individual

“taking him aside”

1:41; 5:40; 8:23

secrecy

“privately”; “charged them to tell no one”

1:44; 5:43; 8:23132

contested social space

implicit throughout Mark

writing

–

generally not present in the gospel tradition

The broad similarity between Jesus and (other) itinerant magicians, or the spell-workers of the PGM for that matter, has generated opposing scholarly responses. At the more obviously apologetic end of the spectrum are those who insist, on very thin grounds, that Jesus’ activity has nothing in common with magic, as Grundmann, quoted at the opening of this paper, pronounces: “The NT miracles of Jesus have no connexion with magic, or with magic means and processes, like the majority of miracles outside the NT. The biblical concept of God forbids this”.133 While recent work is more subtle about it, here too we encounter the claim that Jesus’ activity, perhaps reminiscent of magic, is in some way set apart from it by virtue of its different ideological assumptions. That is, some feature of the worldview of Jesus (or his biographers) is invoked as in some way incompatible with a magical worldview, even if the activities in question are nearly identical. In these cases, one cannot help but get the impression that the criteria that exclude the possibility of a magical worldview are invoked ad hoc; in this kind of special pleading, any individual characteristic of Jesus’ activity or thought world can be invoked to make such a distinction. We find an especially egregious (and ironic) instance in Howard Clark Kee’s book on magic and the NT:134 To make historical judgments on the basis of arbitrary definitions or theological prejudices does not contribute to constructive inquiry. What Hull has ignored is that there is a fundamental difference between the apocalyptic worldview, which sees the cosmos as a place of struggle between God and his opponents, but which awaits the triumph of God and the vindication of his faithful people, and a magical view which regards the gods and all the other powers as fair game for exploitation and manipulation by those shrewd enough to achieve thereby their own ends …135

Theissen, Miracle Stories, 140–2.  W. Grundmann, ‘δύναμαι/δύναμις’, in TDNT, 2:302. 134 For a critique of Kee’s approach, see Crossan, Historical Jesus, 306. There is real irony in the way that Kee opens his arbitrary definition and his statement of theological prejudice by criticizing arbitrary definitions and theological prejudices. 135   H. C.  Kee, Medicine, Miracle and Magic in New Testament Times, SNTSMS (Cambridge, London, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986),  114. Kee is referring to J. M. Hull, Hellenistic Magic and the Synoptic Tradition (London: SCM, 1974), which argues that LukeActs is deeply influenced by Hellenistic beliefs about magic. For a critique of Hull’s position, 132 See 133

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Meier does essentially the same thing, albeit with a different criterion of distinction: “… it is fair to say that the context of many of these stories within a given Gospel is one of a personal religious relationship between Jesus and the recipient(s) of his miracles. At least implicitly, the context of miracles in the Gospels is one of faith, trust, or discipleship. At times, other motifs are added: the audience responds with worship and praise of God or Jesus; alternately, the recipient of the miracle becomes an unofficial missionary, spreading the news of Jesus’ miracle to others”.136 Gerd Theissen, who quite brilliantly deconstructs the distinction between religion and magic, nonetheless re-erects that same distinction by appealing, as do Kee and Meier, to some essentially ad hoc differentiating feature: “Magic is an individualistic reaction to social disintegration. The magician has no need to be integrated into society. He remains in the dark. It is quite different with the charismatic miracle-worker”.137 And Richard Horsley in his very recent book on magic in the gospels makes much of the fact that the PGM does not contain many healing or exorcism accounts, whereas Jesus’ behavior is marked by these two activities.138 Against such efforts to protect the NT or Jesus from the (apparently scandalous) imputation of magic, a number of rather bolder scholars have asserted that, in fact, Jesus was a magician, or, more technically, that he behaved (or is presented as having behaved) in ways similar and comparable to the people who tended see P. J.  Achtemeier, ‘The Lucan Perspective on the Miracles of Jesus: A Preliminary Sketch’, in JBL 94 (1975), 547–62. 136  Meier, Marginal Jew, 542. 137 Theissen, Miracle Stories, 242. It is perhaps not unreasonable to quote back at Theissen his own comment (ibid., 293): “The method of argument is always the same. The features modern theology finds undesirable are blamed on the period, while the positive ones are assigned to the credit of Christianity”. 138  Horsley, Jesus and Magic, 164: “As they [scholars] gave further attention to motifs of magic in the miracle stories, they assumed that healing and exorcism loomed large in the practice of magic. With no critical review of the ‘magical papyri’, however, they did not notice that healings and exorcisms were rare in the papyri and that the few references to exorcism exhibited features of having been borrowed from earlier Jewish and Christian traditions”. It is difficult to see how Horsley came to this conclusion. Exorcism appears in the PGM in, among other instances, PGM 4.86–7, 1227–64; 85.1–6; 89.1–27; 94.17–21; and 114.1–14. For healing, the list is even longer: PGM 7.193–6, 197–8, 199–201, 201–2, 203–5, 207–7, 208–9, 209–10, 211–2, 213–4, 218–21, 260–71; 63.24–5, 26–8; 65.1–4, 4–7; 90.14–8; 91.1–14; 94.4–6, 7–9, 10–6, 22–6, 27–35, 36–8, 39–60; 95.14–8; 97.1–6, 15–7; 104.1–8; 106.1–10; 113.1–4; 115.1–7; 119b.4–5; 120.1–13; 122.51–5; 123a.48–50, 53–5, 56–68; 128.1–12; 130.1–13; and, among the Demotic spells, PDM 12.21–49; 14.554–62, 563–74, 574–85, 585–93, 594–620, 620–6, 935–9, 953–5, 970–7, 978–80, 981–4, 985–92, 993–1002, 1003–14, 1015–20, 1021–23, 1024–5, 1097–1103, 1104–9. It is also notable that the exorcism spells often occur in the context of (other) healing spells, indicating that the distinction between healing and casting out demons is a very fragile one, and may not exist for our sources at all. Horsley is correct, of course, to note the differences between the Gospels and the PGM: they come from different periods, different locations, and probably different sectors of society; and, perhaps more importantly, they represent different kinds of literary genres. This hardly means, however, that the two bodies of writing may not be compared to each other, as long as these differences are kept in mind.

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to be identified as μάγοι, and/or to those who used the spells of the PGM; and/ or is described with reference to and awareness of the literary depictions of such figures. The position that Jesus was a magician is associated most strongly with Morton Smith’s Jesus the Magician.139 Wendy Cotter shows the numerous literary parallels between Jesus’ healings and those of other miraculous/magical figures in the same period.140 Harold Remus likewise emphasizes these similarities.141 David Aune has contributed immensely to this discussion, dismantling many of the artificial barriers between “miracle” and “magic”, e. g., noting that, “a great deal of theological flummery has been occasioned by the retroactive importation of later Christian notions of faith into the use of the notion by Jesus. Equally erroneous is the notion that faith played no part in Jewish or Graeco-Roman miracles”.142 But we may ask in all these instances, what is gained? Certainly, a very important gain is the extension of the range of comparative material for making sense of Jesus. If Jesus is, or is comparable to, a magician, then we can use texts like the PGM, or accounts of “pagan” itinerant healers,143 or even instances of magic drawn from completely different cultures,144 to understand the dynamics of Jesus’ activities, and that is surely a major step forward. But can we translate these similarities into substantive insights into the behavior of Jesus, or Paul,145 or the literary representations of that behavior? I think we can.  M. Smith, Jesus the Magician (New York: Barnes & Noble, 1993).  Throughout Cotter, Miracles in Greco-Roman Antiquity. Oddly, she dismisses (177) the utility of magic for making sense of the miracles, essentially on terminological grounds: “… there is no suggestion in any Christian material that magic was considered as anything but completely negative, no matter where it occurred. If our purpose is to interpret the intended meaning of the Jesus miracle stories, then, a suggestion of a magical power, such as was understood in the Greco-Roman world, is completely unsupported”. 141  Remus, ‘Magic or Miracle’ and Id., Jesus as Healer. 142  Aune, ‘Magic in Early Christianity’, 397. As noted above, Aune thinks that Christianity is a millenarian movement; what distinguishes him from, e. g., Kee, is that he sees this millenarianism as an explanation for “magic” in Christian origins, not as a prophylactic against it. 143  Remus, Jesus as Healer, 16: “Rather than setting Jesus as a healer apart from pagans (and Jews) of his day, these utterances in fact situate him firmly in a world that was convinced of the power of words”. 144   E. g., Douglas, Purity and Danger, 70–1, analyzes an episode in which a village healer extracts a tooth from the body of a sick man who has been marginalized in his village: “The back-biting and envy of the villagers, symbolised by the tooth in the sick man’s body, was dissolved in a wave of enthusiasm and solidarity. As he was cured of his physical symptoms they were all cured of social malaise. These symbols worked at the psycho-somatic level for the central figure, the sick man, and at the general psychological level for the villagers, in changing their attitudes, and at the sociological level in so far as the pattern of social statuses in the village was formally altered and in so far as some people moved in and others moved away as a result of the treatment”. It is of course quite reasonable to interpret Jesus’ exorcisms in precisely the same way. 145  For baptism – a significant ritual performance in Paul’s ἐκκλησίαι – as a magical act, see M. Smith, Clement of Alexandria and a Secret Gospel of Mark (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1973), 220–36. Even if one does not entirely subscribe to the way Smith defines magic, Paul is certainly a “magician” by the terms of the definition advocated in this paper: he is a mobile 139 140

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How, then, might we redescribe the “magical” story in Mark 7:32–6, and in a way that neither shies away from or tries to explain away (or define away) the striking elements of the account, nor again that sees as its goal merely establishing that Jesus was a “magician”? First and obviously, at the most basic level, the activity described here is a ritual act of contested authorization, and indeed self-consciously so. One might even go so far as to say that the “magical” elements of the story – direct bodily contact, secrecy, foreign words, application of spit – are there precisely to signal (and at the very least to reflect and address) the contested status of Jesus’ authority. For the author of Mark, the story of Jesus is exactly the story of a struggle over status and authority: between Jesus, authorized directly by God (and the rest of the supernatural world as well, e. g., holy spirit, demons, etc.), and the more or less “official” leaders of the people. The latter can rely on all of the institutional hallmarks of authority; pitted against them, Jesus relies on direct authorization from God (1:11; 9:6), and the signs thereof (miracles, scriptural prooftexts, etc.).146 Since contestation of institutional authority is at issue here, indeed is a central structuring element of the whole story, of course Jesus is unable to appeal to those institutions or their functionaries to authorize his power. That authorization therefore must occur in an ad hoc fashion, one which moves around the ordinary and formal mechanisms of religious authorization, and goes directly to the source of their authority, i. e., the supernatural reality that underwrites the institutions in question. Mark’s Jesus therefore is deeply characterized by his extra-institutional actions vis-à-vis a given supernatural reality, and thus is necessarily a “magician”. This is not due to the mechanical technologies he employs in healing; it is due, more broadly, to his renegade ritual activity, which in its turn dictates the “mechanical” technologies he employs. In light of this, we should think of Jesus – or rather the presentation of Jesus in Mark (and other sources, mutatis mutandis) – not so much as a magician, after all, with the enormous baggage associated with that term, but as a mobile ritual specialist, i. e., a performer of religious ritual outside of the context of expected, predictable, and catholic formats. He is a functionary of that supreme social signifier, deity, but a solo or maverick functionary; not a priest, not operating in the temple or directly making use of its appliances, he nonetheless brings its god to bear on the singular, local, personal problems of people who seem to be outside of its reach. Much of this presentation – not all, of course – is a function of location as well.147 As a mobile ritual specialist, Mark’s Jesus takes the temple’s operations, ritualist of uncertain authorization. It is unfortunate that there is not space here to consider Paul under this rubric, but, again, see Wendt, At the Temple Gates; and ‘Ea Superstitione’. 146 The battle is an interesting one: from Mark’s perspective, Jesus has all the advantages, as he is repeatedly and directly affirmed by God himself. But such direct affirmation in fact is indicative of a weakness: the structures by which such divine affirmation is normally indicated are all in the hands of his opponents. 147  I continue to be influenced by the incredibly intriguing discussion in E. S. Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark (San Francisco CA: Harper & Row, 1986).

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or at least some of the functions of those operations, and brings them to bear on territory that is somewhat distant from the cultic center itself. From Mark’s narrative perspective, the absence of the temple is a function of distance: it is away in Judea, and Jesus is operating through Galilee, moving from one town to the next, through the countryside, around the lake, even in the wilderness, channelling the God of Israel directly for those who are distant from his dwelling.148 Also conceptualized spatially is the “distance” between God’s activity, his βασιλεία, and the Gentiles. Jesus moves into these “territories” as well, extending the ritual and effective reach of the God of the Jerusalem temple even outside of Israel. In terms of this framework, the representation of Jesus’ Galilean opponents makes perfect sense. The scribes and, anachronistically, the Pharisees oppose him at every point, including and especially calling out his lack of authority. In Mark 2:1–12 these motifs come together nicely. Jesus responds to someone who has (dramatically) entered his private home (ἐν οἶκῳ ἐστίν) in Capernaum, by extending one of the temple’s primary functions to his case specifically: ἀφίενταί σου αἱ ἁμαρτίαι (2:5). Quite naturally, this leads to questions by scribes (τινες τῶν γραμματέων, 2:6) about the authority of Jesus to do something like this. He responds, “magically”, by demonstrating divine authorization: ἐξουσίαν ἔχει ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ἀφιέναι ἁμαρτίας (2:10). The reverse occurs as well: Jesus’ authority is contrasted, invidiously, in a narrative note in Mark 1:22, to that of the scribes and Pharisees; this time is they who lack authority, and Jesus who obviously possesses it: ἦν γὰρ διδάσκων αὐτοὺς ὡς ἐξουσίαν ἔχων καὶ οὐχ ὡς οἱ γραμματεῖς.149 I think it is significant that these kinds of presentations focus on the kinds of figures who serve functions similar to that of Jesus, and hence are his direct competitors. The Pharisees in particular (who probably were not dominant figures in Galilee during Jesus’ lifetime) operated as mediators of temple functions, especially insofar as they transferred the temple purity requirements for priests onto their own dining (and other) practices. In this sense, the Pharisees, with their “mechanical” and “unauthorized” actions were just as much “magicians” as Jesus; that is, they too were a faction or group which took ritual aspects of the temple “on the road”. This helps us make sense of Mark’s at times emphatic burlesque of purity considerations (e. g., Mark 7:1–15, if original to the gospel): this is not a rejection of “Judaism” or even “dietary laws”; it is a rejection of a competing modality of mobile ritualism. 148 Note that Mark’s John the Baptist is exactly the same kind of character, moving a ritual performance (baptism) whose function is identical to a temple function (forgiveness of sins) into non-sanctified space, and doing so as a self-authorized solo act. John is as much a “magician” as Jesus. This similarity in being unauthorized is cited by Jesus quite explicitly in Mark 11:27–30, and as a defense of his own authority: If you want to know how I am authorized, Jesus says, figure out how John was authorized. 149  It is notable, once again, how this assertion is buttressed with a “magical” action, in this case, an exorcism. 1:22 asserts Jesus’ teaching authority; 1:23–6 describes a “magical” exorcism; 1:27 stresses the authority of Jesus to command demons.

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Also of a piece with this interpretation of Jesus as “magician” in Mark is the way that the tension levels in his gospel are organized in geographical terms. While Jesus experiences opposition from Pharisees and scribes right from the very start – they even plot to “destroy” him (3:6) –, the general mood is celebratory and positive until Jesus turns to Jerusalem. From this point forward, and especially after his arrival in Jerusalem, he is greeted with consistent hostility, and his own tone becomes more and more polemical, to the point that he is engaging in acts of direct violence (11:15–9), while active plots against him are being put into action (14:1–2, 10–1). The emphasis shifts from opposition from Pharisees (and scribes) to opposition from temple functionaries (and scribes), the ἀρχιερεῖς; as always, Jesus returns the favor, attacking the temple itself (11:15–9). By taking on a view of Mark’s Jesus as a mobile ritual specialist, we can see the logic and the novelty of Mark’s presentation. As long as Jesus remains in the Galilee, or the surrounding areas, he is not intruding on the temple’s “turf”; he may not be clearly authorized to perform (some of) its functions, but his approach can be viewed as a kind of supplement to or extension of the temple’s role. In Mark 1:44 this augmentative role is very clear: Jesus instructs a man he has healed of leprosy to ὕπαγε σεαυτὸν δεῖξον τῷ ἱερεῖ καὶ προσένεγκε περὶ τοῦ καθαρισμοῦ σου ἃ προσέταξεν Μωϋσῆς; he accords to the authorized ritual functionaries in charge of purity and sacrifice a role alongside his own. But in moving toward Jerusalem, the stance he has adopted is of necessity more and more aggressive, more and more rendered and understood not as an extension of the temple’s range (or the range of its God) but as a replacement of it. Mark is able to conceive of such a replacement because of his temporal position, i. e., looking back on the destruction of the Jerusalem temple in 70 ce.150 From a post-70 perspective, seeking to replace the temple is not an outrageous, anti-social, or revolutionary act: it is a dire necessity. It only appears outrageous when retrojected to a period in which the temple was still standing. As I have argued before,151 Mark can be understood as an effort, like Josephus’ War, to make intellectual sense of the loss of the house of his God. He does so in a double fashion: by retroactively portraying the loss of the temple as no loss at all, because it had, in fact, already lost its significance long before.152 But he also does so by posing his own solution to this problem as preferential to another solution: that of mobile Pharisaic purity and their (also mobile) teaching of the Law. Thus in addition to a narrative portrayal of Jesus as embattled with respect 150  See, now classically, J. S. Kloppenborg, ‘Evocatio Deorum and the Date of Mark’, in JBL 124 (2005), 419–50. In my understanding of Mark, I am especially drawing from B. L. Mack, A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins (Philadelphia PA: Fortress, 1988). 151   W. E.  Arnal, ‘The Gospel of Mark as Reflection on Exile and Identity’, in W. Braun, R. T.  McCutcheon (eds.), Introducing Religion: Essays in Honor of Jonathan Z. Smith (London: Equinox, 2008), 57–67. 152  Josephus does something strikingly similar when he describes anticipatory omens of the temple’s destruction, especially omens that imply God’s abandonment.

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to his authority, we may also claim the same self-understanding for whoever produced Mark: they viewed their program as one potentially denied authorization, in need of authorization, and competing – especially with Pharisaic models – for authority. “Mark” is invoking the standard utensils of ritual-competence claims in the Roman era for his protagonist, and for himself. Jesus performs “magic” in Mark as a signal, and a result, of Jesus (and Mark as well) being a ritual (and more broadly, religious) specialist, in the service of a specific God and in relationship with that God’s “great tradition”, who nonetheless stands outside of the formal and unchallenged ritual forms by which that God’s functionaries are authorized. In the case of Jesus, this is so in order for him to supplement, extend, and, yes, challenge those forms; in the case of Mark’s author, it is because the formal structures of authorization are no longer there. I speak here of extensions of authority, and of contests over it, rather than more baldly of marginality, since it is not at all clear with respect to what Mark is marginal; there is no objective social standard against which to measure marginality in Mark’s context (whatever the precise details of that context may be): the society in question and its religions are simply too complex. Part of what places Mark in a questionably-authorized position is probably that at this point, there is no single authorized position, perhaps no authorized position at all. In light of this, we should not understand Mark as attempting to replace a temple apparatus – or worse, a “Judaism” – that is oppressive or insensible to the needs of common people. Rather, there is an effort here to localize and transfer temple functions, to embody them in a Galilean context perhaps, but certainly in a post-War and thus post-Temple context. A similar reading can be offered – albeit very briefly – for the magical activity, as well as the critique of magic, that appears in Acts of the Apostles. Much of the activity in Acts that seems to us – and would have seemed to hostile outsiders of Luke’s own time as well – to be magic, should really be understood as abbreviated encounters with deity and his agents. A deity’s power is invested in his or her sacred places, and in the holy items blessed by his or her chosen functionaries. In Acts, however, these authorized spaces are not available, and this is fundamentally because the story of Acts is the story of an extension of authority. The author of Acts does everything he can to authorize and situate the divine power channelled by the Jesus-movement: he creates an official hierarchy and a mechanism of formal authorization, the laying on of hands, manifested by possession of (or by) the holy spirit. Even more striking, the roots of that hierarchy, the apostles, are very deliberately situated in the temple in Jerusalem, and it is to that temple that more distant agents (like Paul) return. Nonetheless, the temple’s ritual reach is being expanded into new territory and to new people (“the nations”) through the whole of Acts, and so is continually in a state of contesting legitimacy. In some instances, this involves God’s power being directly accessed through his mobile agents, or even, via the logic of contact, through their clothes or shadows. Since these particular agents of expansion are not the resident priesthood of a situated

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temple, but are roving agents of the divine truth (like philosophers) or priests of a not-yet-established religion,153 the divine power to which they have access can appear to be fundamentally unauthorized – or only incompletely authorized – in the social sphere. It thus appears to hostile outsiders, as well as to ourselves, as magical practice. And Acts of course is forced simultaneously to reject all other types of mobile ritualism, whether in the form of charismatic persons (8:11) or in the form of written liturgies (19:19), because they are in direct competition with his own project. Luke is quite self-consciously presenting an extension of the ritual space of the Jewish God, this time to the whole world; so of course his protagonists (in Acts) will be presented as mobile ritual specialists of contested authorization; this is why Acts contains such grossly “magical” dimensions, and, at the same time, condemns in the strongest terms those who practice “magic”.154 If we return to the perspective suggested by David Frankfurter’s work on the social operations of “magical” practices, we should not view the activities described in Mark, and in Acts, and perhaps in the narrative tradition that predates Mark (especially the exorcisms), as revolutionary, nor again as an irruption of the little tradition over and against the great tradition, nor yet as the voice of the peasantry or “the people” against the elites.155 Magic can have subversive, oppositional uses and intentions; and the threat of subversion is always present in any unregulated (social, religious, political) activities. But this oppositional potential is less essential to the practice of “magic” than its local and localizing application of “great tradition” ideologies and institutions.156 It is one of several vehicles by which the distance is bridged between the metropolis, the religion of “there”, the great tradition, the temple, the function of collective sanctification, on the one hand; and on the other, the religion of not just of “here” but of “right here”, the little tradition, the function of immediate sanctification as is so evident in, e. g., the exorcisms of Jesus. As Frankfurter states (perhaps exaggerating a bit): “Religion takes places not according to a series of levels of sophistication but rather within the context of the village, the city, the district, in dialectic with broader frames of reference, like regional cults, national cults, and textual traditions and their  I do not mean “Christianity”, but rather the rites of the Jewish God undertaken by Gentiles.  For the very thin line between wandering philosophers (or school-founders) and magicians, see, among many others, MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order, 95–127. 155  Again, it is on this point that I depart quite significantly from Crossan, Historical Jesus, especially 313–8, in which demonic possession is characterized as a reflection of “the almost schizoid position of a colonial people” (317). This may be so (although it is difficult to see why colonial domination must be the single cause of such a condition), but the actual causes of possession need not be related to or coordinated with the causes for, or intentions behind, or contemporary interpretation of, exorcism. If anything, Jesus as exorcist deprives the “little tradition” of a source for its most radical objections to the status quo. 156  Cf. Frankfurter, ‘Beyond Magic’, 269: “… it seems useful to begin to speak more of a local religion, embracing the concentric worlds of village, region, and district, than a popular religion, dependent on notions of ‘elite’ or ‘educated’ religion that tend to say more about the prejudices of the observer than the phenomenon observed”. 153

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interpreters”.157 We have in the NT an activity that smacks as much of Durkheim as of Marx, performances of integration as much as performances of opposition. The exorcisms, in particular, use an appeal to the God of the Jerusalem temple, but apply his power right here in the Galilee, in our town or in the wilderness. And they do so moreover in order to use that deity to reconstruct and reaffirm local relationships, to draw people back in to the community, to repair breaches within it. They do on a smaller scale precisely what the temple does (and is supposed to do) on a larger scale. One final observation: while I have stressed, with Jonathan Smith among others, the role of writing in magic, I have not been able to apply this directly to the magical healings and exorcisms of Jesus. In the gospels and in Acts, the actions that we tend to associate with magic, and that would have been identified as such by hostile contemporary observers, do not generally involve writing. Jesus does not read magical spells from texts; and he certainly is not described as writing his magical words, never mind preparing amulets or conveying spells to others. Yet a connection can be made. Frankfurter’s claims about deracinated Egyptian priests are analogous  – strikingly so  – to explorations of the role of village scribes in the composition of Q:158 in both cases, changing political circumstances led to changed status for state functionaries.159 We can imagine the resulting sorts of “unofficial” activities in terms of deprivation of traditional loci of employment or status; but we can also view them as an effort to take advantage of opportunities – provided by a complex, cosmopolitan, and increasingly interconnected world – to extend their own expert reach, and so also the reach of state instruments (albeit perhaps renegade ones) into new environments.160 It strikes me as extremely suggestive that in both of these cases, the function or effect of such actions was mediative. It is here that I think Sarah Rollens’ work on medial or “middling” figures in antiquity shows its wider applicability. Whether 157 Frankfurter, ‘Beyond Magic’, 269. I want to reserve some possibility of making distinctions – albeit nuanced, detailed, and relational ones – between elite discourses and activities, and non-elite. 158 On which see J. S. Kloppenborg, ‘Literary Convention, Self-Evidence and the Social History of the Q People’, in Id., L. E.  Vaage (eds.), Early Christianity, Q and Jesus, Semeia 55 (Atlanta GA: Scholars, 1992), 77–102; W. E. Arnal, Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2001); S. Rollens, Framing Social Criticism in the Jesus Movement: The Ideological Project in the Sayings Gospel Q, WUNT II/374 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014); G. Bazzana, Kingdom of Bureaucracy: The Political Theology of Village Scribes in the Sayings Gospel Q, BETL 274 (Leuven: Peeters, 2014). 159  I am quite deliberately failing to erect a distinction between political and religious functionaries. 160 Crossan, Historical Jesus,  303–4 claims that Jesus’ use of magic served to undermine patronage relationships. Horsley, Jesus and Magic, 84–5, quite rightly criticizes this view, noting that anthropological studies of magic such as B. R. Wilson, Magic and the Millennium: A Sociological Study of Religious Movements of Protest among Tribal and Third-World Peoples (New York: Harper & Row, 1973) have shown that magic operates within, and develops, relationships and networks of patronage.

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or not our Galilean or diaspora “magicians”, or those who told their tales, had anything to do with scribes specifically,161 they were a form of active and creative intellectual; they were the middling figures theorized by Rollens, transferring and mediating the institutional instruments of governance to local applications, and in the process generating innovations of ideology and practice, innovations that did not overthrow the Roman order but ensured its resilience and capacity to accommodate change. The earlier stages of the sayings tradition, as observable in Q, and of the narrative tradition, as reflected in the tales of Jesus’ “magical” actions (especially as they appear in Mark), reflect similar processes and circumstances: an effort to bridge the gaps between a local, national, and celestial deity and the complicated layers of a multi-ethnic, cosmopolitan social reality; and in so doing make new spaces and provide new opportunities for, and new layers of, functionaries of state and temple.162

161 A

question that merits further investigation.

162 I am very grateful to Dr. Darlene Juschka for her tremendous help in thinking through the

ideas in the paper, especially as they relate to ritual theory. I also want to thank Dr. Heidi Marx, both for helping me figure out some puzzling statements made by H. S. Versnel, and for providing me with page proofs of her wonderful book before it had appeared in print. Ian Brown, Anna Cwikla, Dr. Harold Remus and Dr. William Richards have all read a draft and provided extremely useful feedback. Ryan Woods deserves credit (or blame) for the title of the paper.

Practices

Religion’s Coercive Prayers Zeba A. Crook “For we do not love or envy or fear everyone indiscriminately, but there is nothing that temper will not touch and assail: we grow angry with enemies and friends, with children and parents, yes, even with the gods” (Plutarch, Mor. 455C)

I. Magic vs. Religion James George Frazer famously and unfavorably contrasted magic and religion.1 Adhering to popular notions of social-evolutionism, Frazer claimed that humans had passed through increasingly rational ways of explaining the world around them: from magic to religion and finally to science. By Frazer’s accounting, religion was more rational than magic because magic could not explain why prayer failed, whereas religion could. Magic presupposes that when certain actions and formulae are followed fastidiously, the spirit world is bound to respond. But of course it does not, and for these failures magic had no explanation. Religion, in contrast, ascribed personalities to the gods. Thus, when the gods failed to provide, as they invariably did, a number of explanations could be offered: the god was either displeased or testing the one asking, or was unfairly inattentive and disloyal. As a result of Frazer’s influential work, it became very common to find magic and religion contrasted along a series of binary oppositions. Bremmer summarizes, but does not endorse, the binaries in this way: magic and religion are, respectively, associated with “secret/public, night/day, individual/collective, anti-social/ social, voces magicae/understandable language, coercive manipulation/supplicative negotiation, negative gods/positive gods”.2 These binary pairs are replicated in many passing comments on magic in antiquity, as well as in studies of ancient Mediterranean religion and early Christianity. H. S. Versnel’s Oxford Classical 1  J. G. Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (New York: MacMillan, 1929). 2  J. N. Bremmer, ‘The Birth of the Term “Magic”’, in ZPE 126 (1999), 1–12, here: 11. See also R. MacMullen, Paganism in the Roman Empire (New Haven CT: Yale University Press, 1981), 83.

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Dictionary entry on magic, for example, though not his most nuanced statement on the topic (as we shall see below), defines magic as “a manipulative strategy to influence the course of nature by supernatural means”.3 Even while admitting that the clear boundary separating magic and religion is difficult to find, Hans-Josef Klauck nonetheless places them at opposite ends of a spectrum, along the lines illustrated above, and closes by claiming that “coercion is typical of magic, and petition is typical of religion”.4 And yet, that Klauck admits that “prayers of petition are also found in the magical papyri”, gives one the impression that the distinction is being adhered to even in the presence of contraindicative evidence.5 And finally, in an otherwise excellent and social-scientifically informed textbook on Paul, Walter Taylor describes magic as trying “to force divine and semi-divine powers to do what believers want them to do”, and contrasts it with the petitionary approach of religion.6 In the most current survey of scholarship on magic, Otto and Stausberg offer a long list of its most commonly claimed characteristics, with “coercive” and “manipulative” as the top two.7 Though less and less common, the Frazerian dichotomy continues to exist in explicit, and frequently implicit, ways. The Frazerian distinction between magic and religion extends naturally into the distinction between magical and religious prayer, as magical prayer seeks to coerce the gods and to force them to act almost against their will, while religion prefers petitionary prayer, pleading humbly with the gods and hoping for their good will. In a magical system, the gods are principles that can be manipulated and coerced under the right and properly enacted conditions (words and rites as equals). In a religious system, the gods are independent, powerful, and may or may not choose to act favorably to a request put in prayer. Humans, knowing this, approach with humility and submissiveness. As it stands, scholarship on magic can arguably be divided into three broad categories: first, studies that maintain that religion and magic are distinctly different practices, with the former being superior to the latter; secondly, those that maintain that magical practices are easily distinguished from religious practices, but neither form is superior; and finally those that maintain that the label “magic” is wholly a rhetorical and theological category and thus should no longer be used in scholarship. 3  H. S. Versnel, ‘Magic’, in S. Hornblower, A. Spawforth (eds.), Oxford Classical Dictionary (New York: Oxford University Press, 19963), 908–10, here: 909 (emphasis added). This approach is replicated in N. C. Croy, ‘Religion, Personal’, in C. A. Evans, S. E.  Porter (eds.), Dictionary of New Testament Background (Downers Grove: IVP, 2000), 926–31, here: 928. 4 H. J. Klauck, The Religious Context of Early Christianity: A Guide to Graeco-Roman Religions (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 218. 5  This is certainly the case with Klauck, but also with H. S. Versnel, ‘Some Reflections on the Relationship Magic-Religion’, in Numen 38 (1991), 177–97; here: 179–80. 6  W. F. Taylor, Paul, Apostle to the Nations: An Introduction (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2012), 68–9 (emphasis added). 7 B. C. Otto, M. Stausberg (eds.), Defining Magic: A Reader (Sheffield: Equinox, 2013), 9.

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In the first category, some studies seem distantly aware of the theoretical challenges involved in defining magic and distinguishing it from religion (which they also sometimes admit is difficult to define), but are otherwise untroubled by that debate. Derek Collins, for example, admits that magic and religion “artificially divide practices that for all intents and purposes can be the same”.8 Yet, throughout his book, he repeatedly treats magic as wholly distinct from religion, and easily identified by both its practices and practitioners.9 Absent from this work is any reference to the more theoretical discussions about religion, magic, and the challenges of categorization. Fritz Graf also occasionally fits into this category. A master of primary sources, he treats with disdain the social-anthropological approach that is more concerned with ideology, labeling, and accusation. For Graf, magic is usefully distinguished from religion, and this is easy to accomplish because the actual practices of magic are so starkly different from those of religion.10 Finally, Rodney Stark writes about magic from a thoroughly Frazerian perspective, claiming that “Magic refers to all efforts to manipulate supernatural forces to gain rewards (or avoid costs) without reference to a God or Gods or to general explanations of existence”.11 If the first category of commentary on magic is wholly dismissive of the powerful role that labeling played in the invention of magic, the second is less so. Though thoughtful in its resistance to Frazer’s value-laden approach, scholars from this branch argue for retaining magic as a useful category, though not as a binary opposite to religion. H. S. Versnel allows that “magic” no less than “religion” is merely a mental concept, and yet he maintains that magic retains certain characteristics that invite us to develop an etic definition that is distinct from our etic definition of religion. The category of magic (like religion) might be etic and anything but straightforward, but it is precisely its etic status that makes it still analytically powerful.12 Eliminating the category of “magic” is impractical, according to Versnel, and even a move to situate magic within religion, so as to compare it to other religious practices, he suggests, is not worth the effort.13 For Versnel, magic might well serve as a politically or socially expedient accusation,  D. Collins, Magic in the Ancient Greek World (Oxford: Blackwell, 2008), 25.  Collins, Magic, 167. 10  F. Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, transl. F. Philip, Revealing Antiquity 10 (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), particularly 14–7. 11 R. Stark, ‘Reconceptualizing Religion, Magic, and Science’, in RRR 43 (2001), 101–20, here: 111. 12  David Aune very helpfully delineates the three orders for speaking of magic: the first order, which refers to the vocabulary pertaining to particular practices and ideas; the second order, which refers to the use of magic as an othering label; and the third order, which is the modern, etic approach. He is very good in this article at pointing out where scholars unwittingly conflate third order and second order discourse. See D. E. Aune, ‘“Magic” in Early Christianity and Its Ancient Mediterranean Context: A Survey of Some Recent Scholarship’, in Annali di storia dell’esegesi 24 (2007), 229–94. 13 Versnel, ‘Magic-Religion’, 187.  8  9

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but there were practices that were different from religious practices and that are obviously to be categorized as magic.14 Likewise, Jonathan Z. Smith maintains that though not all accusations of magical practice are based on actual rituals, there are nonetheless such routines that are usefully distinguished from those that occur in religion and that qualify as magical. A third branch of scholarship takes the position that the category of magic ought to be abandoned entirely. Styers comments that “there is little value in attempting to formulate a definition of magic as some type of stable object of study. The term is too amorphous and shape shifting – and its deployment too polemical  – ever to offer up any meaningful conceptual clarity”.15 First of all, so-called magical practices can be found in “religion”, making it impossible to actually discern magical from religious practices in antiquity. For instance, the Greek term pharmakon is used to describe a “potion” – surely the stuff of magic – as often as it is used to describe a medicinal ointment. Neither the act nor the use of a substance is any different.16 The difference lay solely in the parties controlling each substance, and the difference in authority between them. Secondly, “magic” is nothing more than an accusation. To use magic as a category of belief or practice merely perpetuates the power-dynamic and marginalization instantiated by the category in the first place. Because magic discourse is about marginalization and the exercise of power, Kimberly Stratton is surely correct to point out that the accusation of people performing magic often “does little to inform us about the actual rites being practiced”.17 This is commonly expressed in the classic, though banal and overused, expression “One person’s magic is another person’s religion”. I situate this paper in the third category of scholarship. I have my doubts whether magic exists at all as a set of practices, beliefs, approaches, and perspectives distinct from religious practices, beliefs, approaches, and perspectives, and therefore whether it remains a legitimate scholarly category. Even the claim that people in antiquity self-identified as using magic rings hollow, for it ignores the common sociological practice of oppressed or maligned groups self-consciously appropriating originally derogatory identifiers (such as Cynics and Christians did in antiquity, and as some in the African American and gay community do today).18 I even have my doubts that situating magic as a category within reli14  Ibid., 182–83; see also J. Ferguson, The Religions of the Roman Empire (Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 19913), 157–8; J. B. Rives, Religion in the Roman Empire, Blackwell Ancient Religions (Malden MA: Blackwell, 2007), 163–5. 15  R. Styers, ‘Magic and the Play of Power’, in Otto, Stausberg (eds.), Defining Magic, 255–62, here: 258. 16 For similar observations, see M. W. Meyer, R. Smith (eds.), Ancient Christian Magic: Coptic Texts of Ritual Power (San Francisco CA: HarperSanFrancisco, 1994), 2. 17  K. B. Stratton, Naming the Witch: Magic, Ideology, and Stereotype in the Ancient World (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 7. This fact does not, however, lead Stratton to jettison the use of the term as an analytical category of ancient behavior. 18 The claim that because magical things exist and because people could sometimes be heard

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gion – thus, combining emic and etic approaches – entirely resolves the problems endemic in the continued use of the term or category. The limitations of this approach are evident in a number of works. Shawna Dolansky, for example, shows the considerable number of magical practices and assumptions in the Hebrew Bible, thereby illustrating the extent to which magic is religious practice undertaken by the wrong people.19 Certain practices were prohibited  – and called magic  – because they challenged the authority of the Priesthood to perform those same (or indistinguishable) practices – imagined as religion. Yehuda Cohn shows that tefillin originated after contact with Hellenistic culture, and are thoroughly ensconced in the logic of magical practice and thinking.20 Finally, Anders Petersen discusses magic as a way of being religious, not as the antithesis of religion. Thus, he convincingly shows how magic pervades Paul’s worldview and way of thinking throughout his letters.21 Dolansky, Cohn, and Petersen do not contrast magic and religion; rather, they situate magic within religion, as an alternative and generally marginal and marginalized way of being religious.22 There is much, therefore, to commend in these studies, and the approach is very common now. Nonetheless, one sees in the approach a certain holdover from the older perspective, in which magic was the opposite of religion, and wholly alien to it, even if the approach does not assume the moral validity of one over the other. Yet, in order to discern the influence of magic on religion, one must begin from the position that magic is distinct from religion. Yet, if religious Israelites, Rabbinic Jews, and Christ-followers are all thinking and acting in “magical” ways, the more reasonable conclusion to draw is not that magic influences religion, but that they are all being religious, for the distinction has broken down completely. Given the number of times scholars have illustrated the many ways in which magic and religion overlap, it is surprising that some still persist in imagining that magic can be distinguished from religion. Ferguson admits that the distinction between religion and magic was “often blurred”, yet he maintains the claim that “the root idea in magic was proudly claiming to use magic, magic therefore actually existed is extremely common, but never appears to consider the sociological issue I raise here. See E. Thomassen, ‘Is Magic a Subclass of Ritual?’, in D. R. Jordan, E. Thomassen, H. Montgomery (eds.), The World of Ancient Magic (Bergen: Norwegian Institute at Athens, 1999), 55–66, here: 57; S. Pulleyn, Prayer in Greek Religion (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 70, 90–1. 19 S. Dolansky, Now You See It, Now You Don’t: Biblical Perspectives on the Relationship between Magic and Religion (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008), 74–5. The same is reflected in S. I. Johnston, ‘Magic’, in Id. (ed.), Religions of the Ancient World: A Guide (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 139–52, here: 140–1. 20 Y. Cohn, Tangled Up in Text: Tefillin and the Ancient World (Atlanta GA: SBL, 2008). 21  A. Klostergaard Petersen, ‘Paul and Magic: Complementary or Incongruent Entities? Scholarly Use of the Concept Magic, Its Definition, and Prevalence of Magic in Paul’s World’, in H. R.  Jacobus, A. K.  De Hemmer Gudme, P. Guillaume (eds.), Studies on Magic and Divination in the Biblical World (Piscataway NJ: Gorgias, 2013), 181–210. 22 See especially ibid., 198.

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that by employing the proper means the gods or demons would be forced to do something for you”.23 If religion is a concept that refers to a system of beliefs, practices, and narratives relative to superhuman beings, then magic is religious, pure and simple.24 It is not a form of religion, or an alternative to religion. Most of the features and practices typically associated with “magic”, such as ablutions, alchemy, amulets, charms, divination, exorcism, incantation, secrecy, gibberish words, and so on, can also be found in “religion”. But even those few practices that never appear to be replicated by “religion” – say, inscribed lead tablets pierced with a nail and attached to a dead body at burial, or voodoo dolls – ought not to be placed outside the category of “religion” by calling them “magic”.25 After all, different practices exist within “religion” already: some people sacrifice, others do not; some people pray to the dead, others to gods, yet others to God; some people use idols and statues, others reject them outright; and some people use lead curse tablets and voodoo dolls. What makes sacrifice religious and voodoo dolls magical? The categorical distinction is wholly arbitrary.

II. Prayer from an Anthropological Perspective I hope to contribute to this conversation by focusing on the issue of prayer. It is widely acknowledged that the traditional distinction between magical prayer as arrogant and coercive and religious prayer as humble and petitionary is untenable: there is no formal distinction between magical and religious prayer. This point is made most strongly by Matthias Klinghardt, who shows how so-called religious prayers relied on precision for efficacy, which is precisely what many ascribe to magical ways of thinking.26 Thinking about prayer from an anthropological 23 E. Ferguson, Backgrounds of Early Christianity (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 2003), 229.

24  My definition of religion builds upon entries in The HarperCollins Dictionary of Religion (overseen by J. Z. Smith) and the Guide for the Study of Religion. See J. Z. Smith, W. S.  Green, J. J. Buckley (eds.), The HarperCollins Dictionary of Religion (San Francisco CA: HarperSanFrancisco, 19951), 893 [see the entry: Religion, definition of]; W. Braun, ‘Religion’, in Id., R. T.  McCutcheon (eds.), Guide to the Study of Religion (London: Cassell, 2000), 3–18; W. E.  Arnal, ‘Definition’, ibid., 21–34. For magic as religion, see also J. Z. Smith, ‘Trading Places’, in M. Meyer, P. Mirecki (eds.), Ancient Magic and Ritual Power (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 13–27. 25 See the extensive list of practices commonly affiliated with magic, many of which can also be found practiced in “religion”: Otto, Stausberg (eds.), Defining Magic, 2. 26 M. Klinghardt, ‘Prayer Formularies for Public Recitation: Their Use and Function in Ancient Religion’, in Numen 46 (1999), 1–52. See also F. Graf, ‘Prayer in Magical and Religious Ritual’, in C. A. Faraone, D. Obbink (eds.), Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 188–213; See also Pulleyn, Prayer, 91, 64. In the same volume, Roy Kotansky comes to the same conclusion when looking at incantations: R. Kotansky, ‘Incantations and Prayers for Salvation on Inscribed Greek Amulets’, ibid., 107–37, here: 122.

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perspective confirms the formal argument. In what follows, I shall contextualize ancient prayer and religion in the system of asymmetrical exchange that was found everywhere in human society in the ancient Mediterranean, and in the moral economy of honour that served as the foundation for patronage and benefaction.27 Before we proceed with that project, it is worth pausing to define prayer. Malina and Rohrbaugh suggest that prayer is a “socially meaningful symbolic act of communication directed at persons perceived as somehow supporting, maintaining, and controlling the order of existence of the one praying”.28 The strength of this definition is that it is thoroughly social-scientific, but that is, arguably, also its limitation. As a definition, it is almost too expansive. Mark Kiley’s definition suffers the problem of being simultaneously too broad – “an address to or celebration of” – and oddly narrow – “a deity”.29 Clearly addresses to beings other than deities, such as the dead, must also be considered prayers. Danièle Aubriot-Sévin defines prayer as: “toute démarche par laquelle l’homme, ou bien s’adresse à la divinité, ou bien tente de recourir à des puissances supérieures pour obtenir un résultat” (any procedure by which a person either addresses the divinity or tries to appeal to a superior power in order to obtain a result).30 Her term “démarche” is deliberately provocative. By it, Aubriot-Sévin expands the means of communication to include not only linguistic (e. g., verbal and written prayers), but also dance, gestures, shrieks, and even silence. Two strengths of her approach are its creativity and that she is more open than some to including verbal rebukes and insults of the gods as examples of prayer. However, Aubriot-Sévin’s definition suffers from being too difficult to defend. Prayer as located in language, whether spoken, written, or merely thought, is much more intuitive. In this regard, Simon Pulleyn’s definition of prayer most closely resembles Aubriot-Sévin’s, simply replacing “démarche” with “address”: a prayer must involve the direct and articulate address to (one or more) gods, and it must make (one or more) explicit requests.31 The request is key for Pulleyn, though he allows that the request can be implicit, hidden sometimes in praise or by alluding to some past beneficial act. Yet, one can surely pray without making or implying a request. I prefer the definitions posed by David Aune and William Furley. For Aune, prayer is “communication with supernatural beings who are regarded as more 27 It is worth noting that Pulleyn likewise rejects the coercive-petitionary dichotomy, though his basis is the difficulty of assessing what counts as coercive. See Pulleyn, Prayer, 91. 28 B. J. Malina, R. L.  Rohrbaugh, Social-Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2003), 61. 29  M. C. Kiley (ed.), Prayer from Alexander to Constantine: A Critical Anthology (London: Routledge, 1997), 1. 30  D. Aubriot-Sévin, Prière et conceptions religieuses en Grèce ancienne (Lyons: Maison de l’Orient Méditerranéen, 1992), 24. 31 Pulleyn, Prayer, 197.

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powerful than those who worship them”.32 For Furley, prayers are “attempts by men and women to communicate with gods by means of the voice”.33 A prayer communicates, in that it makes a request or it praises. It is directed at supernatural beings, which includes gods, but is not limited to them. These beings are the object of communication because they are powerful, implying that the one praying is able to access some of that power, in the form of benefactions. All of this situates prayer firmly, as Pulleyn did so well, in patronage and reciprocity. A request, obviously, functions within the system of patronage and reciprocity. Praise, perhaps counter-intuitively, does too, in that praise taps into honour, which taps into reciprocity. Even a complaint or lament against the gods, which includes neither praise nor a request, implies a failure of reciprocity, meaning that it also fits into the framework of reciprocity. Thus, a complaint directed at a god is also a prayer, even if it makes no explicit request.

III. Reciprocity and the Gods The vast and sprawling Roman Empire was held together by equal parts fear, force, and favor. One should never discount the power one has with a military force like Rome’s, but, at the same time, one should never underestimate the power of benefactions to turn the empire into “a single enormous spider’s web of reciprocal favors”.34 All of ancient existence revolved around favors and reciprocity. This describes ancient human interaction with the spirit world too: gods, spirits, powers, and so on.35 Lendon observes that “Reciprocity operated between men, women, humans and the old gods, and man and the God of the Christians”.36 Neither person nor god was protected from expectations of reciprocity. The logic of humans approaching the gods for things – protection during travel, marital or agricultural fertility, wealth, health and healing, love and attention, beauty, revenge, justice, food, victory, wisdom, and so on – rests on the hope of a positive response to the request. In order to ensure a positive response, human requests of the gods were placed within a framework of reciprocity: in exchange for sacrifice, the gods will show favor to humans, humans in return praise the gods. The whole system, Simon Pulleyn shows, rests on reciprocity, and myriad 32 D. E. Aune, ‘Prayer in the Greco-Roman World’, in R. N. Longenecker (ed.), Into God’s Presence: Prayer in the New Testament (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 2002), 23–42, here: 25. This definition of prayer is very close also to Werline’s in R. Werline, ‘Prayer’, in E. Orlin (ed.), The Routledge Encyclopedia of Mediterranean Religion (London: Routledge, 2016), 745–51, here: 745. 33 W. D. Furley, ‘Prayers and Hymns’, in D. Ogden (ed.), A Companion to Greek Religion (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), 117–31, here: 118. 34  J. E. Lendon, Empire of Honour: The Art of Government in the Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 12. 35  Werline, ‘Prayer’, 746–7. 36 Lendon, Empire of Honour, 64.

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texts can be found – literary, historical, and inscriptional – whose logic presupposes that system. So much is this the case that Parker can claim that “without this ideal of reciprocity the whole explicit rationale of Greek cult practice disappears”.37 The willingness and ability to reciprocate was a source of agonistic honour, and this applies as much to the gods as to humans.38 Gifts, mainly in the form of sacrifice, were a significant part of establishing that reciprocal relationship. Pulleyn surveys the different sacrifice-related expressions that explicitly articulate the ancient social foundation of reciprocity.39 But it is important to point out that prayer also happened independently of sacrifice, suggesting that it operated on a somewhat parallel level with sacrifice. It is not, it must be stressed, that prayer was a form of sacrifice any more than hymns were a form of, and therefore a replacement for, sacrifice. What allows prayer and sacrifice to function in parallel is that while sacrifice honours the gods through an offering, establishing the expectation of a reciprocal response, prayer praises and honours the god, thereby laying the groundwork for reciprocity.40 Thus, Pulleyn’s apparent skepticism is hard to understand. Commenting on Iliad 8,242, he observes that “It is striking … that no sacrifice accompanies this request. It is as though pricking the conscience of Zeus were felt to be enough to encourage him to act”.41 Pricking the conscience of the god is precisely what is going on, and it is imagined to work precisely because of the honour that is the foundation of reciprocity. Pulleyn shows how the Greek religious language of prayer is a combination of entreaty, supplication, and reciprocity. People call out to the gods, name them, and beg of them, all of which are buttressed by an assumption of reciprocal possibility. The most common feature of Greek prayer is to remind the god of what he or she has received in the past from the supplicant and to act accordingly based on that. Thus, prayer was commonly paired with sacrifice – wherein the sacrifice is the gift and the prayer reminds or makes explicit why a gift has been given – though not as exclusively as Walter Burkert claimed.42 That reciprocity was the 37  R. Parker, ‘Pleasing Thighs: Reciprocity in Greek Religion’, in C. Gill, N. Postleth­ waite, R. Seaford (eds.), Reciprocity in Ancient Greece (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 105–25, here: 105. 38  Lendon, Empire of Honour, 68. See also J. H. Neyrey, ‘“First”, “Only”, “One of a Few”, and “No One Else”: The Rhetoric of Uniqueness and the Doxologies in 1 Timothy’, in Biblica 86 (2005), 59–87. 39  Pulleyn, Prayer, xiv–xv. 40 Ibid., 55, 68. The most persuasive claim that Pulleyn makes concerning the difference between magical and religious prayer is that magical prayer did not involve reciprocity. That is, people making requests using magic did not promise anything in return. Since religion was based on reciprocity, magic must be different. Pulleyn’s approach is essentializing, and thus to be avoided. To claim that the essence of Greek religion was reciprocity means that one did not solely read the ancient sources, but is willing to define religion in a particular way that eliminates other (sometimes non-reciprocal) forms of religious expression. 41  Ibid., 197. 42  W. Burkert, The Orientalizing Revolution: Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age, transl. M. E. Pinder (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 73.

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encompassing framework of prayer is clear when one notices how insignificant sacrifices could be: a few drops of wine, a small animal rather than a hecatomb, and so on. The act of giving is what established the reciprocal relationship, not the size of the sacrificial offering.43 Pulleyn is right that cultural assumptions and expectations about reciprocity undergird ancient Greek prayer, and that these can be seen throughout a wide variety of texts and material remains. But he stops there. He does not consider why reciprocity was established even by the smallest token, the simplest act. Why did ancient people believe that the gods would respond positively not only to the grandest of gestures, but also to small offerings and even addresses to the gods that included nothing more than words of praise? Pulleyn illustrates that this indeed occurred, but does not explain why it took this particular form. The cycle of reciprocity rests on honour because failure to reciprocate brought shame on the one failing.44 It is one thing to acknowledge that ancient people hoped for reciprocity, as Pulleyn and Parker show, but, in fact, the situation can be put much more strongly than that: they appear to have had the expectation of reciprocity.45 This is possible because ancient Mediterranean religion was governed by the same principle of honour that governed the rest of society. It was not only human social relations that were shaped by concerns about honour, but human-divine relations, as well. Humans spoke to their gods the same way they spoke to each other; it is merely that the former is commonly called ‘prayer’.46

IV. Honour and the Imperative of Reciprocity The place of honour in the ancient Mediterranean has been aptly described as “fire in the bones”,47 “a pivotal value”,48 and a “ruling metaphor”.49 Barton correctly points out that “the result of valuing anything more highly than one’s honor … was humiliation”.50 Aristotle called honour the thing “most prized by  Pulleyn, Prayer, 12–3.  Failure to consider cultural context of honour leads Furley to downplay the reciprocal expectation of ancient prayer, claiming the do ut des formula was merely a reflection of “ritual structure”. See Furley, ‘Prayers and Hymns’, 125. 45 J. H. Neyrey, ‘God, Benefactor and Patron: The Major Cultural Model for Interpreting the Deity in Greco-Roman Antiquity’, in JSNT 27 (2005), 489. 46  H. S. Versnel, ‘Religious Mentality in Ancient Prayer’, in Id. (ed.), Faith, Hope and Worship: Aspects of Religious Mentality in the Ancient World (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 1–64, here: 56 ff. 47 C. A. Barton, Roman Honor: The Fire in the Bones (Berkeley CA: University of California Press, 2001). 48  B. J. Malina, The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology (Atlanta GA: WJK, 2001), 31. 49  Lendon, Empire of Honour, 73. 50 Barton, Roman Honor, 114. 43 44

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those of high reputation” and “the greatest of external goods” (Nicomachean Ethics 4,3,10). Cicero famously observed that “By nature we desire and yearn for honour, which glimpsing, as it were, even a little, we stop at nothing and suffer anything in order to obtain it” (Tusc. 2,24,58). The great concern for honour, as Seneca warns, leads to a heightened sensibility to slights. One ought to refrain from concluding too quickly that one has been dishonoured, just because “that man greeted me with too little courtesy, that one did not return the kiss, that one abruptly ended a conversation, that one did not call me to dinner, that one averted his face from looking at me” (De ira 2,24,1). Just because these are actions that dishonour does not mean they are always intended to dishonour. But the concern was real, because in a life lived publicly, the public court of reputation, or what Lendon calls the “opinion-community”, is all powerful.51 Accusations do not have to be accurate to be shaming, for inaccurate and even wholly imagined insults still sting.52 Honour, of course, refers to the need to be valued positively by the world, and its complement was shame and concern about the world’s assessment.53 Honour and shame are not opposites.54 Though directed at ancient Rome, Barton’s comment applies to any honour and shame society: “to have a sense of honor in ancient Rome was to have a sense of shame”.55 Honour and shame in equal measure motivated and constrained behavior: Cicero imagines a healthy republic as one characterized by those who “seek out praise and glory and avoid disgrace and dishonour”. These people are “not deterred so much by fear of the penalties constituted by law as by the sense of shame ascribed by nature that makes them fear deserved censure … dishonour deters citizens from crime no less than fear” (Cicero, De republica 5,4). The power of shame was enough in some ways to render law nearly superfluous: one’s sense of shame and the fear 51  Lendon, Empire of Honour, 39. See also Z. A. Crook, ‘Honor, Shame, and Social Status Revisited’, in JBL 128 (2009), 591–611. 52  Lendon, Empire of Honour, 50. 53 L. Abu-Lughod, Veiled Sentiments: Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin Society (Berkeley CA: University of California Press, 1986); D. G. Gilmore (ed.), Honor and Shame and the Unity of the Mediterranean (Washington, DC: American Anthropological Association, 1987); M. Herzfeld, ‘“As in Your Own House”: Hospitality, Ethnography, and the Stereotype of Mediterranean Society’, in Gilmore (ed.), Honor and Shame, 75–89; J. G. Peristiany, J. Pitt-Rivers (eds.), Honor and Grace in Anthropology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); J. G. Peristiany (ed.), Honour and Shame: The Values of Mediterranean Society (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1965; Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press, 1966); J. Pitt-Rivers, ‘Honor and Social Status’, in Peristiany (ed.), Honor and Shame, 19–77; P. Bourdieu, ‘The Sentiment of Honour in Kabyle Society’, ibid., 191–242; J. K. Campbell, Honour, Family and Patronage: A Study of Institutions and Moral Values in a Greek Mountain Community (Oxford: Clarendon, 1964); N. R. E.  Fisher, Hybris: A Study in the Values of Honour and Shame in Ancient Greece (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1992). 54  U. Wikan, ‘Shame and Honour: A Contestable Pair’, in Man 19 (1984), 635–52; Crook, ‘Honor, Shame, and Social Status Revisited’. 55 Barton, Roman Honor, 199.

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of being publicly shamed was a far more powerful deterrent than legal strictures alone.56 And though many of the sources on honour that survive from antiquity were composed by and for elite males, more ideologically prescriptive than innocently descriptive, it is by no means the case that honour burned only in the bones of these elite males.57 As Barton writes, “The plebian was as preoccupied with honor as the patrician, the client as the patron, the woman as the man, the child as the adult”.58 The constraints imagined to be exercised by shame refer most commonly to the usual social behaviors proscribed in Cicero and Seneca, and described at length in Carlin Barton’s study: licentiousness, insolvency, unchastity, intemperance, violence, impiety, hubris, and so on. This system works because a healthy sense of shame “hesitates … impedes … [and] blocks”.59 A sense of shame, that is a respect for prescribed boundaries and proscribed behaviors, and a fear of being shamed, governed much ancient conduct. According to Lendon, the origin of an accusation did not matter, whether from a high status person or low: “the shouted abuse of the base, anonymous lampoons and verses, anonymous gossip, and anonymous slander all excited acute concern” in the aristocracy.60

V. Moral Economy The desire, both wide-spread and deep-seated, to avoid being shamed explains more than so-called moral life; it also explains the dynamics of the moral economy.61 This includes patronage, generosity, reciprocity, and the cultural distaste for greed and hoarding. Whether one’s wealth had come as a result of one’s skills in business or instead as a result of favor from the gods, honour accumulated around wealth.62 Yet, because both wealth and honour existed in limited supply, any wealth obtained by one was in effect potential wealth taken from all others.63 The balance one had to strike here was a difficult one, for the honour gained from wealth was limited. It is not merely that wealth had a point of diminishing returns when it came to honour, but rather that beyond a certain level, one’s  Ibid., 20, 22.  Lendon, Empire of Honour, 90. 58  Barton, Roman Honor, 11. 59 Ibid., 202. Barton draws these descriptions of shame’s inhibiting, almost protective qualities from Catullus, Livy, and Juvenal. 60  Lendon, Empire of Honour, 51. 61 E. P. Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd in the Eighteenth Century’, in Past and Present 50 (1971), 76–136. The term is taken up illustratively in O. van Nijf, The Civic World of Professional Associations in the Roman East (Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 1997), 19, 76. 62  Lendon, Empire of Honour, 36. 63  G. M. Foster, ‘Peasant Society and the Image of Limited Good’, in American Anthropologist 67 (1965), 293–315, here: 296; B. J. Malina, The Social Gospel of Jesus: The Kingdom of God in Mediterranean Perspective (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2001), 106–9. 56 57

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wealth became a potential source of shame. Because “the poor resented the rich, particularly if they seemed ungenerous to the city”, the wealthy had to be concerned with accusations of greed, hoarding, and miserliness.64 Barton explains that “shame was a delicate system of reciprocities, so Roman notions of transgression had two complementary aspects: taking more than your share and/or not repaying what had been given to you”.65 Put differently, hoarding and greed were taking more than one’s share, and generosity and reciprocity helped to deflect the shame invited by conspicuous wealth.66 Greed broke with the unwritten rules of moral economy, for greed is “the excessive desire to get more – more than one has, more than others have, and especially more than one deserves as a matter of distributive fairness”.67 The accusation of greed functioned much like the accusation of magic: it could be more evaluative than descriptive. The accusation of greed was a form of social control, in which “members of a community enforce and maintain collective sentiments through their private and public relations with one another and, in particular, through their use of shared evaluative language”.68 Consider the 46th oration of Dio Chrysostom. In a time of food shortage in Prusa and resulting anger from the people, Dio Chrysostom defends himself in court from the public accusation of hoarding his considerable wealth.69 He does this by referring to the colonnades he had built and to the money he loaned people. In numerous times and places, it is clear that public agitation could grow and become dangerous when the wealthy were perceived to be greedy.70 Thus, euergetism, or generosity, was a way of avoiding the perception and, above all, the accusation of greed. Benefactions to cities were one way of redistributing wealth: buildings, liturgies, decorative architecture, games, re-paving streets, and replacing roofs. One should not make too much of this practice, for it is not the case that cities relied on benefactors for their survival or functioning. In fact, in most periods, truly large benefactions were rare; small benefactions were far more common.71 Yet, it is precisely here that the value of civic benefactions is to be found, namely in the critical symbolism that is inherent in the appearance of economic redistribution. What mattered most, in other words, was not the size  Lendon, Empire of Honour, 88.  Barton, Roman Honor, 214. 66 “One’s shame created a debt-bond, a favorable balance of credit, when society would give you more than you took for yourself” (Barton, Roman Honor, 211). 67  R. K. Balot, Greed and Injustice in Classical Athens (Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 6; emphasis original. 68 Balot, Greed and Injustice, 7, 56. 69  See also the public anger at wealthy bakers reflected in Libanius’ Oration 1. 70  A. J. Zuiderhoek, The Politics of Munificence in the Roman Empire: Citizens, Elites, and Benefactors in Asia Minor, Greek Culture in the Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 66–70. 71 Ibid., 51. 64 65

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of the gift, but the fact of the gift, for it showed a concern to avoid the accusation or perception of hoarding. That these benefactions did not actually improve the living conditions of the poor illustrates that the symbolism was what mattered most. The public perception, according to Veyne, was that generosity to the city “was not a right the city had in relation to the rich, but a moral duty the rich had in relation to the city”.72 There was therefore heavy pressure on the wealthy and elite to return to the people that wealth they had taken from them, as it were. Given the strength of the social proscription against hoarding and greed, one might wonder whether generosity was ever entirely voluntary. The social pressure on the wealthy to participate in economic redistribution tells us that these people were not, in fact, “free” to hoard, or at least they did so at the very real risk of damaging their honour.73 In fact, the obligation of the elite to redistribute their wealth for public benefit was so strong that Veyne calls them “prisoners of their own system”.74 Martial and Juvenal, satirists though they may be, reveal a certain elite resentment at having to participate in the system of benefactions. The wealthy become mean, cheap, demeaning, or skip town in order to avoid the sportula. The expectation of generosity and reciprocity – that is, giving when honoured by someone – was so powerful it can hardly be thought of as voluntary. Barton concludes, “the great man … needed to demonstrate his accessibility, opening his door to his clients each morning”.75 Honour was at stake and was also the motivation for generosity, for the “rich man who stayed out of politics [and therefore did not contribute to the city from his wealth] would have lived only a diminished life and maintained his rank [or honour] poorly”.76 The “euergetistic spirit”, which reigned in the Greco-Roman Mediterranean, “encouraged preference for conspicuous giving rather than conspicuous consumption, patronage rather than egoistic luxury”.77 Van Nijf observes that the thirst for public acknowledgement and honour made the elite susceptible to pressure to be generous: Clients had a certain power over their patrons as well. It has often been observed that any kind of gift exchange must contain an element of uncertainty to distinguish it from a transaction in the marketplace, and this was certainly the case where patronage and euergetism were concerned … Appearances were kept up by means of some collectively concerted make-believe: patrons were presented as disinterested benefactors, cities as autonomous political units. This practice raised the stakes for both parties, but it offered 72 P. Veyne, Bread and Circuses: Historical Sociology and Political Pluralism, transl. B. Pearce (London: Penguin, 1990), 136. 73 P. Garnsey, R. P.  Saller, The Roman Empire: Economy, Society, and Culture (Berkeley CA: University of California Press, 1987), 150. 74  Veyne, Bread and Circuses, 120. 75  Barton, Roman Honor, 155. See also Pliny’s comments on what makes a good emperor (Panegyricus 34,3). 76  Veyne, Bread and Circuses, 123. 77 Ibid., 116.

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the clients, in particular, scope to use these exchanges as a social strategy to make their own presence more clearly felt.78

King, emperor, and god alike were as susceptible as anyone to the shame of accusations of stinginess, hoarding, and greed.79 “By definition [the king] gives more than he receives”, as did any god worth worshipping.80 According to Venye, “Giving is the kingly gesture par excellence”, and social unrest, resentment, and rebellion all became possible in the absence of royal giving.81 The same applies, of course, to the gods. People who honoured the gods with a loyalty, sacrifice, and devotion that went unreciprocated still had options. If the gods did not respond positively to prayers and requests, then people would naturally lose “their faith in the workings of reciprocity”.82 And they did, in a variety of ways! Homer’s Chryses had to remind Apollo, “If ever I have roofed a temple well for you or if ever I have offered the pleasing thighs of bulls or goats, fulfill for me this prayer” (Iliad 1,39). Even the comedian Aristophanes’ work reflects the same mentality, “Come here therefore great Goddess, appear to us, / Now, if ever, we pray, / Bring thou victory dear to us, / Crown your horsemen today” (Knights 591–4). People knew that the gods were liable to respond positively if approached with gifts and praise, but they sometimes needed reminding. The loss of faith could be more serious than a bit of doubt, however; it could result in abandonment.83 In 141 ce, the perpetually sick Aelius Aristides turned to the healing god Sarapis, and devoted Oration 45 to this god. In it, Aristides claims that the deeds of Sarapis number so many that even if he were in possession of “the mouths of all men and the sum of all human vocal power” he would not be able to recount them all (Oration 45,16).84 Presumably, this is why Aristides turned to Sarapis when he was in need, because Sarapis “passes through every aspect of our lives and no place has been left untouched by this god … [he] is a benefactor in every way” (Oration 45,19).85 What must it have taken for Aristides to abandon Sarapis and instead turn to Asclepius? Another several years of sickness, which finally forced him to conclude that Sarapis does not respond to honour and devotion with reciprocity.  Van Nijf, Professional Associations, 119. Empire of Honour, 108, 122–3. 80 P. Bonte, ‘“To Increase Cows, God Created the King”: The Function of Cattle in Intralacustrine Societies’, in Id., J. G.  Galaty (eds.), Herders, Warriors, and Traders: Pastoralism in Africa (Boulder CO: Westview, 1991), 62–86, here: 74; see also Malina, The Social Gospel of Jesus, 107. 81  Veyne, Bread and Circuses, 228. 82  Pulleyn, Prayer, 35. 83  Ibid., 200. 84  Translations from C. A. Behr, Aelius Aristides: The Complete Works 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1981). 85 Translations from ibid. 78

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If the gods were benefactors, then worshippers were clients, and, in this way, human worshippers of the gods had the same power as clients of human patrons. One should not, of course, overestimate the power human clients had over their human patrons and benefactors. Nonetheless, it is also clear that the culturally conditioned expectation of reciprocity and the loss of honour due to public outrage and criticism were two sources of client power. The loss of clients or worshippers brought with it a loss of honour and prestige. And a god with no worshippers, the fate of so many gods in the history of religion, is a dead god. Versnel observes how frequently people were angered by deaf gods, concluding that “A god who did not lend an ear had to beware: people easily decided that the god was not worth much or perhaps did not even exist. A large number of Roman gods died owing to their loss of function”.86 As if fully aware of this very potential, the angry writer of P.Oxy. VIL 1065 shows venomous contempt for the gods who had failed him: “just as the gods did not spare me, likewise neither will I spare the gods”. This is not a veiled threat, and the writer knows he can make good on it. Aeschylus’ Orestes (Libation Bearers 255 ff.) expresses something similar when he asks Zeus, “If you destroy the nestlings of a man who sacrificed and honoured you greatly, from what like hand will you receive the gift of a fine banquet”?87 The gods could not go on ignoring the needs of the people who honoured them, and it is as if those people registered that they were in fact the gods’ only source of honour. Martial perceptively writes in an epigram that “He does not make gods who sculpts sacred faces into gold or marble; he makes gods who asks of them” (Ep. 8,24,5–6). It is the act of requesting that creates a god, for a plea honours the recipient, but it was the benefaction and reciprocity that ensured the god grew in honour, reputation, and adoration. Failure in reciprocity brought obscurity, tantamount to death for a god. This is what was at stake for the gods, and humans do not appear to be too shy to remind them. That there existed a powerful expectation of divine reciprocity is evidenced in the complaint tradition, for without that expectation, the indignation of these addresses and prayers becomes inexplicable: surely when one has no expectation of kindness, its absence is not surprising. But the writers of these various complaints seem surprised. Of course, Zeus receives a considerable amount of complaint in the literary traditions, given his status among the gods. Homer (Iliad 8,236–44) has Agamemnon rebuke “Father Zeus” for failing to help him despite his having never failed to honour the great god. This is no way to treat someone who has consistently offered sacrifice. In a Theognis poem (6,373), the writer is “astonished” that one as “beloved” (phile) as Zeus possesses the callousness to treat the just and the wicked equally. Either Zeus is unable to tell the difference, or he can tell the difference, but refuses to favor the just. Either  Versnel, ‘Religious Mentality’, 41. from Pulleyn, Prayer, 200.

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way, the indignation of the writer is real. This is a sharply worded complaint, and the force of thaumazō is overlooked in Pulleyn’s suggestion that the tone of the address is “almost chatty”.88 Euripides puts it even more sharply, however, in Amphitryon’s address to Zeus, in which he claims to have defeated the god at virtue, despite being a mere mortal, and closes with the polemical, “Either you are a stupid god or one that is not just” (Hercules furens 346). Euripides (Cyclops 354 ff.) has Odysseus question why people persist in believing that Zeus is a god when his impotence reveals him to be nothing at all. In a cultural system where refusal or, even worse, an inability to reciprocate when one was honoured or petitioned carried serious consequences, it can no longer be said that prayer of the gods, so-called “religion”, was not coercive. Clearly prayers and complaints were intended to coerce the gods into reciprocity. Supplication and coercion were not antonymous, for in this cultural setting to supplicate a divine patron was indeed to coerce and to manipulate. Malina perceptively stresses the manipulation that was inherent in client-patron exchanges: in a limited good society, one could not get ahead by hard work because the goods one sought were already in the hands of the few elite. Therefore, the successful non-elite person learned “how to manipulate other individuals to one’s advantage”.89 Similarly, in an analysis of the strategies employed by people to “get what they want”, Malina focuses on those strategies that are available to subordinates, namely inducement and influence. Malina suggests that in an ancient Mediterranean context, sacrifice is a form of inducement, while prayer is a form of influence. That is, one induces someone to act by giving gifts or services (such as sacrifice), and one influences those in positions of power by requesting, petitioning, honouring, and so on.90 Malina’s description of prayer within patronage makes it difficult to distinguish magic from religion on the grounds that the former is manipulative and the latter is not, since manipulation was at the heart of all asymmetrical exchanges. It is equally noteworthy that Meyer and Smith, commenting on magical prayer, claim that magic resembled “nothing so much as the system of Roman patronage, where a complicated social network enabled individuals to exert pressure based not on power they themselves held but on their relation to a greater personage”.91 Asymmetrical exchanges of all sorts required manipulation and coercion, subtly applied, whether those exchanges happened between people or between people and the spirit world.92 88 Ibid.,

199. The New Testament World, 102. 90  B. J. Malina, ‘Mediterranean Sacrifice: Dimensions of Domestic and Political Religion’, in BTB 26 (1996), 26–44, here: 29. 91  Meyer, Smith, Ancient Christian Magic, 5. 92  G. Benavides, ‘Magic’, in R. A. Segal (ed.), Blackwell Companion to the Study of Religion (Malden MA: Blackwell, 2006), 295–308, here: 297. 89 Malina,

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The Lord’s Prayer, coupled with other references to prayer in the gospels, effectively illustrates a number of the features and themes discussed in this paper. The first is the assurance and expectation of reciprocity. Like Homer’s Agamemnon, God is called patēr, and those who pray are told, elsewhere, that they can be wholly confident that the God they honour will meet their requests: later in the Sermon on the Mount, Matthew has Jesus say that “all who ask receive, and whoever seeks finds, and to the one who knocks it will be opened”, as well as “all things you ask in prayer, believing, you shall receive” (Matt 21:22). The writer of the gospel of Matthew shares the same expectation of reciprocity as did everyone around him. And ancient Mediterranean readers of this book would have been well-conditioned in the same cultural expectation: to address the god of Israel with honour “may your name be made holy, may your kingdom come, may your will be done on earth like in heaven” – obligated God to reciprocate, and a truly honourable god could be depended upon to do so. Secondly, in this cultural environment, and with honour on the line, we must conclude that the Lord’s Prayer aimed to coerce God every bit as much as any ancient prayer did, on the premise that an honoured patron deity was expected to reciprocate: in this case with daily bread, debt forgiveness, and safety from evil. And we ought not to miss or, even worse, dismiss the imperative voice that is used in the Lord’s Prayer. William Mounce explains away the imperative here by inventing a theologically pleasing form of the imperative, which he calls the Imperative of Entreaty. After all, he preaches, “You do not ‘command’ God to do something; you ‘entreat’ him.”93 Others problematize the imperative from the perspective of magic: the imperative elthe, when used to address gods, was fundamentally disrespectful.94 Who but the most arrogant would dare to issue a command to a god? It was also claimed that the imperative’s place within the magical papyri was further proof of an inappropriate and arrogant way to address a god. But Pulleyn flatly rejects this line of argument: erchomai in the imperative is found too often in non-magical contexts. There is nothing inherently coercive, Pulleyn states, about the imperative elthe. In fact, he concludes, “individual words are not inherently magical or religious. They become so by their contexts”.95 There are no words or grammatical forms exclusive to either magic or religion. If my argument here is sound, Pulleyn is not wholly correct in this case. Using the imperative elthe is coercive because it is part of how people address the gods, not because it is unique to magic. 93 W. D. Mounce, Basics of Biblical Greek Grammar (Grand Rapids MI: Zondervan, 20093), 314. In contrast, one searches in vain for such a form of the imperative in non-Christian Greek grammars: see H. W. Smyth, G. M.  Messing, Greek Grammar (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1984); A. H. Chase, H. Phillips, A New Introduction to Greek (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1969). 94  See the summary in Pulleyn, Prayer, 221–6. 95 Ibid., 137, n. 15.

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And finally, on this basis, it becomes pointless, if not impossible, to distinguish between magical and religious prayer, at least on the claim that the former was coercive and manipulative, and the latter supplicative and submissive. Magic as a category lacks the necessary coherence that allows one to distinguish it from so-called religion. There is simply too much overlap between magic and religion, thus causing the category to necessarily break down. In magic, one finds “everything from humble supplications to sublime praise of deity to threats and strict injunctions to deities and daemons, from ways to make people well to ways to make them ill, from divination through spirits of the dead to ways to ascend to the heavens”.96 The overlap between magic and religion is apparent in prayer and other addresses to the gods and deities, in which supplication, lament, indignation, entreaty, frustration, command, and manipulation are not the sole domain of magic or religion. Alderink and Martin point out that “Submission and coercion are less distinctions between religion and magic, and more differing strategies employed by suppliants in their conduct of communication in an asymmetrical religious framework”.97

VI. Conclusion In a recent study, Otto and Stausberg recommend replacing the second-order category of magic with the model of “magicity”. This term acknowledges that certain stable patterns carrying certain associations and assumptions exist cross-culturally and in both religion and magic. Therefore, the pattern of magicity does not necessarily mean “magic” is being viewed. The example they provide of a cross-culturally consistent practice dovetails helpfully with this paper: “the ritual use of words and their perceived direct efficacy”.98 They suggest indexing this as MWOR, for Magicity [words]. Other indices of magicity pertain to places, signs, objects, desire, harm, and so on. The benefit of MWOR, they argue, is that it renders “irrelevant the … disputes over whether a specific rite using efficacious words is actually ‘religious’ or ‘magical’”.99 This represents a creative solution to a long-standing problem, but its form is off-putting. In addition, I would suggest that a usable category for MWOR already exists: prayer. To distinguish between magical and religious prayer is to perpetuate theological and polemical categories.100  H. Remus, ‘“Magic”, Method, Madness’, in MTSR 11 (1999), 267–8. L. H.  Martin, ‘Prayer in Greco-Roman Religions’, in M. C. Kiley (ed.), Prayer from Alexander to Constantine: A Critical Anthology (London: Routledge, 1997), 123–7, here: 125; emphasis added.  98  Otto, Stausberg, Defining Magic, 11.  99  Ibid. 100  C. R. Phillips, ‘The Sociology of Religious Knowledge in the Roman World’, in ANRW 2.16.3 (1986), 2711–33, here: 2707, 2711.  96

 97 L. J. Alderink,

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I am not the first to argue for eliminating the category of magic from the scholarly study of religion. If I have contributed anything to the debate, it is admittedly only on the discrete topic of whether there can be said to be any difference between magical and religious prayer. Given the profound expectation of reciprocity from the gods, evidenced in the indignation and anger when reciprocity broke down, and given the cultural framework of honour, like fire in their bones, the prayers of those practicing religion were every bit as coercive as the prayers of those practicing magic. In a recent short entry on magic, Radcliffe Edmonds III claims that magical prayers were normally supplicative and only rarely coercive.101 Situated in a cultural framework of patronage and reciprocity, all prayer is coercive, even if one can distinguish on other grounds between socalled magical and religious prayer. With so much at stake in this culture, reciprocity was not voluntary. It could be put off or delayed, but only for a time commensurate with one’s honour reserves, that is, one’s power and influence. The gods naturally had great honour reserves; humans gave them considerable latitude when it came to reciprocity, or its failure. They believed that the gods were rational, but also moody. Thus, honour initially unreciprocated might be attributed to a displeased god. But even with the gods, the longer reciprocity failed, the greater the potential for lost honour. And gods dishonoured were eventually abandoned, and then soon forgotten. Perhaps it is too much to conclude based on an analysis of prayer alone that there is no distinction at all between religion and magic, but hopefully it has become apparent that distinguishing between magical and religious prayer is impossible, not only formally, but also anthropologically.

101  R. Edmonds III, ‘Magic’, in Orlin (ed.), The Routledge Encyclopedia of Mediterranean Religion, 559–62, here: 561.

Der Wanderprediger und sein Anhang als „Lehrer“ und „Schüler“: Jesus und seine Jünger im Rahmen der römischen Lehrertopographie Martin Ebner Unter streng historischen Gesichtspunkten betrachtet war weder Jesus ein Lehrer noch waren seine Jünger Schüler. Es scheint sogar fraglich zu sein, ob Jesus Lesen und Schreiben konnte;1 geschweige denn, dass er andere darin unterrichten wollte, von höheren Studien ganz abgesehen. Der historische Jesus war von Beruf Bauhandwerker (τέκτων: Mk 6,3),2 also vermutlich als Lohnarbeiter tätig, bevor er als Wanderradikaler, ohne Familienanbindung und festen Wohnsitz („Haus“) bzw. lokal gebundene Tätigkeit, rund um die kleinen Städte am Nordufer des Sees Genezareth unterwegs war.3 Dabei ist es aufschlussreich, dass Jesus außerhalb der Evangelien (samt Apostelgeschichte) nirgends als „Lehrer“ (διδάσκαλος) bezeichnet wird, gerade auch nicht in den viel früher verfassten Paulusbriefen.4 Genauso wenig ist außerhalb der Evangelien (und der Apos1 V. Tropper, Jesus Didáskalos: Studien zu Jesus als Lehrer bei den Synoptikern und im Rahmen der antiken Kultur‑ und Sozialgeschichte, ÖBS 42 (Frankfurt a. M.: Lang, 2012), 118 (als Ergebnis der historischen Erkundungen). C. Keith, The Pericope Adulterae: The Gospel of John, and the Literacy of Jesus, NTTSD 38 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), liest Joh 8,6.8 als Demonstration seiner Literalität, die – gemäß antiken Kategorien beurteilt – nicht mit Intelligenz verwechselt werden darf. Vgl. C. Keith, Jesus’ Literacy: Scribal Culture and the Teacher from Galilee, LNTS 413 (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 6 f.; die ganz unterschiedliche Rezeption bezüglich der Literalität Jesu bereits in den Evangelientraditionen will Keith im Konzept des „social memory“ auf Eindrücke der Augenzeugen zurückführen: „He was not a scribal-literate teacher, but managed to convince many that he was“ (191). 2  Vgl. W. Bösen, Galiläa: Lebensraum und Wirkungsfeld Jesu (Freiburg i. Br.: Herder, 1998), 126; Tropper, Jesus Didáskalos, 118.167 f. Sir 38,24–34 setzt die Schriftgelehrten, die sich dem Studium des Gesetzes widmen und deshalb als Ratgeber gefragt sind, ganz scharf ab von den Bauern und Handwerkern, die dafür keine Muße haben, sondern ganz auf ihr Gewerbe konzentriert sind; vgl. M. Ebner, ‚„Weisheitslehrer“ – eine Kategorie für Jesus? Eine Spurensuche bei Jesus Sirach‘, in J. Beutler (Hg.), Der neue Mensch in Christus: Hellenistische Anthropologie und Ethik im Neuen Testament, QD 190 (Freiburg i. Br.: Herder, 2001), 99–119; hier: 102–4. 3 Vgl. M. Ebner, Jesus von Nazaret: Was wir von ihm wissen können (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 20122); G. Theissen, A. Merz, Der historische Jesus: Ein Lehrbuch (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 20114). 4  Die Rede vom τόπος διδαχῆς in Röm 6,17 bezeichnet den „Kern der Lehre“, womit das „Evangelium“ des Paulus gemeint ist, und hat nichts mit Jesus als Lehrer zu tun; vgl. M. Wolter, Der Brief an die Römer. Teilband 1: Röm 1–8, EKK 6/1 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag; Düsseldorf: Patmos, 2014), 398.

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telgeschichte) von „Schülern“ (μαθητής) die Rede. Und das, obwohl es längst „Lehrer“ in frühchristlichen Gemeinden gibt; man lese nur Apg 13,1 (Antiochia); Röm 12,7; 1 Kor 12,28 f.; Eph 4,11; 1 Tim 2,7; 2 Tim 1,11; Jak 3,1.5 Es sind also erst die Evangelien, allen voran das Markusevangelium, die durchaus unterschiedlich, aber konstant Jesus als Lehrer und seine Anhänger als Schüler stilisieren.6 Insofern stellt sich die Frage, warum und wie die Evangelien Jesus als welche Art von Lehrer darstellen und inwiefern die Traditionen über Jesus Anhaltspunkte dafür geliefert haben können.

I. Methodische Vorüberlegungen Aus dieser historischen Perspektive ergeben sich methodische Konsequenzen für die Textauswertung: (1) Es ist dann eben nicht die Frage zu klären, ob der historische Jesus tatsächlich als Lehrer bzw. Rabbi wahrgenommen worden ist7 bzw. sich als solcher stilisiert hat, sondern es geht vielmehr um die Frage, inwiefern die Evangelien den erzählten Jesus als Lehrer präsentieren. (2) Es macht wenig Sinn, in erster Linie nach den Besonderheiten des Lehrers Jesus zu fragen bzw. danach, worin sich Jesus von den Lehrern seiner Zeit unterscheidet; denn dass in den Jesustraditionen vieles nicht zu einem Lehrer passt, darf nicht verwundern, wenn der historische Jesus gar kein Lehrer sein wollte. Es gilt vielmehr auf die Oberflächenstrukturen der Evangelien zu achten, die Assoziationen zu Lehrern und Schülern aufkommen lassen – und das betrifft gattungstypische Elemente genauso wie spezifische Motive. (3) Außerdem kann weder der erzählte Jesus in den Evangelien auf der einen Seite mit den Lehrern der Antike auf der anderen Seite verglichen werden – noch umgekehrt. Vielmehr ist für jedes Evangelium einzeln zu eruieren, welche Arten von Lehrer-Assoziationen im Vordergrund stehen. Anders gesagt: Welche Segmente aus dem großen Pool der sozialgeschichtlich eruierbaren Lehrer-Schüler-Kommunikation bzw. der literarisch erhaltenen Lehrer-Schüler-Semantik aktiviert werden. Wenn sich zusätzlich zeigen lässt, dass diese Stilisierungen redaktionell an den Überlieferungsstoff herangetragen worden sind, dann kann man ziemlich sicher davon ausgehen, dass damit eine bestimmte Intention verfolgt wird. (5) Diese kann erst in einem letzten Schritt – 5 Vgl. J. C. Salzmann, ‚Lehrer ohne Schulen: Eine Skizze zur Glaubensunterweisung in den neutestamentlichen Gemeinden‘, in LTK 35 (2011), 71–91, hier: 77; die Schlussfolgerung von S. Byrskog, ‚The Didactic Identity and Authority of Jesus – Reconsidered‘, in Id., T. Holmén, M. Kankaanniemi (Hgg.), The Identity of Jesus: Nordic Voices, WUNT II/373 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 99–109, hier: 101, ist mir deshalb unverständlich: „… This statistical feature is a firm indication that the early Jesus movement unanimously recalled Jesus as teacher“. 6  Vgl. Byrskog, ‚Identity‘, 100 f.; S. Pellegrini, ‚Jesus der Lehrer  – Einzigartigkeit und Modell‘, in ThGl 100 (2010), 463–78. 7 So Pellegrini, ‚Jesus der Lehrer‘.

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im Zusammenhang mit der zeitgeschichtlichen Einordnung des jeweiligen Evangeliums und seiner Diskursfelder – eruiert werden. Um ein entsprechendes Sensorium zu entwickeln, werden wir zunächst typische sozialgeschichtliche Lehrer-Schüler-Konstellationen vorstellen, in einem zweiten Schritt im Blick auf die Darstellung in den Evangelien nach typischen literarischen Erkennungsmerkmalen fragen, um dann die spezifischen Lehrerakzente in den einzelnen Evangelien zu markieren und, soweit möglich, in ihrer Intention zu erklären versuchen. In einem letzten Schritt kann dann ein Blick auf den historischen Jesus geworfen und danach gefragt werden, inwiefern das, was man sich von ihm erzählt hat, tatsächlich Anhaltspunkte dafür geben konnte, ihn als Lehrer zu stilisieren – und was das im Blick auf die Selbst-Identifikation der Jesusbewegung und ihrer dadurch zum Ausdruck gebrachten Einordnung in die Gesellschaft am Ende des ersten Jahrhunderts bedeutet.

II. Lehrer-Schüler: Eine sozialgeschichtliche Typisierung Die Grundkonstellation des Lehrer-Schüler-Verhältnisses ist dadurch gekennzeichnet, dass ein Lehrer (διδάσκαλος) als eine an Sachverständnis überlegene Instanz in systematischer Anleitung ein bestimmtes Wissen an Schüler (μαθητής) vermittelt, die seinen Unterricht besuchen.8 Die typische Pose ist das Lehren (und Lernen) im Sitzen (καθίζων).9 Für eine differenziertere sozialgeschichtliche Typisierung greife ich auf die vier Kategorien zurück, die Werner Rieß für die situative Erfassung der „Bildungsvermittler“ herausgearbeitet hat: Einsatzfelder, Bildungsstufen mit dem jeweiligen Unterrichtsniveau, Rechtsstatus und Vermögenslage.10 Innerhalb jeder dieser Kategorien gibt es verschiedene Variablen, die sich – und das ist das Ergebnis neuerer datengestützter Forschungen – bei gewissen Grundtendenzen als geradezu beliebig miteinander kombinierbar erweisen.11 In der Kategorie „Einsatzfelder“ sind fest angestellte von freischaffenden, selbständigen Lehrern zu unterscheiden. Die fest angestellten Lehrer lassen sich  8   Vgl. K. H. Rengstorf, ‚διδάσκειν κτλ.‘, in TWNT 2 (1935), 152; Rengstorf, ‚μανθάνω κτλ.‘, in TWNT 4 (1942), 418.  9  Vgl. Diog. L. 4,19: Für Polemo wird eigens vermerkt, dass er das nicht tut, also eine Ausnahme darstellt. Vgl. z. B. das Neumagener Schulrelief vom Ende des 2. Jh. n. Chr. (Trier, Rheinisches Landesmuseum). 10  W. Riess, ‚Stadtrömische Lehrer zwischen Anpassung und Nonkonformismus: Überlegungen zu einer epigraphischen Ambivalenz‘, in G. Alföldy, S. Panciera (Hgg.), Inschriftliche Denkmäler als Medien der Selbstdarstellung in der römischen Welt, Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge und Epigraphische Studien 36 (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2001), 163–207, hier: 167–70. 11  Außer Riess, ‚Lehrer‘, vgl. A. D. Booth, ‚Elementary and Secondary Education in the Roman Empire‘, in Florilegium 1 (1979), 1–14 (zweigliedriges, auf den jeweiligen Sozialstatus bezogenes System), sowie die lokalgeschichtliche Studie von K. Vössing, Schule und Bildung im Nordafrika der Römischen Kaiserzeit, Collection Latomus 238 (Brüssel: Latomus, 1997).

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wiederum drei Sphären zuordnen, für die bestimmte Einsatzorte typisch sind: „Hauslehrer“ unterrichten in der domus eines Reichen als dessen Privatlehrer und nehmen eine Position zwischen familiares und clientes ein. Eine weitere Gruppe ist von den zuständigen städtischen Gremien angestellt, die ihnen ein festes Gehalt (salaria) bezahlen und einen öffentlichen Raum für den Unterricht, oft auf oder in der Nähe des Forums, zur Verfügung stellen.12 Anders als die Hauslehrer lehren sie in der Öffentlichkeit (δημοσίως/publice).13 Speziell für Rom nennt Rieß noch das paedagogium, eine kaiserliche Schule, an der vor allem ausgewählte Sklavenkinder von fest angestellten paedagogi puerorum auf spätere Verwaltungsaufgaben vorbereitet werden. Unter den selbständigen Bildungsvermittlern lassen sich sesshafte Lehrer, die gegen Bezahlung Schüler annehmen, von Wanderlehrern bzw. ‑predigern unterscheiden, deren Profil je nach angezieltem Publikum und vermittelten Inhalten noch einmal sehr verschieden sein kann, was sich wiederum in den Versammlungsorten spiegelt, die je nach Vermögenslage stark divergieren können: von einer Open Air-Veranstaltung in einer Säulenhalle, in einem Tempelareal,14 einfach auf der Straße15 über den Unterricht in einem Ladenlokal oder einem einfach durch einen Vorhang abgetrennten Raum16 bis hin zu einer Vorstellung im Theater oder Odeion.17 Im Blick auf die Bildungsstufen bzw. das Unterrichtsniveau bewährt sich weiterhin  – mit einer gewissen Durchlässigkeit  – das klassisch gewordene dreigestufte Modell:18 Der Elementarlehrer (litterator/ludi magister) leitet die Kinder (zwischen sieben und elf Jahren) zum Lesen, Schreiben und Rechnen an. Beim Grammatiker (grammaticus) lernen die 11/12‑ bis 16/17-Jährigen die klassischen griechischen und lateinischen Autoren kennen. Der Rhetor (rhetor) schult die jungen Erwachsenen schließlich durch Progymnasmata‑ bzw. Deklamationen-

 Konkrete Elemente der städtischen Schulförderung nennt Vössing, Schule, 348. nicht automatisch die „öffentliche Bezahlung“ gemeint ist; vgl. ibid., 325–42. 14 Vgl. Euthydemus im Asklepios-Heiligtum von Aigai/Kilikien: Philostr., Vit. Ap. 1,7. 15  Vgl. August., DC 20,9. 16  Vgl. August., Conf. 1,13,22. 17  Vgl. die Schilderungen von J. Hahn, Der Philosoph und die Gesellschaft: Selbstverständnis, öffentliches Auftreten und populäre Erwartungen in der hohen Kaiserzeit, Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge und Epigraphische Studien 7 (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1989), 92–4, für Maximus von Tyrus. 18  Etabliert von H. I. Marrou, Geschichte der Erziehung im klassischen Altertum, hg. R. Harder (Freiburg i. Br., München: Alber, 1957), 151 f. Zur Rezeption bis in die neueste Zeit vgl. Tropper, Jesus Didáskalos, 92–6. Gerade für Nordafrika hat sich das Dreistufenmodell bewährt, vgl. Vössing, Schule, 392–5, 563–5 (samt Originalbeleg: Apul., Flor. 20,2); wobei jedoch die Variationsbreite und Durchlässigkeit zu beachten ist: ibid., 565–7, 574 f.; zur Kritik am Dreistufenmodell vgl. auch T. Vegge, Paulus und das antike Schulwesen: Schule und Bildung des Paulus, BZNW 134 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), 74; K. Pietzner, Bildung, Elite und Konkurrenz: Heiden und Christen vor der Zeit Constantins, STAC 77 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 47–9. 12

13 Womit

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Übungen19 für die Fähigkeit zu einem wirkungsvollen Rede-Auftritt in der Öffentlichkeit.20 Während in griechischer Zeit und Kultur der Philosophieunterricht selbstverständlich in das Bildungsprogramm integriert war, ja sogar seinen krönenden Abschluss bildete,21 erscheint es in römischer Zeit und Kultur eher als ein mögliches „Bonbon“ für ältere Erwachsene – und eigentlich Erwachsene jedes Alters,22 wobei Rhetoren spezifisch ausgewählte Inhalte der Philosophie für sich beanspruchen (s. u.). Hinsichtlich des Rechtsstatus und des Standes ist unter „Lehrern“ die gesamte Palette der römischen Sozialordnung vertreten: von Sklaven über Freigelassene und Freie, Bürger wie Peregrine, bis hin zu Rittern und Senatoren.23 Das definitive Einkommen eines Lehrers ist stark vom lokalen Standort abhängig,24 vor allem aber vom Prestige und Bekanntheitsgrad des jeweiligen Lehrers. Der personenrechtliche Status dagegen hat auf den Verdienst wenig Einfluss.25 Die konstanteste Komponente in der sozialen Lehrer-Schüler-Topographie bietet das Alter der Schüler im Blick auf die Bildungsstufe: Es steigt kontinuierlich. In der Elementarschule werden Kinder unterrichtet. Der philosophische Lehrer hat, zumal in römischer Zeit, ältere Erwachsene vor sich. Auf der Seite der Lehrer ist die klarste Tendenz beim Rechtsstatus im Verhältnis zur Bildungsstufe auszumachen: Eine parallele Steigerung ist festzustellen26 – vom Sklavenstand, der gewöhnlich für den Elementarunterricht zuständig war, bis hin zum Senator, dem es gelegentlich eine Ehre sein konnte, unter ganz bestimmten Umständen sozial Gleichstehende in die Kunst der Philosophie einzuweisen.27 Jedoch ist für

 Progymnasmata schulen im richtigen Gebrauch von Kleingattungen, Deklamationen stellen die Aufgabe einer fiktiven Proberede in einer bestimmten Situation. 20  Vgl. K. Vössing, ‚Rom  – Republik und Kaiserzeit‘, in J. Christes, R. Klein, C. Lüth (Hgg.), Handbuch der Erziehung und Bildung in der Antike (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2006), 136–45, hier: 143–5. 21 Vgl. Luk., Herm. 5; Apul., Flor. 20,2; vgl. Hahn, Philosoph, 63. 22 Vgl. Hahn, Philosoph, 61 f. 23  Vgl. Riess, ‚Lehrer‘, 169 mit Anm. 26. 24  An der öffentlichen Schule von Tritium Magallum (Spanien, heutiges La Rioja) verdiente ein grammaticus 4.400 Sesterzen pro Jahr; vgl. U. Espinosa, ‚Das Gehalt eines Grammaticus im westlichen Teil des Römischen Reiches: Eine epigraphische Revision‘, in ZPE 68 (1987), 241–6, hier: 243. In Rom dagegen bekam ein Lehrer 500 Sesterzen pro Schüler und Jahr; wegen des erheblich höheren Lebensindex jedoch wären in Rom schon für eine kärgliche Existenz mindestens 60 Schüler pro Jahr nötig gewesen; vgl. J. Christes, Sklaven und Freigelasse als Grammatiker und Philologen im antiken Rom, Forschungen zur antiken Sklaverei 10 (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1979), 198. 25  Vgl. Suetonius, Gram. 9,2–3, zum erheblichen Einkommensunterschied zweier römischer Bürger, die als grammatici tätig waren. 26  Vgl. die Auswertung des epigraphischen Befunds für Rom von Riess, ‚Lehrer‘, 179–90 (mit einer Liste der stadtrömischen Lehrerinschriften: 193–207). 27 Vgl. Riess, ‚Lehrer‘, 169; Anm. 26. 19

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Nordafrika kein einziger unfreier Lehrer belegt.28 Im Verhältnis der Bildungsstufen zum beruflichen Stand/Einsatzbereich ist praktisch alles möglich. So finden wir Philosophen als angestellte Hauslehrer, als Lehrer der Moral an öffentlichen Schulen, aber auch als freiberuflich Tätige.29 Und auch die Orte, an denen sie auftreten, sind  – je nach Einkommen  – sehr verschieden: Die freiberuflichen „Salonphilosophen“30 können sich für ihre Vorträge ein Theater oder Odeion leisten,31 während Kyniker, die als Wanderprediger durch die Städte ziehen, auf öffentlichen Plätzen ihre Schmähreden vor einem zufällig zusammenströmenden Publikum halten.32 Fachphilosophen, die nur einen kleinen Schülerkreis in einem angemieteten Raum um sich haben und in Diatriben (διατριβαί) philosophische Kernprobleme behandeln, setzen sich entrüstet von den von ihnen verachteten „Konzertphilosophen“ ab, die ihre διαλέξεις, kurzweilige Vorträge mit philosophischem Anstrich, aber ohne systematischen Tiefgang, vor einem anspruchsvollen und eher geschmacksbewussten als wirklich gebildeten Publikum mit rhetorischer Raffinesse in anspruchsvollen Räumen (Odeion/Theater) zum Besten geben.33 Der freiberufliche Fachphilosoph Seneca fungiert als Prinzenerzieher Neros am Kaiserhof, während zur gleichen Zeit der Kyniker Demetrius seinen extrem bedürfnislosen Lebensstil in bewusster Übereinstimmung zu seiner Lehre stilisiert und ohne Scheu gerade einflussreiche Persönlichkeiten durch die Hinterfragung ihrer Lebensprämissen provoziert und attackiert.34 Und während wiederum Seneca wie ein Hausphilosoph im fremden Haus, aber ohne Bezahlung unterrichtet, öffnen andere freiberufliche Fachphilosophen das eigene Haus, um dort einen Schülerkreis um sich zu scharen, der mit dem Meister einen Freundeskreis bildet – mit philosophischer Unterweisung und Diskussion sowie gemeinsamen Mahlzeiten.35

28 Vgl. Vössing, Schule, 594. Und der stoische Philosoph Epiktet, der Ende des ersten Jahrhunderts in Rom und später in Nikopolis/Epirus lehrte, war ein Freigelassener. 29  Vgl. J. Christes, Bildung und Gesellschaft: Die Einschätzung der Bildung und ihrer Vermittler in der griechisch-römischen Antike, EdF 37 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1975), 238. 30  Hahn, Philosoph, 96. 31 So musste Apuleius in den 160er Jahren wegen der überaus zahlreich erschienen Zuhörer ins Theater umziehen; vgl. Pietzner, Bildung, 50 mit Anm. 25. 32  Vgl. Dio Chrys., Or. 71. 33 Vgl. Hahn, Philosoph, 92–4; Pietzner, Bildung, 50 f. 34 Vgl. Seneca, Nat. Quaest. IV A Praef 7–8; vgl. M. Billerbeck, Der Kyniker Demetrius: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der frühkaiserzeitlichen Popularphilosophie, Philosophia Antiqua 36 (Leiden: Brill, 1979), 42 f. 35  Das Paradigma dafür ist Epikur und sein „Garten“; vgl. M. Ebner, Die Stadt als Lebensraum der ersten Christen: Das Urchristentum in seiner Umwelt I, GNT 1/1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012), 281–5.

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III. Jesus als Lehrer in der römischen Lehrer-Schüler-Topographie Quer über die Stilisierungen aller vier Evangelien hinweg gibt es im Blick auf die Kategorie „Bildungsstufe“ für Jesus als Lehrer eine klare Option. Nachdem für Jesus weder die Inhalte des Elementarunterrichts, Lesen und Schreiben lernen,36 noch die des Grammatikers, der griechische und römische Klassiker behandelt (analog für den jüdischen Bereich: biblische Bücher), und erst recht nicht die Progymnasmata‑ bzw. Deklamationsübungen der Rhetoren in Frage kommen, bleibt nur ein einziger Bereich übrig: die Philosophie – Jesus ein philosophischer Lehrer. Entsprechend erscheinen in allen Evangelien ältere Erwachsene als seine Schüler. Außer dieser Grundkonstellation sind weitere typische Merkmale für „Philosophie“ und „Schule“ im ersten Jahrhundert für die Stilisierung Jesu als Lehrer in den Evangelien relevant: (1) Philosophie als Ethik und ars vitae. Ab dem dritten Jahrhundert vor Christus rückt die Ethik in den Mittelpunkt der philosophischen Schule. Im berühmten Ei-Vergleich des Sextus Empiricus stellt die Logik die Schale, die Physik das Eiweiß, die Ethik jedoch den Dotter der Philosophie dar.37 Mit Ausnahme des Peripatos38 haben sich die philosophischen Schulen, insbesondere die Stoa, ganz auf die ethischen Fragen der Lebensführung konzentriert und sich als Fachwissenschaft für die ars vitae stilisiert, der die anderen Wissenschaften im Sinn eines Propädeutikums zugeordnet werden.39 Philosophie ohne Anwendung auf die Lebenspraxis ist gemäß Seneca Philologie (Ep. 108,23).40 Der Philosoph selbst wird zum „Tatzeugen“41 seiner Lehre: Die Vorschriften (βίβλος) müssen mit  Zu den epigraphischen Hinterlassenschaften vgl. E. Ziebarth, Aus der antiken Schule: Sammlung griechischer Texte auf Papyrus, Holztafeln, Ostraka, Kleine Texte für Vorlesungen und Übungen 65 (Bonn: Weber, 19132); G. Schade, ‚Die griechischen Papyri und die antike Schule‘, in Pegasus-Onlinezeitschrift 4/2 (2004), 55–63. Zum jüdischen Bildungs-und Erziehungswesen vgl. I. Lohmann, ‚Erziehung und Bildung im antiken Israel und im frühen Judentum‘, in Christes, Klein, Lüth (Hgg.), Handbuch der Erziehung und Bildung in der Antike, 183–222, wo allerdings über das erste Jahrhundert nach Christus wenig zu erfahren ist; Tropper, Jesus Didáskalos, 57–99 (mit zu Recht kritischen Bemerkungen zu R. Riesner, Jesus als Lehrer: Eine Untersuchung zum Ursprung der Evangelien-Überlieferung, WUNT II/7 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1981]); im Blick auf die Elementarschulen in Galiläa und die Bildung „des historischen Jesus“: ibid., 99–119. 37 Adv. Math. 7,16–9; vgl. Hahn, Philosoph, 39–45.66. 38 Vgl. Hahn, Philosoph, 39 f. 39  Vgl. A. Dihle, ‚Philosophie  – Fachwissenschaft  – Allgemeinbildung‘, in H. Flashar, O. Gigon (Hgg.), Aspects de la philosophie hellénistique, Entretiens sur l’Antiquité Classique 32 (Genf: Fondation Hardt, 1986), 185–223, der die entsprechenden Gegenbewegungen herausstellt: Die Fachwissenschaften versuchen sich ihrerseits als Philosophie zu stilisieren; Hahn, Philosoph, 54. 40  Vgl. auch Epikt., Diss. 1,11,39; Mark Aurel., 1,16,4. 41  Vgl. M. Ebner, Leidenslisten und Apostelbrief. Untersuchungen zu Form, Motivik und Funktion der Peristasenkataloge bei Paulus, FzB 66 (Würzburg: Echter, 1991), 245–51. 36

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seiner eigenen Lebenspraxis (πρᾶξις) übereinstimmen.42 Seine Person ist Programm. Damit wird sein eigener Lebenswandel (βίος) zum Wahrheitskriterium seiner Lehre – und gleichzeitig zum Ansatzpunkt für gegnerische Kritik.43 Es ist der βίος des Philosophen, der ihn von der Masse der Menschen zu unterscheiden hat44 und damit gleichzeitig Anstoß zur Propagierung seiner eigenen Lebenskunst für das Umfeld wird.45 Der Anschluss an eine philosophische Schule, d. h. die Übernahme einer bestimmten, sich absetzend anderen Lebensweise, die eo ipso mit einer entsprechenden Lebensänderung verbunden ist und in der Öffentlichkeit wahrgenommen wird, wird literarisch oft geradezu als Konversion (μεταβολή/conversio) stilisiert.46 (2) Eine unterscheidbare Lehre macht die „Schule“ aus. Von einer eigenständigen philosophischen Schule (αἵρεσις) kann Diogenes Laertios dann sprechen, wenn eine Gruppierung nicht nur eine bestimmte Lebensform (βίος) praktiziert, sondern auch eine Lehre (τὰ ἀρέσκοντα/δόγματα) präsentieren kann, die im Hintergrund ihrer Lebensform steht.47 Diese mit der Lebensform verbundene Lehre wird personal durch einen Gründer der philosophischen Richtung (κτιστής) vertreten, der Schüler um sich schart, die ihn „hören“ (ἀκούω),48 oder sich mit Gleichgesinnten zusammenschließt, die der gemeinsam (κοινῶς)49 vertretenen Lehre anhangen.50 Wenn die Schüler weglaufen, bedeutet das das Ende der „Schule“.51 Im Idealfall wird die vom Gründer initiierte und dann in der „Schule“ gemeinsam vertretene Lehre von einem „Diadochen“, der dem Schulhaupt nachfolgt (διαδέχεσθαι/ἀκολουθία),52 weitergetragen (Traditionsweitergabe durch Sukzession). Sobald jedoch einer der Schüler divergierende Lehren aufstellt und dafür Gesinnungsgenossen bzw. Hörer gewinnt, kann eine neue Schule entstehen.53 Luk., Apol. 4; Hahn, Philosoph, 42 (mit Anm. 40).  Vgl. Pietzner, Bildung, 58 f. 44 Vgl. Dio Chrys., Or. 70,7; 71,2; Mus., Frgm. 16. 45 Vgl. Hahn, Philosoph, 54–60. 46  Vgl. Diog. L. 3,5 f. (Platon); 4,16 (Polemo); 4,46 (Bion); 6,87 (Krates); Artemid., Oneirocr. 5,18; vgl. O. Gigon, ‚Antike Erzählungen über die Berufung zur Philosophie‘, in Museum Helveticum 3 (1946), 1–21; vgl. Hahn, Philosoph, 59 (mit Literatur). 47  Das ist für Diogenes Laertios das entscheidende Kriterium, den Kynismus als philosophische Richtung einzustufen: Diog. L. 6,103; vgl. Vegge, Paulus, 90–4. 48 Gewöhnlich verwendet Diogenes Laertios die Perfektform, um den „Schüler“ dadurch zu kennzeichnen, dass das Gehörte in der Gegenwart nachwirkt. Oder er kann Schüler auch abgekürzt einfach „die von N. N./Lehrer“ (οἱ ἀπὸ τοῦ) nennen: Vgl. 2,108.111.113.126 bzw. 2,125 f. 49 Vgl. Diog. L. 2,603.738. 50  So erzählt für Phlius, der sich Gefährten sucht: Diog. L. 2,126. 51  So geschehen bei Alexinos von Elis, der in Olympia eine „Schule“ zu gründen versucht hat: Diog. L. 2,109. 52  Vgl. Diog. L. 2,47.105.109; 4,59; 5,58.65. 53 So erzählt für Menedemos: Diog. L. 2,105.134. 42 Vgl. 43

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Kurz und knapp nennt Diogenes Laertios folgende Kriterien, unter denen er die philosophischen Schulen darstellt: ἀρχαί (Gründer und ihre „neue“ bzw. divergierende Lehre),54 διαδοχαί (potentielle Nachfolger unter den Schülern), μέρη (inhaltlich explizierte Teilgebiete der Lehre) sowie αἱρέσεις (die aufgrund der unterschiedlich akzentuierten Lehrelemente entstehenden philosophischen Richtungen). In der literarischen Darstellung erscheinen Lebensform und Lehre bei Diogenes Laertios dadurch verknüpft, dass in der Gattung „Vita“ Herkunft, Ausbildung und dann Worte sowie Taten des jeweiligen Schulgründers bzw. Nachfolgers referiert werden, wobei es lange Apophthegmenreihen sind, in denen sich am Verhalten des Schulgründers/Lehrers zeigt, wie er seine Lehre selbst umsetzt und sich mit Vertretern anderer Richtungen bzw. Anfragen an seine Pointierungen auseinandersetzt. Die gemeinsam vertretene Lehre wird gewöhnlich in einem eigenen Teil gemäß den inhaltlichen Spezialgebieten der Philosophie (μέρη) aufgeführt bzw. diesbezügliche Leerstellen werden eigens angezeigt.55 (3) Die gefährliche Rolle der Philosophie im Rom des 1. Jh. n. Chr. Den im griechischen Kulturraum offen und unentschieden geführten Konkurrenzkampf zwischen Philosophie und Rhetorik, deren Vertreter beiderseits für sich in Anspruch nehmen, „wahre“ Philosophie zu sein,56 hat auf römischem Boden eindeutig die Rhetorik gewonnen.57 Trotz aller Reserviertheit gegen den Bildungsimport aus Griechenland, der mit der Begegnung von Römern und Griechen in Unteritalien begonnen hat,58 hat sich in Rom sehr schnell und – trotz verschiedener Gegenmaßnahmen59 – unaufhaltsam etabliert, was sich für politische Zwecke und die Förderung des eigenen Prestiges als nützlich erwiesen hat. Und das war die Rhetorik im Sinn pragmatischer Verwendbarkeit für die eigene Karriere.60 Natürlich kamen auch Vertreter unterschiedlicher philosophischer Richtungen nach Rom, besonders gefördert von Cäsar und Augustus,61 und fanden unter jungen Leuten großen Anklang.62 Das hat sich in der Zeit danach geändert: Philosophie im strikten Sinn des Wortes hat eine wechselvolle Rolle gespielt, die durch 54  Vgl. die entsprechende Formulierung zu Menedemos in Diog. L. 2,205: καὶ αὐτὸν κατάρχειν αἱρέσεως. 55 Z. B. bezüglich Physik, Logik, enzyklischer Bildung bei den Kynikern, „die sich nur für Ethik interessieren“; vgl. Diog. L. 6,103–5. 56  Dihle, ‚Philosophie‘; Hahn, Philosoph, 61–6. 57 Hahn, Philosoph, 65. 58 Riess, ‚Lehrer‘, 170. 59  Vgl. ibid., 173; Cato Zensor, 161 v. Chr.; zensorisches Edikt gegen lateinische Rhetorikschulen, 92 v. Chr. 60  Vgl. Riess, ‚Lehrer‘, 170–6. 61  Vgl. ibid., 174. 62 Vgl. ibid., 170.

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immer neue Wellen von Ausweisungen und Hinrichtungen von Philosophen gekennzeichnet ist. Es war speziell die stoische Philosophie, die gegenüber dem machtpolitisch unberechenbaren Gebaren julisch-claudischer Kaiser, beginnend mit Caligula, ein Gegenprogramm innerer Souveränität entwickelt hat, „mit der man dem kaiserlichen Treiben auch noch im Angesicht des eigenen Todes gelassen gegenüberstehen konnte“.63 In philosophischen Termini gesprochen: Die wahre, allumfassende ἐξουσία im Sinn unwidersprochener Durchsetzungskraft hat nicht der Kaiser, der seinerseits allem Kontingenten unterworfen ist, sondern derjenige, der „Herr“ seines eigenen Begehrens und Ablehnens geworden ist.64 Die senatorische Opposition, die sich unter dem Rädelsführer Thrasea Paetus 65 n. Chr. in der sogenannten pisonischen Verschwörung gegen Nero formiert hat, war durchdrungen von diesem stoischen Gedankengut. Kein Wunder, dass nicht nur die Anführer, sondern fast alle Stoiker Roms, unter ihnen Seneca, Opfer der Rache Neros wurden.65 Unter Vespasian war es Helvidius Priscus, seinerseits der Schwiegersohn des Thrasea Paetus, der als Zentralfigur der Opposition gegen den Prinzipat aufgestanden und Vespasian offen entgegengetreten ist. Er wurde 73 n. Chr. hingerichtet.66 Es ist nun äußerst aufschlussreich, dass gerade Kaiser Vespasian im Gegenzug dazu die Rhetorik mit allen Kräften gefördert hat. Zu nennen sind: die staatliche Besoldung von griechischen und lateinischen Redelehrern, deren Befreiung von örtlichen munera (vacatio),67  – nicht gültig für die Philosophen!  –, sowie die Errichtung der ersten öffentlichen Rhetorikschule in Rom mit Quintilian als erstem Leiter mit einer festen staatlichen Anstellung, sozusagen einer „Professur“.68 Alles Maßnahmen im Dienst einer gewissen „Patronage von regimetreuen Intellektuellen“,69 die – ganz im Sinn der Staatsräson – in der Rhetorenschule die Regeln der political correctness erlernen sollen. Auf diesem Hintergrund lassen sich auch Quintilians heftige Invektiven gegen die in seinen Augen sinnlose Philosophie besser verstehen.70  Ibid., 175. Ebner, Stadt, 276–9. 65 Vgl. R. MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order. Treason, Unrest, and Alienation in the Empire (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1966), 54 f. 66  Vgl. J. Malitz, ‚Philosophie und Politik im frühen Prinzipat‘, in H. W. Schmidt, P. Wülfing (Hgg.), Antikes Denken – Moderne Schule. Beiträge zu den antiken Grundlagen unseres Denkens, Gymnasium Beihefte 9 (Heidelberg: Winter, 1988), 151–79; Malitz, ‚Helvidius Priscus und Vespasian: Zur Geschichte der „stoischen“ Senatsopposition‘, in Hermes 113 (1985), 231–46; zur kynischen Opposition vgl. M. O. Goulet-Cazé, Kynismus und Christentum in der Antike, NTOA/StUNT 113 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2016), 98–100. 67 Vgl. das Hochschulgesetz auf einer Inschrift aus Pergamon aus dem Jahr 74 n. Chr.: R. Herzog, Urkunden zur Hochschulpolitik der römischen Kaiser (Berlin: Verlag der Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1935), 6–8. 68  Vgl. Riess, ‚Lehrer‘, 175 f. 69  Ibid., 176. 70  Vgl. B. Appel, Das Bildungs‑ und Erziehungsideal Quintilians nach der Institutio oratoria (Donauwörth: Auer, 1914). 63

64 Vgl.

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Zu einer erneuten Eskalation der philosophischen Kritik am kaiserlichen Prinzipat kam es unter Domitian, der 93 n. Chr. zunächst die Philosophen aus Rom vertrieben hat (unter ihnen Dio Chrysostomus), ein Jahr später sogar aus ganz Italien. Auch Domitian war die Verknüpfung von Philosophie und Senatsaristokratie nicht entgangen. Während er die Philosophen „nur“ verbannte (unter ihnen auch Epiktet71), scheute er nicht davor zurück, Angehörige des Senatorenstandes hinrichten zu lassen.72 Aber die philosophische Opposition gegen das Machtgebaren römischer Kaiser ließ sich nicht einfach vertreiben und ausrotten, sondern hat sich in literarischen Werken Dauerhaftigkeit verschafft und mit den Protagonisten Thrasea Paetus und Helvidius Priscus für die Nachahmung dieses Lebensideals geworben: Unter der Herrschaft Domitians widmen ihnen die Autoren Arulenus Rusticus und Herennius Senecio je eine Vita. Das wird ihnen, so Tacitus (Agr. 2,1),73 als todeswürdiges Verbrechen angelastet. Beide werden wegen Majestätsbeleidigung hingerichtet. Ihre Viten über die Kaiseropponenten, sozusagen Opposition in literarischer Form, werden öffentlich auf dem Forum verbrannt. Fannia, die Tochter des Thrasea und Gattin des Helvidius, gibt vor Gericht zu, Senecio um die Abfassung einer Vita über Helvidius gebeten und ihm entsprechendes Material zur Verfügung gestellt zu haben. Dafür wird sie selbst verbannt, kann jedoch bei der Konfiszierung ihres Eigentums die gefährlichen Bücher (de vita Helvidi libros) retten und „den Anlass ihrer Verbannung mit in die Verbannung“ nehmen (Plin., Ep. 7,19,5 f.). Kurz: In der Flavierzeit ist es nicht nur gefährlich, politisch nicht korrekte Viten zu schreiben, sondern sogar ein Staatsverbrechen, sie in Auftrag zu geben oder auch nur zu besitzen.74 Es ist ein sprechender Kontrast dazu, dass ausgerechnet Plutarch in der gleichen Zeit Kaiserviten geschrieben hat, sozusagen eine Sukzessionsreihe von Augustus bis Otho, also bis zum Beginn der flavischen Kaiser, die sich programmatisch auf Augustus als Modell bezogen haben. Vermutlich war es die von Domitian 88 n. Chr. inszenierte Säkularfeier, die Plutarch dann literarisch mit einer präzise ein Jahrhundert lang fortlaufenden Kaisergeschichte zu verschönern  – und damit zugleich der neuen Dynastie ein legitimierendes Fundament zu liefern versuchte. Noch einmal anders gesagt: Wer in der Flavierzeit 71  Vgl. dessen Diktum, der Philosoph sei der rote Streifen auf der Toga (Kleidercode für Senatoren): Diss. 4,13,5. 72 Vgl. Suetonius, Dom. 10,2–4; Tacitus, Agr. 45,1; vgl. MacMullen, Enemies, 55 f.; B. Maier, Philosophie und römisches Kaisertum: Studien zu ihren wechselseitigen Beziehungen in der Zeit von Caesar bis Marc Aurel, Dissertationen der Universität Wien 172 (Wien: Verband der wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaften Österreichs, 1985), 201–3. 73  Vgl. Suetonius, Dom. 10,3. 74  Vgl., M. Ebner, ‚Von gefährlichen Viten und biographisch orientierten Geschichtswerken: Vitenliteratur im Verhältnis zur Historiographie in hellenistisch-römischer und urchristlicher Literatur‘, in Id., Inkarnation der Botschaft: Kultureller Horizont und theologischer Anspruch neutestamentlicher Texte, SBAB 61 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2015), 132–65, hier: 152 f.

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Viten schreibt, muss sich entscheiden, auf welche Seite er sich schlägt. Viten von Männern, deren Opposition gegen kaiserliches Machtgebaren philosophisches Lebensprogramm gewesen ist, sind unerwünscht.

IV. Jesus als Lehrer in der Präsentation der Evangelien Ganz im Trend der Philosophie des 1. Jh. n. Chr. präsentieren alle vier Evangelien Jesus als Lehrer mit einem bestimmten ethischen Programm – und gleichzeitig als Tatzeugen seiner ars vitae (vgl. III.1). Und doch sind die Akzentsetzungen unterschiedlich. 1. Jesus als Lehrer mit Vollmacht im Markusevangelium Im Kontext der Flavierzeit ist das Markusevangelium eine gefährliche Vita.75 Die Analogien zu den oppositionellen Stoiker-Viten (vgl. III.3) sind auffällig. Denn auch im Markusevangelium wird das gefährliche Potenzial in der Lehre Jesu gebündelt. Auch im Markusevangelium geht es um eine Neu-Definition von „Vollmacht“ (ἐξουσία).76 Allerdings besteht sie für den Lehrer Jesus nicht in der Verfügungsgewalt über das eigene Selbst, sondern in tatsächlicher Machtausübung, die allerdings (a) einen weit größeren Radius hat als die des Kaisers und (b) unmittelbar mit Jesu Lehre verknüpft ist. So gleich beim ersten öffentlichen Auftreten Jesu in der Synagoge von Kapharnaum (Mk 1,21–8). Gemäß dem redaktionellen Arrangement dieser Erzählung77 zeigt sich das Außergewöhnliche an der Lehre Jesu darin, dass er – anders als die Schriftgelehrten – deren Inhalt befehlen kann, wie die Zuschauer als Resümee der vor ihren Augen vollzogenen Dämonenaustreibung voller Staunen festhalten: „Was ist das? Eine neue Lehre in Vollmacht: Auch den unreinen Geistern befiehlt er, und sie gehorchen ihm“ (Mk 1,27). In der Sturmstillungs-Perikope Mk 4,35–41 zeigt sich, dass Gleiches auch für die kosmischen dämonischen Gewalten gilt. Von seinen Schülern wird Jesus bei dieser Gelegenheit im Markusevangelium zum ersten Mal als „Lehrer“ tituliert (Mk 4,38).78 Der präzise Inhalt der ethischen Lehre Jesu wird erst im Mittelteil des Evangeliums Mk 8,27–10,52 in wiederholten Schülerbelehrungen entfaltet, konzentriert in Mk 10,42–4. Im unmittelbaren Vergleich mit dem römischen Voll Zur Gattungsbestimmung vgl. Ebner, ‚Viten‘, 158–60. M. Ebner, ‚Die Rede von der „Vollmacht“ Jesu im MkEv – und die realpolitischen Implikationen‘, in Id., Inkarnation der Botschaft, 364–83. 77  Vgl. J. Gnilka, Das Evangelium nach Markus. 1. Teilband: Mk 1–8,26, EKK II/1 (Zürich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1978), 76 f. 78  B. K. Blount, ‚Jesus as Teacher: Boundary Breaking in Mark’s Gospel and Today’s Church‘, in Interpretation 70 (2016), 184–93, nimmt diese Beobachtung als Ausgangspunkt für seine Skizze. 75

76 Vgl.

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machts-Delegations-System geht es um den spezifisch anderen Umgang mit ἐξουσία: Ihr wisst, dass diejenigen, die über die Völker zu gebieten meinen, auf sie herunterherrschen (κατακυριεύουσιν), und ihre Großen die (ihnen übertragene) Vollmacht gegen sie missbrauchen (κατεξουσιάζουσιν). Nicht so aber ist es bei euch. Sondern: … (Mk 10,42 f.).

Die ἐξουσία des Lehrers Jesus – das kann man in Mk 1,21–8 und 4,35–44 sehen – ist weit größer als diejenige der Herrscher über die Völker, die nur über Menschen verfügen und diese Verfügungsgewalt partiell delegieren können. Aber Jesus, auch das zeigt sich nicht nur in den beiden genannten Perikopen, setzt diese Vollmacht – anders als die Herrscher der Völker – nie gegenüber Menschen ein, sondern nur gegenüber dämonischen Mächten, die gemäß antiker Dämonologie auf Menschen herunterherrschen und sie in ihrem Bann halten. Der umfassend mit Vollmacht Ausgestattete ist Menschen mit seiner Vollmacht zu Diensten. In Mk 10,45 interpretiert der Evangelist das gesamte Leben Jesu einschließlich des Kreuzestodes als ein solches διάκονος-Verhalten trotz allumfassender ἐξουσία: Der Menschensohn nämlich ist nicht gekommen, sich bedienen zu lassen (διακονηθῆναι), sondern (selbst) zu dienen (διακονῆσαι) und zu geben sein Leben als Lösepreis für viele (Mk 10,45).

Jesus selbst erscheint als Tatzeuge seiner eigenen Lehre. Ihr Ziel ist weder – wie bei den Herrschern – die Unterwerfung von Menschen, um selbst größer dazustehen, noch – wie bei den Stoikern – der autarke Mensch, der sich um seiner selbst willen in der Gewalt hat, sondern die Gottesherrschaft, die überall dort Platz gewinnt, wo Jesu ars vitae in die Tat umgesetzt wird. Wie der Kaiser und alle, die zu gebieten meinen, delegiert auch Jesus Vollmacht partiell an seine Großen, eben an seine Schüler (vgl. Mk 6,7), allerdings mit dem Ziel, ganz in seine Fußstapfen zu treten und seine ars vitae zu verwirklichen – in rigoroser Absetzung vom römischen Herrschafts-Pyramiden-System, einer Versuchung, der selbst Jesu Schüler nicht immer widerstehen können:79 „Wer groß werden will unter euch, sei aller Diener (διάκονος), und wer unter euch Erster sein will, sei aller Sklave“ (Mk 10,43 f.)! Insofern unterscheidet das Markusevangelium „Schüler“ von „Nachfolgern“. Während Letztere das ethische Programm Jesu auch selbst verwirklichen80 und dann wie er als „Lehrer“ fungieren können (vgl. 6,30), sind Erstere noch auf dem Weg dazu und dienen in den Erzählungen des Evangeliums als Modellfiguren, an denen die Leserinnen Gefährdungen und Fehlverhalten zur Selbstkontrolle studieren können.

79  Vgl. die Kinder-Perikope Mk 10,13–6 sowie die Auseinandersetzung um den fremden Wundertäter in Mk 10,38–40. 80  Verwirklicht von Einzelgestalten, z. B. Bartimäus: „… Und er folgte ihm auf seinem Weg nach“ (Mk 10,52).

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Aus der scharfen Entgegensetzung der ars vitae Jesu und der kaiserlichen Realpolitik lassen sich zwei Besonderheiten des Markusevangeliums sehr einfach erklären: (1) Historisch und juristisch völlig unmöglich, ist es im Markusevangelium die Lehre Jesu, die den Anlass dazu gibt, dass Pharisäer gemeinsam mit Herodianern seine Verurteilung und Tötung betreiben (vgl. Mk 3,6). Das wird verständlich, sobald man Mk 12,38–40 gelesen hat, wo die Schriftgelehrten (der Pharisäer) selbst als „Herunterherrscher“, als systemtreue Stabilisierer bloßgestellt werden, als solche, die sich – wie die Herrscher der Völker (Mk 10,42) – auf Kosten anderer selbst groß machen.81 Die Lehre Jesu, wie sie von ihm propagiert und vorgelebt wird, destabilisiert das bestehende Gesellschaftssystem82 und löst in der Verteidigungshaltung ihm gegenüber tödliche Aggressionen aus, die aber die vorgelebte Lehre nicht „töten“ können, wie die allererste Reaktion auf den Tod Jesu zeigt: Der Hauptmann am Kreuz schreibt aufgrund der gelebten Lehre Jesu (vgl. Mk 10,45)83 dem Gekreuzigten denjenigen Titel zu, den die römische Welt dem jeweils herrschenden Kaiser vorbehalten hat:84 „Wahrhaftig, dieser Mensch war ein Sohn Gottes (υἱὸς θεοῦ)“ (Mk 15,39). (2) Die historisch betrachtet müßige Frage, ob es in Galiläa zur Zeit Jesu tatsächlich Pharisäer gegeben habe, mit denen Jesus sich hätte auseinandersetzen können, erklärt sich sehr einfach aus der Intention des Evangelisten, Jesus als Lehrer zu präsentieren. Und dazu gehört, dass (a) sich seine Lehre von anderen Lehren abhebt und (b) sich ein von anderen Schulen unterscheidbarer Schülerkreis um ihn sammelt. Das führen die Streitgespräche in Mk 2 f.; 7; 10; 12 mit den (Schriftgelehrten der) Pharisäer bzw. den Sadduzäern inhaltlich wie personell vor Augen, wenn dort auch von Schülern der Pharisäer bzw. des Johannes die Rede ist, deren Ritualpraxis sich von derjenigen Jesu bzw. seiner Schüler unterscheidet. Im Rahmen dieser Auseinandersetzungen ist zum ersten Mal auch von „Schülern“ Jesu die Rede – und zwar in Mk 2,15, wo von der Mahlgemeinschaft Jesu und seiner Schüler mit Zöllnern und Sündern erzählt wird. Vordergründig wird von den Schriftgelehrten der Pharisäer die missachtete, kultisch begründete Abstandnahme von solchen Leuten angefragt. Hintergründig aber geht es darum, dass Jesus durch seine Lehre den Zöllner Levi (Mk 2,13 f.) sowie viele weitere seiner Berufsgenossen als Nachfolger gewonnen (Mk 2,15), also vom römischen Herrschaftsmodell für seine ars vitae abgeworben hat. Kein 81 Vgl. die entsprechenden Konsequenzen, die M. Lau, ‚Die Witwe, das γαζοφυλάκιον und der Tempel: Beobachtungen zur mk Erzählung vom „Scherflein der Witwe“ (Mk 12,41–44)‘, in ZNW 107 (2016), 186–205, für die unmittelbar anschließende Perikope vom „Scherflein der Witwe“ (Mk 12,41–4) zieht. 82  Und darin ist sie anders als die Lehre der Schriftgelehrten: vgl. Mk 1,22. 83  Natürlich ist es nur der Leser, der – in rezeptionsästhetischer Linie – das οὕτως in Mk 15,39, also die Art des Sterbens, mit der Lehre in Mk 10,42–5 verknüpfen kann. 84  Vgl. S. Schreiber, Die Anfänge der Christologie: Deutungen Jesu im Neuen  Testament (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2015), 31–45, bes. 32 f. 43.

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Wunder, dass die Schriftgelehrten der Pharisäer einen derartigen Einflussverlust im eigenen Interesse mit vorgeschobenen religiösen Gründen verurteilen. 2. Jesus als „einziger Lehrer“ und sein Encheiridion im Matthäusevangelium Im Matthäusevangelium ist Jesus der „einzige Lehrer“85  – gegenüber seiner Schülermeinde: „Ihr aber sollt euch nicht ,Rabbi‘ nennen lassen. Ein einziger (εἷς) nämlich ist euer Lehrer, ihr alle aber seid Brüder“ (Mt 23,8). Mit anderen Worten: Es gibt sehr wohl Lehrer in der Gemeinde, aber sie sollen sich nicht „Rabbi“ nennen lassen. Was das bedeutet, zeigt die Kontrastfolie, die in diesem Fall aus einer Karikatur der Schriftgelehrten, also der Lehrer in den Synagogengemeinden, besteht und in den unmittelbar vorangehenden Versen zu lesen ist: Auf die Kathedra des Mose haben sie sich gesetzt, die Schriftgelehrten und die Pharisäer. Alles nun, was sie euch sagen, tut und befolgt, nach ihren Taten aber richtet euch nicht! Sie sprechen nämlich und tun’s nicht. Sie schnüren aber schwere und unerträgliche Lasten und legen sie auf die Schultern der Menschen, sie selbst aber wollen sie mit ihrem Finger nicht bewegen. Alle ihre Werke aber tun sie, um von den Menschen betrachtet zu werden: Sie machen breit nämlich ihre Gebetsriemen und groß die Quasten, sie lieben die ersten Plätze bei Festgelagen und die ersten Sitze in den Synagogen – und die Grußbezeugungen auf den Märkten und von den Menschen „Rabbi“ genannt zu werden (Mt 23,2–7).

Im Spiegel dieser Karikatur gilt dann für die Lehrer in der matthäischen Gemeinde: (a) Sie sollen selbst tun, was sie lehren, also selbst „Tatzeugen“ ihrer Lehre werden. (b) Ihre religiösen Lehren sollen „tragbar“, das heißt erfüllbar sein. (c) Jegliches Prestigeverhalten sollen sie vermeiden und – in dieser Linie zu verstehen  – auf den Gruß bzw. die Anrede „Rabbi“ im Sinn eines Ehrentitels verzichten.86 Die Monopolisierung des Lehrerstatus für Jesus hat damit 85  Vgl. die Monographien von S. Byrskog, Jesus the Only Teacher: Didactic Authority and Transmission in Ancient Israel, Ancient Judaism and the Matthean Community, Coniectanea Biblica. New Testament Series 24 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1994) und J. Y. H. Yieh, One Teacher: Jesus’ Teaching Role in Matthew’s Gospel Report, BZNW 124 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004). 86 Als Titel, der die Zugehörigkeit zu einem professionellen Stand bezeichnet, ist „Rabbi“ nicht vor Ende des 2. Jh. belegbar; in diesem Fall hat das Suffix seine Bedeutung verloren; vgl. B. Z. Rosenfeld, ‚The Title „Rabbi“ in Third-to Seventh-Century Inscriptions in Palestine: Revisited‘, in JJS 61 (2010), 234–56; R. Naiweld, ‚Mastering the Disciple: Mimesis in the Master–Disciple Relationship of Rabbinic Literature‘, in U. Volp, F. W. Horn, R. Zimmermann (Hgg.), Metapher – Narratio – Mimesis – Doxologie: Begründungsformen frühchristlicher und antiker Ethik, WUNT 356 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 257–70, bes. 263 f. Diese Entwicklung bahnt sich allerdings bereits nach der Tempelzerstörung an, insofern das Studium der Tora die Lücke des Tempelkults zu füllen beginnt; vgl. M. Reiser, Der unbequeme Jesus, BThSt 122 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2011), 60–6. S. J. Cohen, ‚The Rabbi in SecondCentury Jewish Society‘, in W. Horbury, W. D.  Davies, J. Sturdy (Hgg.), The Cambridge History of Judaism. Bd. 3: The Early Roman Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 922–90, hier: 976 f., sieht in der reichsrömischen Rückendeckung das entscheidende Moment dafür, dass die stark intern vernetzte Gelehrtengruppe zu einer jüdischen Führungselite werden konnte. Der doppelte Gebrauch von „Rabbi“ in Mt 23,7 und 23,8 zeigt dagegen die im 1. Jh.

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egalisierende Funktion für die eigenen Schüler. Alle Gemeindeglieder bleiben Jesus gegenüber Schüler, auch wenn sie als Lehrer fungieren oder sonst eine gesellschaftliche Ehrenstellung innehaben, wie das im gebotenen Verzicht auf die Vateranrede in Mt 23,9 eventuell zum Ausdruck gebracht wird.87 Die Dringlichkeit der Forderung wird dadurch unterstrichen, dass in Mt 23,8 für die positive Beschreibung der Gemeindestruktur das Schulparadigma verlassen und ins Familien-bzw. Gottesvolkparadigma gewechselt wird: „… Ihr alle aber seid Brüder“. Das steht im Gegensatz zu einer Über‑ und Unterordnung innerhalb des Schülerkreises, wie sie z. B. in philosophischen Gruppen üblich war.88 In der jesuanischen Schule à la Matthäus sind alle, egal ob sie als Lehrer fungieren oder nicht, μαθηταί/Schüler – und zwar als ἀδελφοί/Brüder. Für einen Lehrer in der matthäischen Gemeinde gibt es ein einziges Aufstiegsziel, das darin besteht, Schüler des Himmelreiches zu werden (vgl. Mt 13,52). Und das hat mit der bleibend verbindlichen Lehre Jesu zu tun.89 Die explizite Lehre Jesu bietet das Matthäusevangelium in fünf Reden, die literarisch durch immer gleich lautende Ausleitungsformeln gekennzeichnet sind, wobei die letzte Rede auf die vorausgegangenen zurückschaut: „Und es geschah, als Jesus alle diese Worte beendet hatte …“ (Mt 26,1). Die für die Schülergemeinde relevanten Themen werden darin prägnant zusammengefasst: Ethik (Mt 5–7),90 Mission (Mt 10), Gottesherrschaft (Mt 13), Verfehlungen in der Gemeinde (Mt 18) sowie Eschatologie (Mt 24–5). Paradigmatisch wird Jesus in der Szenerie der Bergpredigt in der Pose des Lehrers gezeichnet: Wie die Schriftgelehrten der Synagoge, die sich auf die Kathedra des Mose gesetzt haben (Mt 23,1), n. Chr. übliche Bedeutung als ehrenvolle Anrede; so auch U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus. 3. Teilband: Mt 18–25, EKK I/3 (Zürich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1997), 306–8; A. F. Zimmermann, Die urchristlichen Lehrer: Studien zum Tradentenkreis der διδάσκαλοι im frühen Urchristentum,WUNT II/12 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1984), 172 f.; Riesner, Lehrer, 271. Anders: S. Byrskog, ‚Das Lernen der Jesusgeschichte nach den synoptischen Evangelien‘, in B. Ego, H. Merkel (Hgg.), Religiöses Lernen in der biblischen, frühjüdischen und frühchristlichen Überlieferung, WUNT 180 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 191–209, hier: 199 f., gestützt auf ein „Gutachten“ der Gaonen R. Scherira und R. Hai (ca. 1000 n. Chr.). wonach Johanan ben Zakkai (gest. 80 n. Chr.) zu den ersten gehört haben soll, der den Titel Rabbi getragen hat; zum Text vgl. G. Dalman, Die Worte Jesu: Mit Berücksichtigung des nachkanonischen jüdischen Schrifttums und der aramäischen Sprache. Bd. 1: Einleitung und wichtige Begriffe (Leipzig: Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1898), 272 f. 87  Wenn hier in Nachahmung des jüdischen Schema als Begründung zu lesen ist: „Ein einziger nämlich ist euer Vater, der im Himmel“, dann wird dieser Prestigeverzicht zum Merkmal des gelebten Monotheismus in der mt Jesusgemeinde erhoben. 88  Für den Peripatos vgl. Diog. L. 5,53.71 (πρεσβύτατοι/νεανίσκοι); für die Epikurer vgl. den Traktat über die Redekunst von Philodem, wo u. a. der Grad des καθηγητής (vgl. Mt 23,10) zu finden ist; und dazu T. Schmeller, Schulen im Neuen Testament? Zur Stellung des Urchristentums in der Bildungswelt seiner Zeit. Mit einem Beitrag von C. Cebulj zur johanneischen Schule, HBS 30 (Freiburg i. Br.: Herder, 2001), 81; Luz, Evangelium nach Matthäus III, 308. 89  Gemäß Mt 4,23; 9,35 besteht die Verkündigung des Evangeliums vom Königreich zweipolig aus Lehre und Heilung. 90 In Mt 7,28 wird der Inhalt dieser Rede ausdrücklich als διδαχή bezeichnet.

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sitzt auch Jesus, wenn er lehrt (Mt 5,1 f.). Gemäß dem Missionsbefehl in Mt 28,20 sollen alle Gebote, wie sie in den fünf Kompaktreden festgehalten sind, als Lehre (διδάσκοντες) an Außenstehende (πάντα τὰ ἔθνη) weitergegeben werden. Sie bilden also das Grundgerüst sowohl für den bereits bestehenden Schülerkreis als auch für die zu gewinnenden Initianden, die gemäß der matthäischen Konzeption Jesu Schüler werden sollen (Mt 28,19 μαθητεύσατε). Von der Funktion her entsprechen diese fünf Reden damit den kyriai doxai des Epikur bzw. dem später entstandenen Encheiridion des Epiktet: Es handelt sich um knappste Zusammenfassungen der Lehre, die man gleichzeitig als Brevier bei sich tragen, besser noch auswendig im Kopf parat haben soll, um in jeglicher Alltagssituation gemäß der Lehre handeln zu können. Nun vermittelt die Formel in Mt 28,20 den Eindruck, als sei die Lehre Jesu, deren Gebote allesamt weiterzugeben sind, ein für alle Mal festgelegt wie ein unveränderliches Kompendium: „Und lehrt sie alles zu halten, was ich euch geboten habe“. Andererseits wird aber in Mt 16,19 dem Petrus (und seinen Nachfolgern)91 ausdrücklich eine flexible Lehrvollmacht (Binden und Lösen) übertragen.92 Der scheinbare Widerspruch löst sich im Blick auf die Traditionsgewohnheiten in philosophischen Schulen: Es braucht eine in einem autoritativen literarischen Korpus schriftlich festgehaltene Lehre des Schulgründers als verbindliches Fundament93 für deren Weiterentwicklung, um deren Prinzipien und inhaltliche Richtung natürlich gestritten wird.94 Genau das leistet die schriftliche Fixierung der Reden Jesu im Matthäusevangelium  – bei gleichzeitiger Etablierung einer Auslegungsinstanz, die aber  – darauf legt das Matthäusevangelium wert  – Jesus und seiner Lehre gegenüber immer Schüler bleibt (vgl. Mt 15,15; 17,24–7; 18,21 f.).95  Zu dieser Diskussion vgl. M. Ebner, ‚Petrus – Papstamt – Kirche‘, in ZNT 7 (2004), 52–8.  Das entspricht Mt 23,4 (Gebote bewegen) sowie Mt 23,13 (das Himmelreich aufschließen) – in beiden Fällen als Karikatur der pharisäischen Schriftgelehrten negativ formuliert. 93  Vgl. Vegge, Paulus, 96; gemäß D. Sedley, ‚Philosophical Allegiance in the Greco-Roman World‘, in M. Griffin, J. Barnes (Hgg.), Philosophia Togata: Essays on Philosophy and Roman Society (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989), 97–119, verdankt sich die Wiederbelebung des Aristotelianismus im 1. Jh. v. Chr. dem Etablieren eines Kanons von autoritativen Schultexten (100), nachdem Straton als Schulleiter es versäumt habe, der Schule den Verbleib von Aristoteles’ Manuskripten zu sichern. 94  Paradigmatisch dafür ist der Streit zwischen γνήσιοι/Echten und Sophisten in der epikureischen Schule; vgl. dazu Ebner, Stadt, 286; M. Erler, ‚Epikur – Die Schule Epikurs – Lukrez‘, in H. Flashar (Hg.), Die Philosophie der Antike. Bd. 4,2: Die hellenistische Philosophie (Basel: Schwabe & Co, 1994), 29–490, hier: 212–4. 95 Der generell bleibende Abstand aller Schüler gegenüber Jesus wird im MtEv besonders betont: In Mt 10,24 f. wird festgehalten, dass der Schüler genauso wenig über dem Lehrer steht wie ein Sklave über seinem Herrn. Anders als im Parallellogion Lk 6,40 wird eine Gleichstellung mit dem Lehrer nicht durch die Ausbildung erreicht, sondern dadurch, dass der Schüler die gleichen Unbilden auf sich nimmt wie sein Herr (so Mt 10,25); vgl. H. Bald, ‚Matthäus als Religionspädagoge/Religionslehrer? Einige Anmerkungen zum Verständnis des christlichen Lehrers beim Evangelisten Matthäus‘, in H. F. Rupp, R. Wunderlich, M. L. Pirner (Hgg.), 91 92

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3. Jesus als reisender Gelehrter und seine Symposien Im Lukasevangelium erscheint Jesus als reisender Gelehrter auf Städtetournee durch ganz Israel.96 Anders als im Aufriss des Markusevangeliums, wo als erste öffentliche Handlung Jesu die Requirierung von vier Nachfolgern erzählt wird (Mk 1,16–20), verbreitet der Jesus des Lukasevangeliums zuerst seine Lehre als Wanderprediger in Galiläa (Lk 4,14 f.) und Judäa (Lk 4,44).97 Nach vielen öffentlichen Vorträgen vor dem Publikum der Städte, wie das Lukasevangelium eigens betont (Lk 4,29.31.43; 5,12), kommt es zu einem ersten Expertenkongress,98 besser: einer Probevorlesung vor dem Fachpublikum: vor Pharisäern und Gesetzeslehrern (νομοδιδάσκαλοι), die „aus jedem Dorf Galiläas und Judäas und Jerusalem“ (Lk 5,17), sozusagen bis aus dem letzten Winkel Israels, angereist sind. Jesus durchschaut sogar die Intentionalität ihrer Gedanken und tritt mit ihnen in einen virtuellen Dialog (Lk 5,21–4). Sobald Jesus den ersten Zöllner zur Nachfolge aufgefordert hat – und der ihm sofort ein Festmahl veranstaltet, finden regelrechte Gelehrten-Symposien statt: zunächst in Levis Haus, wo Jesu Schüler von den Pharisäern und Schriftgelehrten wegen ihrer Tischgemeinschaft mit den Zöllnern angefragt werden und Jesus das zum Anlass nimmt, um über Differenzen in Speisegewohnheiten zu debattieren (Lk 5,29–39). Ab diesem Event sind es die Pharisäer selbst, die ihrerseits Jesus zu Symposien einladen, wo dann ebenfalls aktuelle Vorgänge bei Tisch Anlass zu entsprechenden Sachdebatten geben: über die Sündenvergebung (Lk 7,36–50), über die Reinheitsgebote (Lk 11,37–52), über den Zusammenhang zwischen Rangstreitigkeiten und die Teilnahme am endzeitlichen Gottesmahl (Lk 14,1–24).99 Hier konkretisiert und plausibilisiert Jesus, was er in der Öffentlichkeit (vgl. Lk 6,27–36) bereits einem breiteren Publikum vorgetragen hat, nämlich eine neue Struktur des Rezipro-

Denk-Würdige Stationen der Religionspädagogik. FS R. Lachmann (Jena: IKS, 2005), 41–57, hier: 47. Auch die literarische Inszenierung ist diesbezüglich von Bedeutung: Anders als es in der Antike üblich war, scheinen gemäß der Szenerie der Bergpredigt die Schüler Jesu um ihren Lehrer herum zu stehen (Mt 5,1: προσῆλθαν). 96  C.-P. März, ‚Jesus als „Lehrer“ und „Heiler“: Anmerkungen zum Jesusbild der Lukasschriften‘, in L. Hauser, F. R. Prostmeier, C. Georg-Zöller (Hgg.), Jesus als Bote des Heils: Heilsverkündigung und Heilserfahrung in frühchristlicher Zeit, SBB 60 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2008), 152–65, hier: 156, spricht von einer „missionarische[n] Bewegung“. Den Anfang macht der frühbegabte Jesus in Jerusalem (Lk 2,41–51). 97 Dann erst wird die Erstberufung des Petrus in Lk 5,1–11 erzählt. Und anders als im Matthäusevangelium wird Jesus gerade nicht in Kapharnaum sesshaft (Mt 4,13), sondern zieht sofort nach Judäa weiter (Lk 4,43 f.). 98 Vgl. K. Löning, Das Geschichtswerk des Lukas. Bd. 1: Israels Hoffnung und Gottes Geheimnisse, Urban-Taschenbücher 455 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1997), 180. 99  Vgl. M. Ebner, ‚Symposion und Wassersucht, Reziprozitätsdenken und Umkehr. Sozialgeschichte und Theologie in Lk 14,1–24‘, in D. C. Bienert, J. Jeska, T. Witulski (Hgg.), Paulus und die antike Welt: Beiträge zur zeit‑ und religionsgeschichtlichen Erforschung des paulinischen Christentums, FRLANT 222 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008), 115–35.

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zitäts-Kreislaufs: Von Gott kann Entlohnung nur derjenige erwarten,100 bei dem Wohltaten-Rechnungen auf dieser Erde offen geblieben sind. Sozusagen als kompositorischer Rahmen zum ersten Gastmahl findet in Lk 19,1–27 erneut eines im Haus eines Zöllners statt, in das Jesus sich selbst einlädt und dort über den Sinn seiner Sendung aufklärt sowie darüber, welche Konsequenzen sich daraus für die Zwischenzeit bis zur Parusie ergeben.101 Den Abschluss der Symposienreihe bildet das Abschiedsmahl, das Jesus im internen Kreis mit seinen „Aposteln“ feiert und mit ihnen beim Tischgespräch Verhaltensregeln, bevorstehende Gefährdungen, aber auch zu erwartende Belohnungen in der Zukunft bespricht (Lk 22,14–38). Im Lauf der vielen Debatten mit Vertretern anderer Schulrichtungen, die auch außerhalb von Symposien stattfinden,102 werden die sachlichen Differenzen immer deutlicher, gleichzeitig aber der Zulauf der Volksmassen zum Lehrer Jesus immer größer,103 selbst im Tempel von Jerusalem.104 Nachdem die Fangfrage nach der Entrichtung der kaiserlichen Steuer, die Jesus der „political incorrectness“ überführen sollte, ins Leere läuft (Lk 20,20–6), sind es fortan allein die führenden politischen Kräfte Israels, allen voran die Hohenpriester, die seine Verurteilung zum Kreuzestod betreiben,105 während er vom römischen Statthalter dreimal für schuldlos erklärt wird (Lk 23,4.14.22).106 Redaktionell werden im Lukasevangelium zwei markante Elemente aus der Lehrertopographie bzw. ‑motivik realisiert: (1) Jesus entspricht dem Typos des

100  Gemäß Lk 16,9 ist sogar das Urteil der Bettelarmen letztentscheidend; vgl. M. Ebner, ‚„Solidarität“ biblisch: Fallbeispiele und erste Systematisierungen‘, in Id., Inkarnation der Botschaft: Kultureller Horizont und theologischer Anspruch neutestamentlicher Texte, SBAB 61 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2015), 299–336, hier: 311 f. 101  Vgl. M. Ebner, ‚Widerstand gegen den „diskreten Charme der sozialen Distanz“ im Lukasevangelium‘, in ThPQ 155 (2007), 123–30. 102  Lk 15,1–32; 16,14–31 („Geld liebende“ Pharisäer, die zugehört haben, was Jesus in Lk 16,1–13 seinen Schülern gesagt hat); 17,20 f.; 20,27–44 (Sadduzäer). 103 Vgl. Lk 5,1–3 (Jesus muss in ein Boot steigen); 8,4 (aus jeder Stadt strömt die Menge zusammen); 8,40 (die Menge erwartet Jesus bereits); 11,29 (Volksmassen versammeln sich); 12,1 (Tausende von Menschen); 14,25 (viele Menschenmassen begleiten Jesus); 15,1 (alle Zöllner). Außerdem wenden sich Einzelne an Jesus als Ratgeber: Lk 12,13; 13,23; 18,15.18. 104  Vgl. Lk 20,1.45; 21,37 f. 105 Während beim Wunsch, Jesus in die eigenen Hände zu bekommen, die Schriftgelehrten neben den Hohenpriestern noch an erster Stelle erwähnt werden (Lk 20,19), stehen sie bei der Suche nach seiner Vernichtung bereits an zweiter Stelle (Lk 22,1). Den Auslieferungsplan beraten dann Hohepriester und Strategen mit Judas allein (Lk 22,4). Bei der jüdischen Gerichtsverhandlung werden die Schriftgelehrten als Mitglieder des Ältestenrates nach den Hohenpriestern genannt (Lk 22,66) und sind bei der Auslieferung an Pilatus in der Formulierung ἅπαν τὸ πλῆθος αὐτῶν (Lk 23,1) mitgedacht, werden aber bei der Kreuzigungsforderung ausdrücklich nicht genannt. Lediglich die Hohenpriester und die Archonten, also die politisch exekutiv Tätigen, werden von Pilatus zusammengerufen (Lk 23,13). 106 Zusätzlich symbolhaft von Herodes: Lk 23,6–12.

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Wanderlehrers, der vor einem großen Publikum an öffentlichen Orten107 (also ohne Platzmiete) seine ethisch herausfordernden Vorträge hält.108 Insofern verhält er sich ganz anders als die sogenannten „Konzertphilosophen“, die sich vom Geschmack eines elitären Publikums leiten lassen und dafür von den Fachleuten belächelt werden (vgl. 2.). Im Lukasevangelium ist es Jesus, der seinerseits die Fachleute zum Disput regelrecht anzieht und damit  – in der Imagination der Leser  – unter die Lehrer der unterschiedlichen Schulen Israels109 eingereiht wird. (2) Das Gelehrten-Symposion als literarischer Rahmen für philosophische Gespräche, wie es paradigmatisch in Platons Symposion vorliegt, aber auch in Plutarchs Gastmahlgesprächen oder dem „Gelehrtengastmahl“ von Athenaios,110 stellt Jesus in diese Riege (und das Lukasevangelium in die gehobene Literatur). Dass Jesus als – vor allem beim einfachen Volk – außerordentlich erfolgreicher Gelehrter hingerichtet wird, kann mit aktuellen Erfahrungen in der Regierungszeit des Kaisers Domitian (81–96), der Entstehungszeit des Lukasevangeliums,111 korreliert werden: Auch bei den Philosophenvertreibungen bzw. der Hinrichtung stoisch geprägter Senatsangehöriger regierte rein politisches Kalkül. Im Fall Jesu aber erscheint gerade nicht der verlängerte Arm Roms, Pilatus, als Drahtzieher, sondern die einheimische Elite. 4. Jesus als der Logos und seine Dialoge mit der Welt und den Seinen im Johannesevangelium Dass Jesus als inkarnierter Logos Gottes im Johannesevangelium dem Wort verpflichtet ist, verwundert nicht. Auffällig ist dagegen, dass Jesu Reden in Form von Dialogen gestaltet sind, die Jesus mit der „Welt“ (dem Volk bzw. seinen Gegnern, Pharisäer oder „die Juden“ genannt) und den „Seinen“ führt – nicht zu vergessen die Gespräche mit Einzelfiguren, die sich Jesus zu nähern versuchen, wie Nikodemus (Joh 3,1–21), oder mit denen Jesus in Kontakt zu treten versucht, wie mit der Samaritanerin (Joh 4,7–26). Die jeweiligen Gesprächspartner stellen und beantworten Fragen, stellen Zwischenfragen und werden am Ende oft zu stummen Zuhörern, wie Nikodemus ab Joh 3,13 oder „die Juden“ in Joh 5,16–47. 107  Synagogen: Lk 4,15.44; 6,6; 13,10–21; großräumiger Platz: 6,17; Ufer des Sees Genezareth: 5,1–3; Tempel: 20,1; 21,37 f. 108  Vgl. nur Lk 6,20–49; 8,23–7. 109 So die Außenwahrnehmung der unterschiedlichen religiösen Gruppierungen in Israel, wie sie z. B. von Josephus ausdrücklich betrieben wird: Essener, Pharisäer und Sadduzäer als φιλοσοφία (Bell. 2,119–66; Ant. 18,11–22.23–25); die Pharisäer als αἵρεσις (Bell. 2,14). 110 Zu dieser Gattung noch immer grundlegend: J. Martin, Symposion: Die Geschichte einer literarischen Form, Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des Altertums 17 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1931); vgl. auch H. Görgemanns, ,Symposion-Literatur‘, in DNP 11 (2001), 1138–41. 111  Vgl. D. Rusam, ‚Das Lukasevangelium‘, in M. Ebner, S. Schreiber (Hgg.), Einleitung in das Neue Testament, Kohlhammer Studienbücher Theologie 6 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 20132), 185–209, hier: 200, und G. Theissen, Das Neue Testament, C. H. Beck Wissen 2192 (München: Beck, 2002), 76.

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In vielen Fällen wird jedoch eine positive112 oder negative Reaktion erzählt113 – oder auch die Spaltung der Meinungen.114 Eingebettet in einen Handlungsablauf sind Dialoge typisch für das Drama. Nachdem die Handlung im Johannesevangelium aber nicht dargestellt, sondern erzählt wird, spricht Ludger Schenke von einem „Lesedrama“, wie es in der Literatur des jungen 1. Jh. n. Chr. en vogue war.115 Nimmt man jedoch Inhalt und Ziel der johanneischen Dialoge näher in den Blick, dann entpuppen sie sich als geradezu philosophisch gefärbte Dialoge, die einen allmählichen Erkenntnisprozess in Gang setzen und begleiten wollen, der dann auch zu einem veränderten Verhalten führen soll. Damit wird die Form philosophischer Traktate in Erinnerung gerufen, wie sie nicht nur in der platonischen Akademie üblich war,116 aber über Platons berühmte Dialoge paradigmatisch geworden und z. B. von Cicero nachgeahmt worden ist.117 Inhaltliches Ziel (a) der johanneischen Dialoge ist es, zur Wahrheit (Joh 8,31 f.), zum Licht (Joh 8,12; 9,4.39) und zur Quelle des Lebens (Joh 4,14; 7,38) zu führen – und zwar über die Worte Jesu, die – wie der Sprecher selbst – aus Gott kommen (vgl. Joh 7,16 f.); Jesus spricht, wie ihn der Vater gelehrt hat (Joh 8,28: … καθῶς ἐδίδαξέν με ὁ πατὴρ ταῦτα λαλῶ).118 Pädagogisch betrachtet (b) wollen die johanneischen Dialoge einen auf die jeweiligen Gesprächspartner zugeschnittenen, geradezu mäeutisch angelegten Erkenntnisvorgang provozieren.119 Explizite Ethik (c) findet sich in den Dialogen mit den „Seinen“ in Joh 13–7, erzählerisch eingebettet in das Abschiedsmahl, literarisch gesehen in der beliebten Form der Symposialliteratur. Die „Gebote des Vaters“ (Joh 15,9 f.), die natürlich niemand besser kennen und auslegen kann als Jesus, der BleibendSeiende an der Brust des Vaters (vgl. Joh 1,18), werden konzentriert in der Freundschaftsliebe, die ihrerseits darin gipfelt, „für den Freund zu sterben“ (Joh 112 Z. B.

bei der Samaritanerin: Joh 4,28 f.; oder für „die Juden“: Joh 8,30.  Unter den Schülern: Joh 6,66; für „die Juden“: Joh 8,59. 114 Unter „den Juden“: Joh 10,19–21; unter dem Volk: Joh 7,40–4. 115 Vgl. insbesondere die philosophisch gefärbten Lesedramen von Seneca; vgl. L. Schenke, Das Johannesevangelium: Einführung  – Text  – dramatische Gestalt (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1992), 213. 116  Auch Aristoteles hat philosophische Dialoge verfasst; vgl. H. Görgemanns, ,Dialog‘, in DNP 3 (1997), 517–21, hier: 518. 117 Entsprechende Informationen finden sich zusammengefasst bei G. Rubel, Erkenntnis und Bekenntnis: Der Dialog als Weg der Wissensvermittlung im Johannesevangelium, NTA 54 (Münster: Aschendorff, 2009), 13 f., der die Dialoge mit Einzelnen im Johannesevangelium unter diesem Aspekt untersucht. 118 Betont herausgestellt von R. F. Collins, ‚„You Call Me Teacher and Lord – and You Are Right: For That Is What I Am“ (John 13,13)‘, in J. Verheyden u. a. (Hgg.), Studies in the Gospel of John and Its Christology. FS G. Van Belle, BETL 265 (Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 327–48, hier: 336. 119  Gemäß dem antiken Lehrkonzept der συγκατάβασις im Blick auf die johanneischen Dialoge untersucht von J. S. Sturdevant, The Adaptable Jesus of the Fourth Gospel: The Pedagogy of the Logos, SupplNT 162 (Leiden: Brill, 2015). 113

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15,12 f.), was in der griechischen Philosophie als höchstes ethisches Ideal gilt.120 Nachdem Jesus seinen Tod in dieser Perspektive deutet, wird er nicht nur zum Tatzeugen seiner eigenen Lehre, sondern der Kreuzestod selbst wird – strukturell ganz analog zum Markusevangelium – vom selbst etablierten und den Schülern ausdrücklich gebotenen ethischen Spitzensatz her verstanden. Hinsichtlich der Gruppensoziologie lassen sich im Johannesevangelium einige Besonderheiten beobachten, die ihrerseits wiederum in Analogie zu philosophischen Gruppen stehen: Wie Jesus seine Schüler „Freunde“ nennt, sofern sie seine Ethik befolgen, deren Wissenshintergründe er ihnen dargelegt hat (Joh 15,14 f.), so nennen sie sich auch gegenseitig „Freunde“ (3 Joh 15), eine Gepflogenheit, wie sie insbesondere in philosophischen Gruppen für diejenigen üblich war, „die gemeinsam studieren und philosophieren“ (Diog. L. 5,52: συσχολάζειν καὶ συμφιλοσοφεῖν).121 Anders als in den unsere Vorstellung prägenden Berufungsgeschichten (Mk 1,16–20; 2,14),122 in denen Jesus auf die Suche nach Schülern geht, was oft – zu Unrecht123 – als ein markanter Unterschied zu paganen Lehrern herausgestellt wird,124 sind es im Johannesevangelium die Schüler, die Jesus als Lehrer suchen, wie es im hellenistischen philosophischen Schulbetrieb offensichtlich das Normale war.125 Im Johannesevangelium laufen die Schüler sogar zu Jesus über (Joh 1,35–9) oder schleichen sich heimlich zu ihm (Joh 3,1 f.).126 Besonders auffällig ist die Rede vom „geliebten Schüler“, der beim Abschiedsmahl – analog zur (bleibenden) Position Jesu an der Brust des Vaters (Joh 1,18) – an Jesu Brust liegt (Joh 13,23) und den Jesus am Kreuz zu seinem Bruder adoptiert (Joh 19,26 f.), womit er ihn auch rechtlich zu seinem Nachfolger bestimmt. Diese Züge sind aus Philosophenviten bekannt: Der vom jeweiligen Schulleiter „geliebte“ Schüler ist als Nachfolger prädestiniert.127 120  Vgl. Plato, Symp. 179B; Aristot., Eth. Nic. 9,8 (1169a18–20); Der Neue Wettstein I 715–726; J. Schröter, ‚Sterben für die Freunde: Überlegungen zur Deutung des Todes Jesu im Johannesevangelium‘, in A. von Dobbeler, K. Erlemann, R. Heiligenthal (Hgg.), Religionsgeschichte des Neuen Testaments. FS K. Berger (Tübingen: Francke, 2000), 263–87. 121 Vgl. Plato, Ep. 7 (347E); Diog. L. 5,52–3 (Testament Theophrasts); 5,70 (Testament Lykons); vgl. Vegge, Paulus, 89. 122  Dazu im Vergleich mit paganen Berufungsgeschichten: W. T. Shiner, Follow Me! Disciples in Markan Rhetoric, SBLDS 145 (Atlanta GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 1995); R. M. Calhoun, ‚The Power of the Call: Wilhelm Bousset on Miracle, and Mark 1:16–20‘, in Early Christianity 6 (2015), 67–88. 123 Vgl. Diog. L. 2,48 (Sokrates/Xenophon); Xenoph., Mem. 4,2 (Sokrates/Euthydemus); generell: Diog. L. 9,112. 124  So etwa Pellegrini, ‚Jesus der Lehrer‘, 469. 125 Vgl. die Übersicht bei Calhoun, ‚Power‘, 78. 126 Auch in den ältesten synoptischen Traditionen gibt es diese Bewegung: vgl. Q 9,57 f.; Mk 5,18–20. 127  Vgl. Diog. L. 4,19 (Xenokrates/Polemo); 4,21 f. (Polemo/Krates); 4,22.29 (Krantor/Arkesilaos). Im Unterschied zu den Philosophenviten, die jeweils vom ἐρώμενος sprechen, wird im Johannesevangelium durch die Wahl des Verbs ἀγαπάω jegliche erotische Konnotation vermieden.

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Wenn, wie Klaus Wengst meint,128 das Christusbekenntnis der johanneischen Gemeinde vor allem deswegen zum Auslöser für den Synagogenausschluss geworden ist, weil es politisch missverstanden werden konnte und damit nach dem Jüdischen Krieg den Annäherungsversuchen an Rom kontraproduktiv im Weg stand, ist es nur allzu verständlich, dass sich die johanneische Gemeinde mit der Selbststilisierung als einer philosophischen Gruppe samt ihrem Gründer als philosophischem Lehrer ein neues Profil zu geben versucht hat.

V. Das Bildungsparadigma im Zentrum Ähnlich wie das Johannesevangelium haben auch die synoptischen Evangelien aus dem Arsenal der Lehrermotivik diejenigen Aspekte in den Vordergrund gerückt und für die Zeichnung Jesu realisiert, die für die jeweilige Situation vor Ort im Blick auf die Gefährdungen der eigenen Gemeinde (nach innen) bzw. die (nach außen) angezielte Selbststilisierung erstrangig infrage kamen: Das Matthäusevangelium betont mit dem „einzigen Lehrer“ Jesus die Egalität aller Gemeindemitglieder – im virtuellen Gegenüber zu den Synagogengemeinden, das Markusevangelium den bewussten Prestigeverzicht im Gegenüber zur Aufsteigermentalität, wie sie durch den Aufstieg Vespasians etabliert und von den flavischen Kaisern gefördert worden ist;129 das Lukasevangelium verpflichtet mit der Lehre Jesu die Reichen zu sozialem Engagement. Dass diese Pointierungen ausgerechnet in der Lehrer-Schüler-Zeichnung kulminieren, hängt im Ursprung sicher mit dem tragischen Dilemma des urchristlichen Großnarrativs zusammen: der Verurteilung Jesu zur Kreuzigung durch einen römischen Magistraten. Dieses Faktum war nicht zu leugnen.130 Aber damit hing an der Ursprungsfigur der Geruch eines politischen Aufrührers, der gleichzeitig auch all denen anhaften musste, die seine Tradition pflegten. Als Lehrer stilisiert, der wegen seiner Lehre hingerichtet wird bzw. dem politischen Kalkül der einheimischen Elite zum Opfer fällt, eigentlich gegen den Willen des römischen Statthalters, konnte Jesus in die Reihe der oppositionellen Intellektuellen im Römischen Reich gestellt werden, also der Philosophen wie Senatoren, die in der Flavierzeit schlechte Karten hatten und wegen ihrer Lehre, die sie vertraten, verbreiteten und vor allem selbst lebten, des Landes verwiesen131 bzw. hingerichtet wurden. Damit haben diejenigen Schriften des Urchristentums, die Jesus als Gründergestalt 128  K. Wengst, Das Johannesevangelium. 1. Teilbd.: Kapitel 1–10, ThKNT 4/1 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2000), 21–6. 129 Vgl. M. Ebner, ‚Das Markusevangelium‘, in Id., Schreiber (Hgg.), Einleitung in das Neue Testament, 155–84, hier: 176–81. 130  Vgl. Tac., Ann. 15,44,3 – mit den entsprechenden Wertungen. 131  Unter diesem Gesichtspunkt bekommt die „Landesverweisung“ Jesu in Mk 5,17 angesichts des durch Jesus „vernünftig“ gewordenen (σωφρονοῦντα) Dämonischen noch einmal ganz neue Obertöne.

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porträtieren, das Bildungsparadigma132 in den Fokus gerückt – und sich selbst als philosophische Gruppierung stilisiert, eben als „Schüler“, mit einer Lehre, in deren Zentrum eine Ethik vermittelt wird, die aufhorchen lässt und durchaus anschlussfähig ist.133 Ist eine derartige Stilisierung angesichts des historischen Befundes gerechtfertigt?

VI. Entscheidende Anhaltspunkte beim historischen Jesus Auch wenn für den historischen Jesus die Voraussetzungen für einen Lehrer im paganen wie jüdischen Bereich (etwa im Sinn eines Schriftgelehrten)134 nicht gegeben sind, so bietet ein beträchtlicher Ausschnitt seiner Worte und Taten, die zu seiner Erinnerung tradiert worden sind, entscheidendes Material für eine Lehrer-Stilisierung. An erster Stelle sind seine Sentenzen, Gleichnisse und Beispielgeschichten zu nennen, die von den ältesten Überlieferungssträngen in der Spruchquelle und im Markusevangelium mit erstaunlicher Übereinstimmung überliefert werden. Zum anderen ist gerade sein anstößiges Mahlverhalten (vgl. Q 7,34; Mk 2,15) eine Säule, die sich im Blick auf Gelehrten‑ bzw. Abschiedsmähler mit der Propagierung einer alternativen Ethik bestens ausbauen ließ. Und wenn nicht nur das Wort gegen den Tempel (Mk 14,58) als Auslöser für seinen Tod dem historischen Jesus zuzurechnen ist, sondern auch die Erzählung vom barmherzigen Samariter samt der Schilderung des weniger barmherzigen Leviten und Priesters (Lk 10,30–5), und wenn der Beinahme „Kepha“, den Jesus dem Simon gegeben hat, tatsächlich Assoziationen zum amtierenden Hohenpriester Kajaphas wecken sollte,135 dann ist die Abstandnahme vom etab132  Und speziell diese Sparte wird durch das Urchristentum zunächst besetzt. Erst sekundär wird die Wirkung kultischer Vollzüge in Anspruch genommen, so die Sündenvergebung beim Mahl statt durch Tieropfer im Tempel (vgl. Mt 26,28), bzw. Kultstatus behauptet durch die virtuelle Etablierung eines himmlischen Kults als Deutung des Kreuzestodes Jesu im Hebr. vom Christentum als einer „Bildungsreligion“ zu sprechen, wie es im Buchtitel von T. Söding, Das Christentum als Bildungsreligion: Der Impuls des Neuen Testaments (Freiburg i. Br.: Herder, 2016), geschieht, verwischt insofern den Sachverhalt, als Religion in der Antike einseitig den Sektor Kult (mit Tempel, Priestern und Opfern) besetzt, während das, was wir heute „Seelsorge“ nennen, das Geschäft der Philosophie ist (vgl. Vegge, Paulus, 97–9). 133  Vgl. die Zusammenfassung der gesamten Tora durch den fundamentalethischen Grundsatz der Goldenen Regel in Mt 7,12 bzw. die bereits innerjüdisch rezipierte Zentrierung der beiden Dekalogtafeln auf die beiden hellenistischen Kardinaltugenden der Gottes‑ und Menschenliebe (vgl. Mk 12,29–31parr.); vgl. G. Theissen, ‚Die Goldene Regel (Matthäus 7:12// Lukas 6:31): Über den Sitz im Leben ihrer positiven und negativen Form‘, in BibInt 11 (2003), 386–99, sowie A. Dihle, Der Kanon der zwei Tugenden, Arbeitsgemeinschaft für Forschung des Landes Nordrhein-Westfalen. Geisteswissenschaften 144 (Köln: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1968). 134  „Rabbi“ war zur Zeit Jesu ganz sicher eine rein ehrenvolle Anrede, die keineswegs auf einen institutionalisierten Lehrer schließen lässt. 135  Vgl. M. Ebner, Jesus von Nazaret: Was wir von ihm wissen können (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 20165), 151.

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lierten Kultpersonal und dessen Tempelorganisation sowie die Erwartung eines anderen, neuen Tempels mit anderen, eben Gottesherrschafts-Strukturen, ein Erbe des historischen Jesus, das er vermutlich wiederum seinem eigenen Lehrer, Johannes dem Täufer, verdankt,136 der seinerseits sehr wohl in priesterlicher Schultradition stand (vgl. Lk 1,5) und von Jesus höher als alle anderen Propheten bzw. überhaupt als größter unter den von Frauen Geborenen geschätzt wurde (vgl. Q 7,26.28), in der christlichen Überlieferung jedoch in den Schatten des „Lehrers“ Jesus getreten ist.

136 Vgl.

dessen Taufe zur Vergebung von Sünden (vgl. Mk 1,4) – ohne Tempelinstitution.

Spaces

Secrecy in the Gospel of Matthew from an Anthropological Perspective: Creation of an Alternative World Halvor Moxnes The purpose of this chapter is to explore the social function of secrecy in the Gospel of Matthew by using questions posed in social anthropology.

I. Presuppositions in the Study of Secrecy A study of “secrecy” is never innocent. We can never take the term and its content for granted and must always ask: what is the meaning of secrecy? One way to start is to ask for the history of the term, how it has been understood and used, and how it has been shaped by various cultural contexts. Above all, it appears that the Enlightenment, which has defined the study of modern scholarship in both the humanities and social sciences, has had a significant impact on the evaluation of secrecy, although with varying results. Luther H. Martin, an expert on Hellenistic religions, remarks that although secrecy is found in all social groups as a parameter of inclusion and exclusion, it has been judged by historians of religion to be a specific feature of religious groups. He characterizes this as “the sensationalizing of secrecy as a category of religious explanation”, and suggests that it has an intellectual history, as yet unwritten, upon which he offers some observations.1 The academic study of religion is a child of the Enlightenment and has inherited from it values such as individualism, voluntarism, and a “respect for private and informal activity”. These values were bound up in “the realization of a civil and public society”,2 as argued by Jürgen Habermas, in contrast to political absolutism and ecclesiastical confessionalism. Martin argues, however, that the outcome was not only the creation of private societies, but also the establishment of secret societies, 1  L. H. Martin, ‘Secrecy in Hellenistic religious communities’, in H. G. Kippenberg, G. G. Stroumsa (eds.), Secrecy and Concealment: Studies in the History of Mediterranean and Near Eastern Religions, Numen: Studies in the History of Religions 65 (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 118–21. 2 Ibid., 118.

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like the Freemasons. Moreover, he suggests that this process created the basis for a widespread conviction in European thought, especially in the nineteenth century, that secret societies were behind much of what happened in the world. This acceptance of secret forces operating in history, according to Martin, shaped nineteenth-century theories of religion. The scientific study of religion assumed that it had natural and vegetative origins, but that true religious knowledge had been concealed by later practices. In Hellenistic religion, clubs and associations were regarded as belonging to a lower level, while mystery religions were judged to be a result of “genuine religious impulses”.3 The nineteenth-­ century theory of religion was also influenced by a trend started by Schleiermacher that made Protestantism the epitome of “high religion” based on the inward experience of grace, an idea that was valid across all religions. On the basis of this outline, Martin suggests that these eighteenth‑ and nineteenth-century intellectual formulations are behind the “theoretical prominence attributed to secrecy in religion generally, and in the Hellenistic mystery cults especially”.4 Martin appears to see the Enlightenment as the basis for a development in which secrecy played an important and generally positive role in the academic study of religion. The social anthropologist Gilbert Herdt, however, interprets the influence of the Enlightenment upon the study of secrecy in anthropology in a very different light. In Secrecy and Cultural Reality, Herdt presents a history of the negative view of secrecy among Western anthropologists.5 He views these negative notions as “manifestations of liberal democracy and other views of individualism and collectivism, which assume full disclosure of all aspects of personal and social life”.6 Herdt sees cultural relativism as characteristic of anthropology and that secrecy challenges this relativism. According to Herdt, anthropology’s epistemology embraced much that was strange and exotic, but still human, in customs and culture in a rebellion against the rationality of the Enlightenment. However, it failed to accept secrecy, causing him to ask “Why in this one area – secrecy – did anthropologists resist the acceptance of a social practice as part of cultural reality”? Herdt partly attributes this negative attitude regarding secrecy to the fact that most social anthropologists were men and had no experiences of collective and ritual secrecy in their personal lives. Moreover, they may have been uncomfortable with the homosexual and homoerotic aspects of men’s secret groups. To accept that masculinity was conditioned through ritual secrecy represented a counter-hegemonic position to the privileges of being white, male, and middle class in the Cold War era in Western civilization. In contrast to these positions, Herdt wanted to study ritual  Ibid., 120.  Ibid., 120–1. 5  G. Herdt, Secrecy and Cultural Reality: Utopian Ideologies of the New Guinea Men’s Houses (Ann Arbor MI: University of Michigan Press, 2003). 6 Ibid., 224, also 47–61: “Secrecy as antisocial: historical views”. 3 4

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secrecy as expressions of masculinity. His own study is of men’s houses and their secret practices in New Guinea. Herdt’s analysis is interesting in that it places the development of methods and perspectives in an academic study in a larger social and cultural context. The difference between Martin and Herdt in their evaluation of the influence of the Enlightenment is intriguing. I may venture the suggestion that Romanticism and Schleiermacher’s notion of revelation of the divine as an experience of personal dependence may have been more important than the conspiracy theories of secret societies in Martin’s analysis.

II. Reading Matthew through the Lenses of Herdt’s Theories in “Secrets and Secret Collectives” In his 1990 essay, “Secrets and secret collectives”,7 Gilbert Herdt establishes the theoretical ground for an approach to the study of secrecy that is different from the negative approach that he had found in earlier anthropological studies. He speaks of this as “the miserly theory of secrecy”8 and, in contrast, describes his alternative as “the ontological theory of secrecy”. Herdt finds that “secrecy is particularly concerned with the ordering of social and psychological reality, that is, the nature of things”.9 In this view, secrecy deals with the differences between people and groups, and locates these differences within a cosmology: “The ontological theory sketched here imagines that secrecy is primarily driven by the necessity to ‘naturalize’ the differences between groups, by creating total meaning systems that describe and explain these differences in persons, groups, and the world”.10 Differentiation and solidarity are viewed as pivotal processes in the formation of secret collectives that distinguish themselves from the larger society or group. The key form of differentiation is the insider/outsider contrast, which Herdt describes in relation to secrecy as “an intentional process of differentiating included persons and entities from those excluded, while simultaneously building solidarity among secret-sharers”.11 The result is that “those excluded from their secret collective are perceived and conceived as having a fundamentally different ontology and nature than those who are initiated”.12 In his 2003 study from New Guinea, Secrecy and Cultural Reality, Herdt emphasizes that the intentional world is “set apart” from other formations, and speaks of “the creation ‘Secrets and Secret Collectives’, in Oceania 60 (1990), 361–81.  Herdt, Secrecy and Cultural Reality, 365.  9  Ibid., 366. 10  Ibid., 377. 11  Ibid., 367. 12 Ibid.  7 G. Herdt,  8

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of alternative conceptions of reality as the central and driving force behind the institutionalization of ritual practices in small scale societies over time”.13 It is particularly these last statements that speak of secrecy as a semiotic system that creates an intentional world, a cultural reality that will guide my reading of secrecy in Matthew in order to explore how the semiotics of secrecy contributes to creating “alternative conceptions of reality” for the members of the group. The creation of such a cultural reality differentiates the included persons from those excluded; that is, through the study of secrecy, I will explore how the author of Matthew attempts to differentiate “his” community from its social environment. In contrast to other studies of secrecy in the gospels, this approach does not take “the Messianic secret” as its starting point,14 but explores how Matthew employs secrecy to establish an alternative world, and how this world may be related to the gospel’s collective or community. The main texts under study are Matt 6:1–18, 11:25–30, and chapter 13. These three passages on secrecy all have different emphases. The first, 6:1–18, on secrecy and hiddenness, encourages a group to differentiate itself from the community by ritualizing a behavior that imitates God, “who is in secret”. The second passage, 11:25–30, promises a revelation to a group, paradoxically named “infants”, that is hidden to the wise. Only in the third passage, the parable chapter in Matthew 13, is the secret named: the knowledge of the mystery of the Kingdom that is given to disciples of Jesus, but still hidden in parables to the crowds.

III. Secrecy, Separation and Identity in Matthew 6:1–18 In Herdt’s Secrecy and Cultural Reality, he is interested in the social function of ritual secrecy among the Sambia people of New Guinea, and centers his study on the men’s houses. He challenges the view that secrecy is a force that disrupts interpersonal relations, and instead holds that ritual secrecy opens up social relations to initiated others, just as it forecloses other relations.15 In these houses, men established and institutionalized ritual practices that provided the means of living within two cultural realities: a perfect or utopian one, as well as an imper13 Ibid.,

223–4  The Messianic secret is the starting point for J. J. Pilch, ‘Secrecy in the Mediterranean World: An Anthropological Perspective’, in BTB 24 (1994), 151–7. D. Neufeld, Mockery and Secretism in the Social World of Mark’s Gospel, LNTS 503 (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), questions the usefulness of the category “secrecy” in the study of Jesus in Mark’s Gospel (78–102) and introduces the term “secretism” that Mark employed as a strategy against mockery. For a study of John’s Gospel, see J. H. Neyrey, The Sociology of Secrecy and the Fourth Gospel (Atlanta GA: Scholars, 1998). 15 Herdt, Secrecy and Cultural Reality, 38. 14

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fect earthly existence.16 The driving force behind these ritual practices was the creation of a cultural reality or alternative conceptions of reality. The secrecy motif in the words of Jesus in Matt 6:1–18 plays a similar role: to create an alternative conception of reality for the members of the Matthean group against the larger Jewish community.17 Matt 6:1–18 has a central position in the Sermon on the Mount, following the Beatitudes and the Anti-theses in chapter 5. The section 6:1–18, as it now stands in Matthew’s gospel, may be the result of a redaction that added v. 1 and the part on the Lord’s prayer, 6:7–15. The “original” text has three parallel parts, each on one expression of Jewish cult or religious practice: almsgiving (2–4), prayer (5–6) and fasting (16–18). They have a common structure: in contrast to the “hypocrites” who perform their acts to be seen by others, the addressees are to perform them in secret (4a) with the promise that they will be rewarded by their “Father”, who “sees in secret”(4b, 6c, 18c), and who is even described as “the Father who is in secret” (6b, 18b). The purpose of this section is to differentiate the addressees from the “others”, and secrecy is the key to this goal. The differentiation happens within the central area of Jewish cultic practice of almsgiving, prayer, and fasting. The claim that these observations of cult practice should be undertaken in secrecy was emphasized by placing these practices in space; secrecy has a spatial dimension. When the hypocrites claim attention to themselves for their almsgiving, their public performances take place in the synagogue, the building that was the main meeting place for the village,18 and in the streets (6:2). This is repeated with regard to their prayers, which they also performed in the synagogues and at street corners. The synagogues were normal places for almsgiving and prayers, where Pharisees and scribes were respected leaders. Yet, in this text, both the leaders and the synagogues are delegitimized. The leaders are attributed an intention that is viewed negatively: “so that they may be praised/seen by others/men” (6:2, 5, 7, 16). In contrast, the right prayer, done in secret, is also placed spatially in the “inner room”, most likely a small storeroom in the house.19 With regard to fasting, there is no spatial component, but the external factor is the person’s face, which could either express pain and displeasure or be well-composed, without showing any sign of discomfort. What was the “new” practice? Apparently, secrecy led to different forms of practices. They should give alms, but the paradoxical statement of the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing suggests that others  – and even 16 Ibid.,

62–3.

17 K. Syreeni,

‘Separation and Identity: Aspects of the Symbolic World of Matt. 6:1–18’, in NTS 40 (1994), 522–41. 18  A. Runesson, The Origins of the Synagogue: A Socio-Historical Study, Coniectanea Biblica. New Testament 37 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 2001). 19  W. Bauer, ‘Tameion’, in A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press, 1958), 803.

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they themselves – should not know where their alms were going. And praying in their “inner room”, as opposed to the synagogue, also meant a lack of control from the outside concerning how and when they were praying. Likewise, to put oil on their head and wash their face meant that it was not possible from their exterior to tell whether they were fasting or not. Thus, there is no trace of the rejection of fasting, prayer, and almsgiving that we find in the Gospel of Thomas 14; “secrecy” meant to practice them in a way that was withheld from public view. The emphasis on secrecy meant that they should differentiate themselves from the “hypocrites”, i. e. those who practiced these cultic rites with a view to public recognition.20 The implication was to exclude themselves from public control. But they were present in the same public sphere; their separate identity was not something they boasted about in public; their alternative reality was an “inner” reality. They knew that they were different from “the others”, but it might not be visible from the outside.

IV. The Cosmology of Secrecy The exhortation to the “ideal hearers” also had an internal function in creating a unity among those who practiced almsgiving, prayer and fasting in “secrecy”. But this unity does not seem to be based on a common practice; the lack of external control may also have resulted in different internal practices. The unity in secrecy was grounded in a conception of reality that had God as its model. This, of course, was not anything new within a Jewish context; nor was it new or exceptional that God was able to see the secrets of men. The idea of the hiddenness of God, well-known in the Old Testament, is not often expressed in New Testament writings; it is more characteristic of Hellenistic Judaism (cf. Philo, Post. 15).21 Thus, when Matthew combines this description of God “who is in secret”,22 with the expressions that He “sees in secret” and rewards those who walk “in secret”, the practice of secrecy is given a divine legitimation. The addressees are placed within an alternative cosmology and conception of reality, where they, as almsgivers/supplicants/fasting “in secret” are encouraged to imitate God, who is “in secret”. This passage is similar to Paul’s statement in Rom 2:28–9, where nonJews can become “Jews in secret”, if they follow the Law and circumcision “by heart”. Paul’s conclusion is similar to that of Matthew 6: “His praise is not from 20  See Matt 23:27, where the scribes and Pharisees are accused of the same behavior as in 6:1–18; in the continuation in 23:13–36, the scribes and the Pharisees are repeatedly called “hypocrites”. 21  A. Oepke, ‘krýpto’, in TDNT, 1966, 972. 22  Strangely enough, almost no commentaries on Matthew make any observations on the title “God who is in secret”. R. T. France is an exception when he describes this as a “remarkable phrase”, but without giving any references to the origin or other uses of the phrase. See, R. T. France, The Gospel of Matthew (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 2007), 239

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men, but from God” (Rom 2:29). However, Matt 6:1–18 does not explicitly speak of non-Jews; it is more a contrast between members of a Jewish community. This ontological worldview has “God in secret” at its center, as the source of identity for those who pray, give alms, and fast “in secret”, and who possibly continue as participants in the common meeting-places, the synagogues. The “others”, who do their prayers, almsgiving, and fasting in public view, are accused of being hypocrites, of misusing the synagogues, and, in the end, of not worshipping “God in secret”. In his analysis of the symbolic world of Matt 6:1–18, Kari Syreeni comes to a similar conclusion as Herdt, who postulates for secret collectives; he finds that the passage established an alternative conception of reality, while they simultaneously lived within their “old” society. Syreeni suggests that the community “still adhered to the religious symbols of Judaism, but these symbols were filled with new meanings and were designed to legitimate what was basically a rather different symbolic world”.23

V. Secrecy and Ascribed Identity in Matthew 11:25–7 Matt 11:25 is part of Jesus’ well-known thanksgiving to God from Q 11:25–7: “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants”. This text has been much discussed both in its Q form and in its integration in Matthew, where the context has added new dimensions to its interpretation.24 Its place at the conclusion of the first major section of the gospel gives added weight to the issue of identity formation through this saying. The positive identity is ascribed to the group of addressees who are termed “infants” (νήπιοι), and who are described as those who have received the revelation from God of “these things”. The ascription “infants” may be compared to the introduction of young boys to the secrets of masculinity in the Sambia people, as Herdt describes the long liminality phase that they go through.25 Herdt describes them being in a position of “betwixt and between the normative positions and regular outposts of social life”. As a result, children, especially boys, are “a fuzzy category in Sambia culture, being between sacred and profane, the men’s and women’s world”.26 The purpose of this long liminal period was to prepare the boys to become warriors, and their acceptance of this liminal situation meant that “they signified their acceptance of the ideological or utopian cultural reality of the men’s house”.27 The effect of the 23 Syreeni,

‘Separation and Identity’, 522.  U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (Mt 8–17), EKK 1 (Zürich: Benziger, 1990), 196–

24

216.

 Herdt, Secrecy and Cultural Reality, 91.  Ibid. 27 Ibid. 25 26

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“very long term secret ritual seclusion and female avoidance” was that “the boys were removed from public affairs, where incoherence, compromise, and doubt … might have crept into their subjectivity”.28 Thus, there is a contrast between “public affairs”, that is, daily life with its social mixtures of compromise and doubts and “the utopian cultural reality of the men’s house”, which is an ontology based on differentiation from “others”, especially women. The decisive perspective in Matt 11:25 is the antithetical contrast between “the wise and the intelligent” and the “infants” (νήπιοι),29 based on the saying that “these things” are hidden from the first group and revealed to the other. Similar types of contrasts are common in both Jewish and other sources from the Jesus-movement. They are expressed against a background of societies that were complex in terms of different social and ideological compositions. The saying was used in a Q-setting and now in Matthews’ context, which reflects a situation of conflict either within a synagogue milieu or shortly after a separation from it.30 The term νήπιοι should therefore be understood as a designation intended to create both identity and differentiation, based on the contrast between “hidden” and “revealed”. Νήπιοι is not used in a physical meaning of “child” in terms of age (as Paul uses it in 1 Cor 13:11 and Gal 4:1). Paul can also use νήπιοι metaphorically, giving it the negative meaning of one not yet advanced enough in Christ to participate in Paul’s teaching (1 Cor 3:1). Philo appears to use νήπιοι in a similar way, as he applies it to denote those who are beginners on the road to wisdom.31 Ulrich Luz points to the two aspects of νήπιοι, as the term is used in Matthew, both literally (“child, babe”) and figuratively (“childish, immature, simple, stupid”).32 The importance of the term is that it expresses surprise at the revelation to the addressees, that it is not given to those who normally claimed to receive the revelation from God: the elite, the wise and the understanding. The designation of the recipients of revelation as “infants” or “immature”, as opposed to the wise and understanding, was foreign to Jewish sources.33 However, in some sources, e. g. 4 Ezra, in the Qumran, and in Tannaitic texts, the wise and the understanding also adopt a way of speaking of themselves as poor, humble and simple.34 But this is not the situation in Matt 11:25, with its explicit contrast between the νήπιοι and the wise and understanding. There are more similarities to an earlier text by Paul. In 1 Corinthians 1, Paul uses a similar set of contrasts between the 28 Ibid.,

92.  Luz, Matthäus, 205. 30 See below, n. 52. 31 C. Deutsch, Hidden Wisdom and the Easy Yoke: Wisdom, Torah and Discipleship in Matthew 11:25–30, SupplJSNT 118 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1987), 87–9, 108; see Philo, Migr. 46, Prob. 160, Spec. 2,32. 32  Luz, Matthäus, 206. 33  Deutsch, Hidden Wisdom, 110. 34 Ibid., 111. 29

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wise, powerful and noble and the foolish, the weak, the low, and the despised to express how God acted in ways that were different from “the world” (1 Cor 1:26–9). In Paul’s argument, these terms may have had a social significance; in a possible setting in the ministry of Jesus, νήπιοι could also have had such implications, e. g. referring to women, the poor, or the am ha-aretz.35 In the context of Matt 11:25, nepioi may have been a term that was socially open. It expressed a self-designation of humility vis-a-vis God, and a criticism of one’s opponents that claimed they were not guardians of secret knowledge and, as a result, had it hidden from them. The use of nouns, σοφῶν, συνετῶν, νηπίοις,· without the definite article, underlines the general form of the designations.36 They do not refer to specific groups; rather, they present a contrast between two types. To the addressees of Matthew’s gospel, the saying must have been heard as putting up an ideal identity, exempted from the complexities and compromises in everyday life and surrounded by Jews belonging to their synagogues. Matt 18:1–14 indicates that the same tensions might have been present within the Matthean community. In this discourse, the disciples are first confronted with the example of the child, παιδίον, who is the ideal example for all those who want to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven (18:1–4). Also, in the next passage, “one of these little ones” (ἕνα τῶν μικρῶν, 18:6) appears to be a parallel to the “infants” in 11:25, as a name for all members in the Matthean group. However, in 18:10–4 it appears that “these little ones” make up a group within the community that is especially exposed to rejection and dangers.37 Similarly, in Matt 25:31–46, the “least ones” (25:40, 45) are all those in need, in danger, in prison, etc. The unresolved question that remains is the content of ταῦτα, “these things”, in Matt 11:25 that are hidden from the wise and only revealed to the νήπιοι. Several suggestions have been advanced, including that they refer to the Kingdom of Heaven, that they are based on Jesus’ proclamation of the Kingdom of Heaven as a refuge for the poor, etc.38 Other suggestions are the Wisdom myth and Christology in Q, and the unity of the Father and the Son (11:27).39 In its Matthean context, there are links between 11:25–7, Jesus as the Son of Man, and eschatological sayings. In the sayings, however, the content is not explained; focus is on the νήπιοι as recipients of revelation and how this represents the central aspect of their identity. It remains for the next passage on the recipients of secrets to reveal the content of the secret.

Matthäus, 206.  Ibid., 205–6. 37  U. Luz, The Theology of the Gospel of Matthew (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 107–8. 38  Luz, Matthäus, 206. 39 Deutsch, Hidden Wisdom, 103–7. 35 Luz, 36

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VI. Secret Knowledge and the Formation of Male Discipleship in Matthew 13 Herdt speaks of how secrecy “operates in the major domains of feeling, thought, belief, knowledge and action”, and also relates that “the literature suggests that the ‘knowledge’ of secrecy emerges by metaphoric, analogical, and symbolic contrast”.40 Thus, while the domains of feeling and action are in focus in chapter 6, and the identity of those who have received the revelation in chapter 11, Matthew 13 focuses on knowledge of the central symbol of the group. If we ask about the function of secrecy with regard to community formation in the chapter on parables in Matthew 13, the key is found in Jesus’ saying to the disciples: “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given” (Matt 13:11). Let us contextualize this saying. In a previous passage (10:5–15), Matthew relates a story about how Jesus called the 12 disciples and sent them on a mission to heal and to preach the arrival of the Kingdom, the content of which is not yet explained. Chapter 13 has the function of initiating the disciples into the knowledge of the secret of the Kingdom, the central myth of the community. In Matthew’s gospel, the secret of the Kingdom appears to have a similar function in establishing the identity of the group as the secret of the Messiah has in Mark. Thus, in Matt 13:10–7, which differentiates the groups of addressees for the parables, “the disciples” are designated as the group which has received the knowledge of the secrets of the Kingdom. This section makes up an inclusio for the following section of parables together with the concluding section, 13:51–2 (unique to Matthew), that also focuses on the disciples and their knowledge of the Kingdom. Following the parable of the sower in Matt 13:3–9, Jesus responds to the question from the disciples as to why he only speaks to the crowds in parables. This statement, in 13:11, is part of a section, 13:10–7, that presents the contrast created by the secret of knowledge; it creates a division between the disciples and the crowds. Compared to the short statement in Mark 4:10–2, Matthew has expanded this saying on the differences in reception between the disciples and the crowds and introduced a long quotation from Isa 6:9–10. The main point is that the knowledge of the secret (τὰ μυστήρια) of the Kingdom is only given to the disciples. Thus, the topic of this section is how knowledge of the secret of the Kingdom defines the group of disciples, and how the “others”, the crowds, are characterized by a lack of access to this secret. This contrast with regard to knowledge of the secret of the Kingdom between the disciples and the crowds is reflected in a spatial contrast that is part of the structure of chapter 13. The alterations between locations and audience signal 40 Herdt,

‘Secret Collectives’, 363, 372.

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the differences between disciples and crowds when it comes to access to the secret. These contrasts are established in the preceding scene with Jesus sitting in a house court speaking to the crowds, while his mother and brothers stand outside (Matt 12:46–50). Using fictive kinship terms, Jesus points to his disciples (μαθηταί) as those who are his kin, those who do “the will of my father in heaven” (12:49–50). Immediately thereafter, Jesus leaves the house and goes to the lakeside, where great crowds (ὄχλοι) gather while he tells parables from a boat. In Jesus’ explanation in 13:10–7, the question of who has received this knowledge and who has not is at the center of attention, with repeated contrasts between “you” (the disciples) and “them” (the crowds; 13:11, 12, 14–5 versus 16–7). This contrast between these two audiences is followed up in the rest of the chapter. The next three parables (13:24–33) reach a conclusion with a redactional comment: “Jesus told the crowds all these things in parables; without a parable he told them nothing” (13:34). Then follows a change of scene from an open space to a house, a change of audiences from crowds to Jesus’ disciples, and from parables to the secret of explanation in Matt 13:36–43. The following parables (13:44–50) appear to be told to the disciples; since the conclusion to the section of parables is a uniquely Matthean passage, where Jesus’ question, “Have you understood all of this?” is followed by their “Yes”. Jesus’ final statement therefore appears to be addressed to the disciples: “Therefore every scribe who has been trained (μαθητευθείς) for the kingdom of heaven is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old” (13:51–2). Using Herdt’s terminology of the “ontological function of secrecy”, we may say that the parables in Matthew 13 represent an alternative ontology of the world; they tell about the nature of things. But this is a hidden insight; it is only transmitted in Jesus’ Kingdom parables. “Kingdom of heaven” is the central metaphor in Matthew’s gospel, associated both with Jesus’ acts and, as is the case here, with his words in parables. Employing Herdt’s terminology, the “secrets of the Kingdom of heaven” represent a utopian cultural reality, but they only become that reality when they are explained. The term itself may be an allusion to the Jewish cultural background of “the secrets of God”, which have been hidden since the foundation of the world.41 These secrets would only be revealed to a small privileged group of people before the coming of the Messiah.42 Matthew also uses the terminology of revelation when he emphasizes that it is knowledge that is given to the disciples (13:11).

41 M. Nel, ‘The Mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven according to Matthew 13:10–17’, in Neot 43 (2009), 271–87, here: 280. The “mysteries of kingdom” may be an allusion to either a Greco-Roman or, especially, a Jewish cultural context. In Septuagint, “secrets of God”, is a translation of a Persian loanword, ras, revealed only to a privileged seer or people. 42  E. g. Dan 2:27–8 and Dead Sea Scrolls, e. g. 1 En. 103:1–4; 4 Ezra 14:5–6; Nel, ‘The Mysteries of the Kingdom’, 280.

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This knowledge that is given (by Jesus) must be received through the disciples’ capacity to understand (συνίεμι). This is a recurring word that distinguishes between the crowds, who do not understand (13:13–5, 19), and the disciples. Since the disciples have understood the parables, they are included in the description of “every scribe who has been trained for the Kingdom” (13:52). The word for “trained” (μαθητεύω) is of the same root as “disciple” (μαθητής). At the end of the chapter on parables, the focus is still on the exclusive character of the disciples in contrast to the crowds; but there is a possible opening that allows others to be included in the understanding of the parables of the Kingdom. The explanation of “the good soil” that bears fruit from the parable of the sower appears to open up for a broader group than the disciples, as it is “he who hears the word and understands it” (Matt 13:23). Also, another Jesus-word in 10:27 seems to point in that direction; it speaks of secrets that at some point may be revealed: “What I tell you in the dark, utter in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim upon the housetops”. And the future task for the disciples, after the resurrection of Jesus, is that they shall “make disciples of all nations” (28:20). The disciples are a clearly defined group in Matthew, referring to the twelve men chosen by Jesus to follow him (10:1). When Matthew afterwards refers to Jesus and “the disciples/his disciples” (11:1; 12:47; 13:36), it is understood that he means this group. This implies that it is an all-male group that is granted knowledge of the secret of the community. There is nothing unusual in this; in studies of secret groups and collectives, anthropologists find that: “The development of ontology across the life course in societies such as the Sambia inevitably links secrecy with gender”, so that “gender is a leit-motif of secret collectives”.43 The readers of Matthew will know that the disciples are a male group, but this aspect is not emphasized. Matthew also does not emphasize gender in regard to the crowds, although he does tell how Jesus fed a large crowd that included “5000 men, besides women and children” (14:21).44 The sections on secrecy do not represent the full picture of gender roles in Matthew’s gospel. Antoinette Wire has emphasized that there is evidence of women’s traditions in the gospel.45 In this section of Matthew’s gospel, the group of disciples is undifferentiated, with no visible hierarchies or subgroups. Thus, it is as a collectivity that the disciples are contrasted with the crowd. The picture of the crowds in Matthew is ambiguous.46 There are many instances where the crowds come to listen to Jesus and go to great length to find and 43 Herdt,

‘Secret Collectives’, 373.  Mark only has “5000 men”. 45  A. Clark Wire, ‘Gender Roles in a Scribal Community’, in D. L. Balch (ed.), Social History of the Matthean Community (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 1991), 87–121. 46  J. R. C. Cousland, The Crowds in the Gospel of Matthew, SupplNT 102 (Leiden: Brill, 2001). 44

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hear him, such as the aforementioned example of the parables (13:2). However, they are not given permission to know the “secrets of the Kingdom of Heaven”. Secrecy creates differentiation. In Matt 13:11–2, the contrast between the disciples and the crowds is expressed in two antithetical parallelisms. The first one is directly related to the context: “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given”. The second is a principled statement: “For to those who have, more will be given, and they will have abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away”. More importantly, Jesus speaks to them in parables specifically so that they do not understand: “The reason I speak to them in parables is that ‘seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand’” (13:13). This is followed up by Jesus quoting Isa 6:9–10 to the same effect: it is divine purpose that they shall not see, hear, and understand’” (13:14–5). In the final rhetorical climax of this passage, the disciples are contrasted with the crowds: “But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear” (13:16). The address “blessed” (μακάριοι) brings to mind the beatitudes in 5:1–12, the primary example of how Matthew creates an alternative conception of reality.47 The disciples are blessed because they can see what had previously been hidden even from the prophets: “Truly I tell you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see, but did not see it, and to hear what you hear, but did not hear it” (13:17). In seeing the secrets of the Kingdom of Heaven, the disciples are established as a group that has knowledge of the world that is not available to others, and that creates a strong bond between the members and separates them from “the others”. Thus, in this passage, there is no contact between the disciples and the crowds. This illustrates Herdt’s suggestion that the ontology of secrecy “imposes an intentional code of differentiation in relation to some persons and entities”,48 and “the key form of differentiation … was the insider/outsider contrast”.49 The result of the description of the crowds as not seeing, hearing, or understanding, in Herdt’s words, is that “those excluded from their secret collective are perceived and conceived as having a fundamentally different ontology and nature than those who are initiated”.50

 Herdt, Secrecy and Cultural Reality, 223–4.  Cf. also ibid., 229: “Ritual secrecy opens up social relations to initiated others, just as it forecloses other relations”. 49  Ibid., 360. 50 Ibid., 367. 47 48

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VII. The Social Context of Secrecy In Matthew’s gospel, the discourses of secrecy present a major strategy to develop the identity of its audience, and its differentiation from the surrounding society. The impact of these discourses illustrates Herdt’s definition of “the ontological theory of secrecy”. Herdt argues that secrecy deals with the differences between people and groups, and locates these differences in a cosmology: “The ontological theory sketched here imagines that secrecy is primarily driven by the necessity to ‘naturalize’ the differences between groups, by creating total meaning systems that describe and explain these differences in persons, groups, and the world”.51 In Matthew, the “total meaning system” is the cosmology that encompasses the addressees. It is represented by “your Father who is in secret” and who rewards those who act in secret (6:6), and “the Father, Lord of heaven and earth”, who reveals that which has been hidden (11:25). The designation of God “who is in secret” is not a common description of God in Jewish scriptures from this period. Yet, it is in the relationship between Matthew’s addressees and God that we notice the characteristics of the discourses of secrecy. It is in the imitation of God “being in secrecy” with respect to ritual practice that the audience of Matthew is distinct and different from “the hypocrites”. When the recipients of revelation are addressed as “infants”, it is not a mere social description; it is an expression of their ascribed identity in their relation to God, as well as of their distinction from the “wise and the understanding”. We noticed that these identity markers were “types”, characteristic of “all” who imitated or were selected by God. They were differentiated from a set of negative “anti-types”: “hypocrites” and “wise and understanding”. The inclusion of these groups in parallel antithetical statements indicates that “wise and understanding” is also a negative term, as it indicates those who in the “eyes of others” are valued highly, but not in the eyes of God. Thus, when placed in the context of “total meaning”, the secret practice of rituals represents an imitation of God who is in secret, therefore making it a category of identity. In Matthew 6, those who prayed etc. in secret were not externally visible; they could be a hidden group that did not appear as a social entity in society. In Matthew 11, the term “infants” was an ascribed identity category; it presented a way in which they could identify themselves as a group, as receivers of hidden wisdom. More than the other passages, Matthew 13 brings out a cognitive aspect: the knowledge of the secrets of the Kingdom of Heaven. The divine source of this knowledge is present, as is the differentiation of “insiders”, who are given to “know”, from “outsiders”, who are only given parables. There is a streak of esoteric identity here; as “insiders”, they are superior to the “crowds”. In contrast to the other passages, the parables in Matthew 13 have a narrative 51 Ibid.,

377.

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frame; this explains why the recipients of secrets are explicitly identified as the disciples, and the “others” as the crowds following Jesus. What do these presentations of secrecy with the differentiation of “insiders” from “outsiders” contribute to the discussion of Matthew’s community and its relations to its Jewish origin? Were Matthew and his associates still part of the synagogue towards the end of the first century, or had they left it and formed a new community? Was Matthew writing to communities who had “separated painfully” from Judaism; or did Matthew write to a “reformist Jewish sect” within the larger Jewish community?52 Scholars hold different opinions on this question. Can the passages on secrecy give any suggestions? The difficulty is, of course, to find models of comparison that are not based on modern Western social structures. In the secrecy passages, the group is described from the inside in much the same way as Herdt depicted secrecy as an alternative cosmology for the men’s houses. Viewing the same scene from the majority position, deviance theory helps to see it from the outside, from the point of view of Jewish society. Anthony Salderini’s discussion of the Matthean community as a deviance association provides a good example of a cross-cultural comparison.53 However, Saldarini also suggests that the minority group may appropriate a deviance strategy and apply it to itself. Deviance has been a category of pejorative labelling, but Saldarini emphasizes that deviance is a necessary part of any society and that “to study what a society rejects is to study what it is”.54 He says that “these conflicts concern the basic shape of society, the relationships that will hold the society together, and the symbolic universe that makes sense out of the flux of life”.55 These are conflicts within a larger society and Saldarini says that “one cannot be deviant unless one is member of the community”.56 Saldarini places Matthew and his group in the context of the situation after the destruction of Jerusalem, the symbolic and political center of Palestinian Judaism. However, Saldarini does not focus on the processes within the majority community by which it labels deviance and its efforts to exert control or to expel deviants. Rather, he focuses on how groups who have been labelled deviant may attempt to justify their deviance, to seek to legitimate their positions, and to establish an alternative community myth. This is where I see a similarity to Herdt’s description of secret fellowships that create “alternative conceptions of reality” and establish “total meaning systems”. Among these “alternative conceptions of reality” that Matthew wants to introduce into Jewish life and traditions, Saldarini 52  G. N. Stanton, Studies in Matthew and Early Christianity, ed. M. Bockmuehl, D. Lincicum, WUNT 309 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), here: 105–36; A. J. Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community (Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press, 1994). 53   A. J.  Saldarini, ‘The Gospel of Matthew and Jewish-Christian Conflict’, in Balch (ed.), Social History of the Matthean Community, 38–61, here: 44–60. 54  Ibid., 44–5. 55  Ibid., 45. 56 Ibid., 48.

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emphasizes five areas: core symbols, cosmology, boundaries, laws, and social structure.57 Thus, as Herdt sees the cosmology and workings of men’s secret fellowships within the village community, Saldarini sees Matthew developing a strategy for his group as “a deviance association” within the larger Jewish society. To analyze this strategy, Saldarini uses criteria to classify various types of deviance associations: “Those who seek acceptance of society are conformative, and those who seek societal change are alienative. Those who focus on the needs of their own members are expressive, and those who seek to have an impact on society are instrumental”.58 Using these criteria, Saldarini finds that Matthew envisages a community that is alienate-expressive, meaning that it presents to its adherents “a new Christian-Jewish world” as an alternative to the various types of traditional Jewish society. Saldarini builds his study on Matthew’s gospel as a whole, but the material on secrecy supports these conclusions. The strong antithetical emphasis on how secrecy creates a difference between “us” and “them/ the others” makes the group “othering”, i. e. alienative. This focus on difference corresponds to an interest in the identity of the “in-group”, how it must imitate God “who is in secret”, how it accepts its position as “infants”, and how it follows up on the knowledge of the mysteries of the Kingdom with understanding. Thus, the secrecy passages represent an alternative identity to Jewish ritual life, organizational and leadership structure, and cosmology. They undertake an expressive “othering” of representatives of Jewish leadership, even of the larger Jewish society. But this does not give a clear answer to the question of whether this alternative arises from a position within the Jewish community or from a separated “other”. The secrecy passages focus on a separate identity and a communality among those who share the secrecy. Thus, they share an alternative conception of reality. Yet, we cannot know if this differentiation from “the others” resulted in a social separation.59

57 Ibid.,

50–4.  Ibid., 56–7, and n. 52. 59  There may be a parallel here when Herdt suggests that we should not speak of “secret societies”, but rather secret “formations” and “collectives”. His reason is to “underline the problematical relationship between secret collectives and other social formations”; they are more systems of cultural production than separate social entities. Herdt, ‘Secret Collectives’, 360. 58

Excursion, Incursion, Conquest: A Spatial Approach to Mission in the Synoptics Daniel A. Smith “Blessed are the placemakers”1 (misprint at Matt 5:9 in the Geneva Bible, 2nd ed., 1652)

I. Introduction The topic of mission in the gospels has seemingly not been addressed in any significant way from the perspective of recent advances in the application of critical spatial theory, namely the work of Henri Lefebvre, Ed Soja, and others, to the biblical texts.2 This might come as something of a surprise, especially given the preponderance of spatial and territorial language in certain well-known passages: “Let us go elsewhere into the neighbouring towns, so that I might also proclaim there; for it was for this reason that I have come out” (Mark 1:38); “Into whatever house you enter, first of all say, Peace to this house” (Luke/​ Q 10:5); “Therefore go and disciple all the nations” (Matt 28:19); “You shall be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the limit of the earth” (Acts 1:8). More overtly theological treatments of the topic of mission in the New Testament also tend not to be interested in spatial questions, instead 1 Cited in M. Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts, SNTSMS 146 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 260. 2  The two theoretical works that have made the most impact on the study of space in biblical studies are H. Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991) and E. W. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996). For a concise introduction to the theory and its application to the New Testament writings, see E. C. Stewart, ‘Readers’ Guide: New Testament Space/Spatiality’, in BTB 42 (2012), 139–50. A few studies which apply spatial theory to the gospels do address mission, albeit very briefly. See E. C. Stewart, Gathered around Jesus: An Alternative Spatial Practice in the Gospel of Mark, Matrix (Eugene OR: Cascade, 2009), 214 for the mission of the disciples as an aspect of Mark’s “spatial practice”; K. J. Wenell, Jesus and Land: Sacred and Social Space in Second Temple Judaism, LNTS 334 (London: T&T Clark, 2007), which discusses “land” and “the Twelve” in the gospels from the perspective of critical spatial theory, but does not treat mission per se; Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative applies Soja’s theoretical model to the spatial dimensions that Jesus’ ascension introduces into the narrative of Acts.

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preferring to distill paradigms for modern Christian missions. An exception may be found in Richard Bauckham’s Bible and Mission (2003), which has a short section on the geographical horizons of the Bible, and identifies centripetal and centrifugal imagery in biblical materials on mission, as well as imagery in which a topographical centre is lacking.3 These are helpful insights, but further work is merited, particularly because of the usefulness of critical spatial theory. This essay offers a first step in addressing this gap. As the title suggests, it is arranged schematically according to a basic and somewhat artificial exegetical insight about the nature and scope of mission in Q (excursion), Mark (incursion), and Matthew and Luke/Acts (conquest). The paper begins with an examination of mission in Q. As is well known, Gerd Theissen’s theory of radical itinerancy (Wanderradikalismus) in the social history of the early Jesus movements and its applicability to the Sayings Gospel Q has been vigorously critiqued.4 John Kloppenborg has emphasized the limited geographical horizon (or sphere of activity) of the people Q represents, as well as the tight-knit village networks which supported, authorized, and welcomed the “mobile workers”. Kloppenborg writes: “‘Itinerancy’ should not … be imagined on a very grand scale; it would have looked more like daylong excursions”.5 The introductory and controlling image in Q 10, after all, is that of day-labourers hired for the harvest (Q 10:2: ὁ μὲν θερισμὸς πολύς, οἱ δὲ ἐργάται ὀλίγοι).6 Despite the fact that there is an expectation in Q that Gentiles would eventually be included in the Kingdom of God (Q 13:29.28), there seems to be no plan as to how that would be accomplished. In addition, the kingdom in Q is spatially imagined as something that “reaches” or “draws near” to people (Q 10:9: ἤγγικεν ἐφ᾿ ὑμᾶς ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ; Q 11:20: ἄρα ἔφθασεν ἐφ᾿ ὑμᾶς ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ), or as something whose peace or presence can be brought into towns or houses (Q 10:5–9). Mission in the Q Gospel can therefore be studied under the spatial rubric “excursion”.7 Although the Gospel of Mark also contains this idea of the kingdom “drawing near” (Mark 1:15), Jesus and his disciples not only venture out into “neighbouring towns” (Mark 1:38: εἰς τὰς ἐχομένας κωμοπόλεις), but also into more liminal 3  R. Bauckham, Bible and Mission: Christian Witness in a Postmodern World (Milton Keynes: Paternoster, 2003), 55–81. 4  G. Theissen, Sociology of Early Palestinian Christianity (Philadelphia PA: Fortress, 1978). For a sustained critique, see W. E. Arnal, Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2001), 67–95; for an overview of reactions to Theissen, see S. E.  Rollens, Framing Social Criticism in the Jesus Movement, WUNT II/374 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 106–11. 5  J. S.  Kloppenborg, Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 211. 6   G. B.  Bazzana, ‘Early Christian Missionaries as Physicians: Healing and its Cultural Value in the Greco-Roman Context’, in NT 51 (2009), 232–51, here: 234. 7  Greek reconstructions of Q are taken from J. M. Robinson, P. Hoffmann, J. S.  Kloppenborg (eds.), The Critical Edition of Q, Hermeneia Supplements (Minneapolis MN: Fortress; Leuven: Peeters, 2000); translations are my own.

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spaces and beyond borders. Ernest van Eck has characterized mission in Mark as an extension of divine patronage to both Judean and non-Judean “outsiders”.8 More precisely, as Eric Stewart shows, Mark follows ancient “topographical traditions” according to which borderland areas are places where one encounters divine beings and where identities may be forged, but where the “spatial practices” of Rome and of Judean synagogue and temple are absent.9 When Jesus commissions the Twelve in Mark, this is “so that they may be with him, and so that he may send them to preach and to have authority to cast out demons” (3:14–5; cf. also 6:7). Stewart also observes that in their missionary activity, the disciples of Jesus in Mark “reproduce the spatial practice of his gathering”, that is, they draw people into the space of Jesus, which is characterized by order, wholeness, and obedience, and which subverts the disordered “spatial practices” of synagogue and city.10 One aspect of this is the casting out of demons, which, in the mission of Jesus and his disciples, involves going out of the house of the community around Jesus (cf. Mark 3:31–5) and into the house of Satan, to tie up the strong man and take what belongs to him (Mark 3:27, read with 3:15). As in Q 11:17–8, Mark imagines the realm of Satan as a kingdom or a house (cf. also Matt 12:29; Luke 11:21–2).11 Unlike Q, Mark connects the mission of the disciples with the exorcistic activity of Jesus and locates their commissioning in close proximity to the Beelzebul controversy, sandwiched neatly into the teaching about true family (Mark 3:20–1, 22–30, 31–4). For this reason, Mark’s view of mission can be described as incursive, not only because Mark moves Jesus into borderlands and liminal spaces, but also because Mark moves the disciples out into (the house of) the kingdom of Satan, mimicking Jesus’ own in-breaking activity. Hence, this leads to the Markan spatial rubric of “incursion”. Mark 13:10 imagines that “the good news must first be preached into all the nations (εἰς πάντα τὰ ἔθνη)”, but the occasion of this proclamation is the eschatological persecution (cf. 13:9–13), and the gospel ends without resurrection visions, an apostolic commissioning, or a clear sense of a worldwide mission and how it might unfold. By contrast, Matthew’s modification of this verse is illuminating: “and this good news of the kingdom will be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all the nations (ἐν ὅλῃ τῇ οἰκουμένῃ εἰς μαρτύριον πᾶσιν τοῖς  8  E. van Eck, ‘Mission, Identity, and Ethics in Mark: Jesus, the Patron for Outsiders’, in J. Kok, T. Nicklas, D. T. Roth, C. M. Hays (eds.), Sensitivity towards Outsiders: Exploring the Dynamic Relationship between Mission and Ethics in the New Testament and Early Christianity, WUNT II/364 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 101–32.  9 Stewart, Gathered around Jesus, 203. Stewart uses the term “spatial practice” to mean, more or less, what people do in space, or how social groups or institutions encode space with meaning (see further, ibid., 179–80). For Lefebvre’s use of this term, see below. 10  Ibid., 214. 11  H. Moxnes, Putting Jesus in His Place: A Radical Vision of Household and Kingdom (Louisville KY: WJK, 2003), 132–6. Domestic space imagery also describes spirit possession in Q 11:24–6.

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ἔθνεσιν), and then will come the end” (Matt 24:14). This transfers the post-resurrection mission of the Eleven (Matt 28:16–20) back into the apocalyptic discourse, and turns it into a prerequisite for the eschaton. In Matthew 28, the risen Jesus appears as an exalted and imperial figure, invoking his authority as the Son of Humankind (v. 18, cf. Dan 7:13–4 lxx) and commissioning the Eleven to “disciple all the nations” (v. 19). As will be seen below, this both geographically and ideologically imitates the Roman strategies of conquest. Likewise, but with more (textual) room to map this vision of expansion, Luke/Acts depicts the risen Jesus as an imperial figure whose territory grows, through the expansion of the movement, to encompass the whole civilized world – that is, the oikoumenē and all the nations (Luke 24:47; Acts 1:8; 17:31). In addition, Matthew and Luke/Acts seem to construct the movement, in this expansion, as a kind of civilizing influence on “the nations”. As will be seen below, spatial theory offers useful insights into how this appropriation of the Roman idea of conquest would play out for the readers of these texts, as they negotiated their identity and allegiance as subjects of the empires of both Rom and Christ. Therefore, the post-resurrection missions in Matthew and in Luke/Acts can be studied under the spatial rubric “conquest”.12 In this paper, I will examine these three models for mission using insights from the spatial theories of Henri Lefebvre and Ed Soja, as well as Robert Sack’s ideas about territoriality.13 Although Lefebvre’s work focused on the “production” of space in contemporary capitalist societies, most biblical scholars who use his work (myself included) are more interested in the way their texts “construct” space using spatial imagery, geographical or architectural notes, and so forth, and thus how ideologies or identities are mapped onto or encoded into spatial aspects of the text. Especially useful is Lefebvre’s “conceptual triad”, a spatial typology that represents how space is produced socially in three interrelated modes: first, “spatial practice” describes space as measurable, mappable, and characteristic of social formations (l’espace perçu); second, “representations of space” are the conceptualizations of space that are fundamental to spatial practice (l’espace conçu); third, “spaces of representation” (or “representational spaces”) are the complex symbolisms and presuppositions that give meaning to space and determine how 12  The Longer Ending of Mark has a similar universal mission in view; this might provide a useful counterpart, as another second-century text, to the Book of Acts. Mark 16:15 (πορευθέντες εἰς τὸν κόσμον ἅπαντα κηρύξατε τὸ εὐαγγέλιον πάσῃ τῇ κτίσει) evidently is dependent upon Matthew 28: see J. A. Kelhoffer, Miracle and Mission: The Authentication of Missionaries and Their Message in the Longer Ending of Mark, WUNT II/112 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 97–100. Although Mark’s Longer Ending does not say much about the spatial aspects of this mission, the post-ascension Jesus directs and empowers the mission from heaven, and this introduces a spatial dimension similar to that identified by Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative for the Book of Acts. However, such a study lies outside the scope of the present paper. 13   R. D.  Sack, Human Territoriality: Its Theory and History, Cambridge Studies in Historical Geography 7 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986). For Lefebvre and Soja, see above, n. 2.

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people actually live in and understand socially-produced space (l’espace véçu).14 These three modes are so interconnected that the subject “may move from one to another without confusion”.15 In fact, the interconnectedness is so close, and the concepts and symbolisms so deeply ingrained, that they seem “natural” to those who inhabit space, and yet, as Lefebvre insists, it is precisely in this regard that socially produced space is a means of control and domination.16 Two caveats attend the use of Lefebvre to analyze ancient texts. The first is from Lefebvre himself: “The problem is that any search for space in literary texts will find it everywhere and in every guise: enclosed, described, projected, dreamt of, speculated about. What texts can be considered special enough to provide the basis for a ‘textual’ analysis”?17 He had literary works of fiction in view, it seems, but his caution is warranted. The gospels in particular, as the object of our study, engage spatial practices, ideas, and conventions in myriad ways, leading to the question: What is the measure of the significance of a particular spatial construct in a gospel text? (My reader must allow that the topic of this paper – how the gospels engage spatial ideas in support of their views about mission – is indeed significant and worthy of analysis.) The second caveat is also from Lefebvre, but is explained more succinctly by Roland Boer, who notes how indebted “the idea that certain givens of human existence are social and economic constructions rather than immovable and eternal, natural objects” is to Marx and Marxist analysis.18 Nevertheless, Boer says, it is worth keeping in mind that Lefebvre’s primary concern was for the “production” of space: One of the results of a shift to ‘construction’ over against ‘production’ in the more recent development of the idea is that ‘construction’ conjures up the notion of social construction, the social context that constructs the individual, bodies, genders, and so on. What are lost in the transition are both the specific historical dimensions of a Marxist theory of modes of production, and its connection with economics, politics, ideology, and so on.19

That said, Lefebvre remains useful for analyzing the imaginary or imagistic construction of space in texts. Texts, after all, inevitably inscribe and reproduce conventional social and cultural ideas and assumptions about space, but they also have the power to coopt, adapt, and reconfigure those ideas and assumptions in 14  Lefebvre, The Production of Space, 33, 38–9, and throughout. For a useful summary and application to 1 Sam 1–2, see R. Boer, ‘Sanctuary and Womb: Henri Lefebvre and the Production of Ancient Space’, in Id., E. W. Conrad (eds.), Redirected Travel: Alternative Journeys and Places in Biblical Studies, SupplJSOT 382 (London: T&T Clark, 2003), 162–84, here: 164–5. For another overview and more recent literature, see D. A. Smith, ‘The Construction of a Metaphor: Reading Domestic Space in Q’, in D. T. Roth, R. Zimmermann, M. Labahn (eds.), Metaphor, Narrative, and Parables in Q, WUNT 315 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 33–55, here: 43–8. 15  Lefebvre, The Production of Space, 40. 16  Ibid., 26. 17  Ibid., 15. 18  Boer, ‘Sanctuary and Womb’, 165. 19 Ibid., 167–8.

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order to achieve new ends in the imaginations of their readers. Such appropriations of what Lefebvre calls “spaces of representation” are not merely daydreams, of course. In the same way that “mythic space” can have a perceptible impact on real social formations, or can express real social and cultural values, “spaces of representation” can be coopted and modified in service of new, often subversive ways of “living” in socially-produced space.20 As Lefebvre put it, “spaces of representation” describes “the dominated – and hence passively experienced – space which the imagination seeks to change and appropriate”.21 Or, as David Harvey explains, “spaces of representation are mental inventions (codes, signs, ‘spatial discourses’, utopian plans, imaginary landscapes, and even material constructs such as symbolic spaces) that imagine new meanings or possibilities for spatial practices”.22 These may be conventional and taken as the “given” meaning(s) of “lived space”, or they may be appropriated and challenged with alternatives. This appropriative move is significantly more prominent in Ed Soja’s adaptation of Lefebvre’s conceptual triad. “Thirdspace”, in Soja’s paradigm, is “the creation of another mode of thinking about space that draws upon the material and mental space of the traditional dualism” – that is, space as perceived (real) and space as conceived (imagined) – “but extends well beyond them in scope, substance, and meaning”. “Thirdspace” is therefore, for Soja, “real-and-imagined” in that it is “simultaneously real, imagined, and more (both and also …)”.23 By this, he means that when the symbolic conventions that determine how space is typically understood are reconfigured or subverted, or when alternative symbolisms are proposed, new “real-and-imagined” spaces (either how space comes to be “really lived” or the imaginary spatial productions that have real implications for social formation and identity construction) may be created. These ideas seem to be already present in Lefebvre, but Soja nuances and stresses them in important ways. In addition, Lefebvre also has helpful insights into the role of “the State” in the production of space, which can usefully be applied to imperial constructions of space both within the Roman world and in early Christian texts.24

20  A useful analysis of mythic space and its social implications is given in Y. F. Tuan, Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1977), 85–100. According to Tuan, one type of mythic space “is the spatial component of a world view, a conception of localized values within which people carry on their practical activities” (ibid., 86). 21 Lefebvre, The Production of Space, 39. 22  D. Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change (Oxford: Blackwell, 1990), 218–9. 23  Soja, Thirdspace, 11 (ellipsis original). 24  H. Lefebvre, State, Space, World: Selected Essays, ed. N. Brenner, S. Elden (Minneapolis MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2009).

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II. Mission and Space in the Sayings Gospel Q: Excursion As is often noted, Q shows an interest in Gentiles, particularly as foils to unresponsive Judeans or “this generation” (Q 7:1–9, esp. v. 9; Q 11:31–2), but Q also seems to expect some kind of eschatological inclusion of non-Judeans.25 The question whether Q presupposes a Gentile mission has long been the subject of debate, but the evidence, as Christopher Tuckett recently explains, is “ambiguous and inconclusive”.26 For our purposes, it is only worth noting that this presupposition has left no indication as to how such a mission would unfold. On this point, the following passage is especially illuminating: ⟦καὶ πολλοὶ⟧ ἁπὸ ἀνατολῶν καὶ δυσμῶν ἥξουσιν καὶ ἀνακλιθήσονται μετὰ Ἀβραὰμ καὶ  Ἰσαὰκ καὶ  Ἰακὼβ ἐν τῇ βασιλείᾳ τοῦ θεοῦ, ⟦ὑμς⟧ δὲ ἐκβλ⟦ηθήσ εἰς τὸ σκότος τὸ⟧ ἐξώ⟦τερον⟧· ἐκεῖ ἔσται ὁ κλαυθμὸς καὶ ὁ βρυγμὸς τῶν ὀδόντων. ⟦And many⟧ shall come from East and West and will recline with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the Kingdom of God, but ⟦you will be⟧ thrown out ⟦into the⟧ out⟦er darkness⟧, where there will be weeping and grinding of teeth (Q 13:29.28).27

If those coming from the East and West are, as Tuckett and others have argued, “almost certainly” Gentiles (and not Judeans from the Diaspora), then the Q saying has reconfigured the topos of the eschatological banquet “for all the nations” (πᾶσι τοῖς ἔθνεσιν, Isa 25:6 lxx).28 Instead of a banquet on Mount Zion, the kingdom of God is spatialized as a banquet inside a house, which is better imagery – and quite characteristic of Q – for the polemical application of spatial ideas about hospitality, patronage, and inclusion, as well as rejection and exclusion.29 In the Q saying, the centripetal idea in Isaiah seems to be retained, but Zion/ Jerusalem has been displaced as the omphalos, which is also characteristic of Q’s general mistrust of Jerusalem and its institutions.30 In effect, the “house” imagery of four proximate sayings clusters in Q 13–4 (Q 13:24–7, 13:29.28, 13:34–5, and 14:16–23) indicate that the house of Q’s kingdom (13:28) replaces the house of Jerusalem (Q 13:35a) as the location of divine patronage. Thus, although the 25  See most recently C. M. Tuckett, ‘Q and the Gentiles’, in D. C. Sim, J. S. McLaren (eds.), Attitudes to Gentiles in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity, LNTS 499 (London: T&T Clark, 2013), 126–37. 26  Tuckett, ‘Q and the Gentiles’, 128. 27 According to the conventions of Robinson et al. (eds.), The Critical Edition of Q, double brackets indicate material (found in either Matthew or Luke) of which reconstruction is graded at a {C} or {D} level of certainty; material in angle brackets is conjectural. 28 Tuckett, ‘Q and the Gentiles’, 128; see also Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 192. 29 See Smith, ‘Construction of a Metaphor’, 52–5; also D. A. Smith, ‘“But You Will Be Thrown Out” (Q 13:28): The Spatial Dimensions of Q’s Apocalyptic Rhetoric’, in M. Tiwald (ed.), Q in Context I: The Separation between the Just and the Unjust in Early Judaism and in the Sayings Source, BBB 172 (Göttingen: V&R Unipress, 2015), 145–168, here: 151–3. 30  See Stewart, Gathered around Jesus, 102–6 for ancient ideas about the centre (omphalos, navel) of the world, and for Jerusalem as omphalos in early Judean texts.

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language of Q 13:29 is vague and the rhetorical interest of the saying as a whole focuses on those excluded (cf. Q 13:24–7), it appears that the inclusion of Gentiles, perhaps along the lines of Isaiah 2, is a feature of Q’s eschatology. However, beyond the image of a slave sent to invite dinner guests (Q 14:16–23, esp. v. 23), there is little indication as to how this might actually happen. The mission instructions in Q 10 lack specificity as to the geographical or cultural scope of the announcement of the kingdom (Q 10:9) by the “workers” sent out to the harvest (Q 10:2). Given Q’s silence concerning a mission to Gentiles, one may presume that Q presents this particular mission as limited (as it more clearly is in Matt 10:5–6) to Israelites, despite the possibility of interested non-Judeans (Q 7:1–9).31 The two opening sayings, in addition, present competing spatial images for this mission. The tension between the command to request more workers for the harvest (10:2) and the command to go out as sheep among wolves (10:3) has led some commentators to posit a distinction between itinerants and the settled group(s) that supported and sent them out.32 Q 10:2 depicts workers not working their own land, but bringing in a large harvest for a landowner, and requesting that the “master of the harvest” – the landowner? or a middling slave directing operations? – hire more workers. ..λεγε … τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ· ὁ μὲν θερισμὸς πολύς, οἱ δὲ ἐργάται ὀλίγοι· δεήθητε οὖν τοῦ κυρίου τοῦ θερισμοῦ ὅπως ἐκβάλῃ ἐργάται εἰς τὸν θερισμὸν αὐτοῦ. He said to his disciples: The harvest is great, but the workers are few. Request therefore the master of the harvest, that he should put out more workers into his harvest (Q 10:2).

Interpreters have often focused on either the saying’s apocalyptic associations or the urgency inherent in the large harvest, not least because of the linguistic associations with the preaching of John (Q 3:9, 17).33 Spatially, however, the “mission field” is cultivated land beyond the civilized centres of towns and cities, but still within their orbit, and, in that sense, neither wild nor uncontrolled space. Further, this land belongs to the one directing the harvest, which implies that the sphere of missionary activity is under that individual’s control. By contrast, the spatial imagery of Q 10:3 suggests regions where wild animals prey on domesticated flocks, which represents a much more threatening sphere of activity. ὑπάγετε· ἰδοὺ ἀποστέλλω ὑμᾶς ὡς πρόβατα ἐν μέσῳ λύκων. Go! Look, I send you like sheep in the midst of wolves.

31 Tuckett, ‘Q and the Gentiles’, 129 indicates that the harvest imagery of Q 10:2 might imply a mission to, or judgment on, Gentiles (referencing Joel 3:13–4; Isa 27:11; Hos 6:11). 32  Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 183, citing (among others) D. Zeller, ‘Redaktionsprozesse und wechselnder “Sitz im Leben” beim Q-Material’, in J. Delobel (ed.), Logia: Les paroles de Jésus – The Sayings of Jesus: Mémorial Joseph Coppens, BETL 59 (Leuven: Peeters, 1982), 395–409. 33   D. T.  Roth, ‘Missionary Ethics in Q 10:2–12’, in Kok et al. (eds.), Sensitivity towards Outsiders, 81–100, here: 85–6.

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The imagery is contradictory, but so also are the implications when viewed from the perspective of territoriality. Robert Sack developed a set of ten interdependent tendencies of human territoriality, some of which apply to the imagery of Q 10:2. Territoriality (1) classifies by area rather than by type; (2) is easily communicated by means of boundaries; (3) efficiently enforces the control of resources; (4) reifies power and influence, which when not delimited spatially are merely potentialities; (5) displaces attention from the actual relationship between the controlling entity and the controlled to the territory itself; (8) acts as a container or mold for the spatial properties of events.34 Sack’s ten tendencies are obviously better suited to the territories of political bodies (empires, states, cities) than to the kind of space constructed in the brief, but evocative, Q 10:2. However, the saying indicates that the sphere of missionary activity is the territory of the one who sends the workers. The metaphor implies that the master of the harvest owns the land (or is he the steward or vilicus/ἐπίτροπος of the owner?), and that such parcels of land in agrarian societies, perhaps bought up and joined by an owner who lived elsewhere and/or worked by tenants, would obviously have limits or boundaries. Hence, the power and control of the owner over the produce and the workers on the land is reified in the idea that “this is his land”. Exerting control over such a space – a large harvest implies a large piece of territory – would be practically difficult, but the authority of the master of the harvest to hire more labourers suggests that interlopers are somehow prevented from sharing in the harvest. The fact that the land is the owner’s territory means that the produce is legally his and does not belong to the workers; the idea “this is his land” attempts to distract attention from this fact. Finally, the activities of harvesting take place in the territory of the owner. All this implies that there are divine limits and controls over the sphere of missionary activity, as well as the activity itself. The harvest is God’s and he directs it, controls it, and guarantees its success. A completely different picture of missionary activity and success is found in the “sheep among wolves” expression when considered spatially. The saying imagines sheep being sent into “wolf country”, not wolves preying on sheep in the fold. The one who sends can exert no control over the space in which there are wolves: the sheep are vulnerable to the predators. This obviously is not the territory of the sender, but wilderness – uncultivated, uncivilized, and uncontrolled space where predators may be found. This is somewhat reminiscent of the very old habit of cartographers in which they would designate hostile, unmapped, or unnavigable regions with lions, sea monsters, or dragons: “Geographers”, wrote Plutarch, “crowd onto the outer edges of their maps the parts of the earth which elude their knowledge, with explanatory notes that ‘what lies beyond is sandy desert without water and full of wild beasts’”.35 According to  Sack, Human Territoriality, 31–4. I list only the six tendencies that seem to apply to Q 10:2. Thes. 1,1, Perrin (LCL).

34

35 Plutarch,

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Tuan, such regions are also a kind of mythic space, which represents “a fuzzy area of defective knowledge surrounding the empirically known; it frames pragmatic space”.36 While the tension between verses 2 and 3 might suggest something about the compositional history of the Q mission instructions, it is also very much in keeping with the contrast seen later in this sayings cluster.37 On the one hand, Q 10:5–9 reflects the extension of the kingdom message through excursions to towns where a positive reception could be optimistically imagined, but in Q 10:10–5 we find a bitter denunciation of places where the message is remembered as having been rejected. However, the ambivalent territorialization of the sphere of missionary activity in the opening images of Q’s mission instructions does not only reflect the memory of the mixed reception of the message of the Q Jesus and its adherents.38 It also relates to the appropriation of domestic space imagery in the apocalyptic rhetoric of Q’s redactional layer, in which the tables are turned, so to speak. In Q 13:29.28, insiders, including non-Judeans, banquet with the patriarchs and enjoy the hospitality of the divine, while outsiders – characterized as “workers of lawlessness” in the related exclusion saying Q 13:24–7 – are consigned to the “no-place” where there is “weeping and grinding of teeth” (13:28). These are not wolves’ teeth, of course, but the reversal is clear. Spatially, these units take for granted various social conventions concerning dining and hospitality in elite houses – which Q seems to repudiate elsewhere (Q 7:25) – but which are appropriated as the “spaces of representation” (in Lefebvre’s framework) that determine membership in the elect, reception of divine patronage, and safety from the apocalyptic consummation (Q 3:17; 17:26–30, 34–5)39. There is also a clear connection with the refusal of the kingdom message of (and the refusal of hospitality for) the messengers depicted in Q 10:5–9, 10–2. Meanwhile, the insiders – even the Ninevites and the Queen of the South – will play a role in judging those who reject the message of Q’s Jesus (Q 11:31–2; 22:28, 30). All this illustrates that in the redactional layer, “the project of establishing the kingdom appears to have suffered substantial failure and Q now reflects on that failure with language of polemic and judgment”.40 Thus, the end result is already spatially encoded into the contradictory territorial images used to introduce the Q mission instructions. 36

 Tuan, Space and Place, 86.

37 Zeller, ‘Redaktionsprozesse’, 404; J. S. Kloppenborg, The Formation of Q: Trajectories in

Ancient Wisdom Collections, Studies in Antiquity and Christianity (Philadelphia PA: Fortress, 1987), 193–4, 199–200; Arnal, Jesus and the Village Scribes, 182–3. 38 By “memory” here, I do not mean to indicate “historical facts recalled”, but rather the constructive capacity of texts like Q to represent the past. For an introduction to the application of memory theory to the gospels, see A. Kirk, ‘Memory Theory: Cultural and Cognitive Approaches to the Gospel Tradition’, in D. Neufeld, R. E. DeMaris (eds.), Understanding the Social World of the New Testament (London: Routledge, 2010), 57–67. 39  Smith, ‘You Will Be Thrown Out’, 151–6. 40 Rollens, Framing Social Criticism, 189 (emphasis original).

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This ambivalent territorialization also means that Q 10 does not imagine the missionaries going out into regions demarcated as “enemy territory” (i. e., as engaging in incursive activity); nor do they go into territory that is viewed as under the unique and unqualified control of the one who sends (i. e., as implementing the conquest of territory as delegates of an imperial figure). According to William Arnal, the scope and function of the excursions of the Q missionaries into neighbouring towns are illuminated through a comparison with rabbinic texts that discuss the “official local hospitality” offered to travellers.41 Arnal shows that charity for travellers could routinely be expected to come not from individual persons or households, but from villages, and, as such, has a relatively “official” or even “public” character. Thus, the mission in Q 10 is not a private mission to individuals. In addition, Q’s direction against moving from house to house is also clarified, because whatever might be offered at one house would represent the charity of the village (and there would be no more where that came from), however meager it might be (Q 10:7–8).42 Therefore, the repetition of δέχομαι in this section probably refers to the provision of rations for the ἐργάται. Meanwhile, although the rabbinic materials give instructions on sleeping arrangements, these are lacking in Q, which confirms the suspicion that Q 10 does not imagine long-term itinerancy, but “short trips to adjacent towns in some kind of official or quasi-official capacity”.43 Going without provisions (Q 10:4) is possible for such short excursions, but it also provides the opportunity for announcing the kingdom. The offer and acceptance of hospitality in the form of rations, which was apparently fairly routine, is not evidence of the acceptance of the Q message, but is rather the opening for the message: “And into whatever town you enter and they receive you, ⟦eat what is put before you⟧, and heal the unwell therein, and say ⟦to them⟧, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you’” (Q 10:8–9).44 Some towns are receptive, and others are not. In either case, the mission is understood as oriented towards towns, and in this sense, the realm of God as the territory of Q’s kingdom-project spreads through village networks. Giovanni Bazzana writes of Q’s formative-stratum material that “it shows a pronounced attention towards the needs and concerns of village communities (focused on the problems of illness, hunger, and indebtedness) and the document emphasizes the role of local groups in initiating the process that will ultimately lead to the establishment of the renewed and utopian set of social relationships that goes under the label of βασιλεία”.45 Bazzana is also inclined to think that βασι41 Arnal, Jesus and the Village Scribes, 178–80 (referencing m. Pe’ah 8,7 and the corresponding addition in the Tosefta). 42  Luke 10:7b ⟦μὴ μεταβαίνετε ἐξ᾿ οἰκίας εἰς οἰκίαν⟧ has no parallel in Matthew. 43  Arnal, Jesus and the Village Scribes, 181. 44  Concerning the role healing played in the activities of the Q mission, see Bazzana, ‘Early Christian Missionaries’, 235–8. 45  G. B.  Bazzana, ‘Basileia – The Q Concept of Kingship in Light of Documentary Papyri’, in

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λεία “becomes more spatial” in the Q redaction and “is attached [in compositionally later materials] to Israelite nationalistic traditions which in turn evoke harsh criticism of competing groups”.46 This evaluation is correct, insofar as the kingdom in the formative stratum is not identified with the traditional loci of divine rule or presence. Such places are treated in the redactional material with suspicion and hostility (Q 13:34–5), even if, unlike Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum (Q 10:13–5), they never actually heard the kingdom message of the Q mission. Nevertheless, it is difficult to avoid a spatial reading of βασιλεία even in Q 10:2–12. The “set of social relationships” described as “the kingdom” was meant to spread, and in the end failed to do so, via the excursions into the social networks of other towns described in Q 10. But if “the kingdom has come near” to such places, then “the kingdom” is also the territory in which the project has taken root (Q 13:18–9, 20–1).

III. Mission and Space in Mark: Incursion On the basis of Q 7:22, we may infer that Q imagined some kind of overlap or correspondence between the mission of Jesus and the mission of the ἐργάται who are sent. This is much clearer in Mark: “and he appointed (ἐποίησεν) twelve47 so that they may be with him, and so that he may send them to preach and to have authority to cast out demons” (3:14–5), where both preaching and exorcism have already been presented by the author as characteristic of Jesus’ own mission (1:14–5; 1:21–8; 1:38–9, etc.). The two clauses modifying ἐποίησεν are important to the spatial character of mission in Mark: it involves both the sending of the disciples and their continuing presence with Jesus as the centre of their new social formation. In their spatial studies of Mark, Eric Stewart and Matthew Sleeman show that Mark narratively constructs an alternative spatial vision in which Jesus, not the temple or synagogue, is the geographic and spatial centre of the story. Stewart notes that in ancient literature, people such as emperors and philosophers can sometimes serve as geographic “centres”.48 In Mark, “Jesus is a traveler and a centripetal force … . People are drawn to him from every corner of Mark’s world. As a traveling center, the space of Jesus’ company represents fluid sacred space”. Furthermore: “Jesus [in Mark] offers an alternative spatial practice, one that is centered on himself. The kingdom of God exists spatially in

P. Artz-Grabner, C. Kreinecker (eds.), Light from the East: Papyrologische Kommentare zum Neuen Testament, Philippika 39 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2010), 153–68, here: 166. 46  Ibid. 47  Some witnesses including ‫ א‬B C* add here, with slight variations, οὓς καὶ ἀποστόλους ὠνόμασεν. 48 Stewart, Gathered around Jesus, 177.

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the area around Jesus in which the new community ‘gathers’”.49 Sleeman uses Soja’s “Thirdspace” to arrive at a similar conclusion in a short essay on the temple in Mark, stating that this theme “anticipates a rich Markan spatiality which ultimately centres upon Jesus, and not Jerusalem”.50 Stewart bases his view on a variety of observations concerning the narrative use of space in Mark.51 Mark depicts Jesus as gathering people in both the wilderness and peripheral regions, but describes him as falling under the surveillance (a technique of spatial control, according to Stewart) of the synagogue and temple leaders in cities and synagogues. However, “in the peripheral spaces of Mark’s territory … Jesus is not under observation”, and “in those spaces … Jesus is freer to form the new people of God’s kingdom”.52 This is because in unsecured and inhospitable places, one must depend on God (cf. Mark 1:12–3). Jesus’ activities in synagogue and temple (like incursions, I would say) establish, often violently, his authority over these spaces by means of exorcisms (Mark 1:21–8), prophetic acts (11:15–6), and challenge-riposte contests over his capacity to speak (11:27– 33, etc.). Stewart sees these activities as “cleansing” and “restoring order” to the Roman and synagogue/temple spaces, which are the loci of the dominant “spatial practices”, yet Jesus does not enforce his own production of space in these places. His own social formation is oriented around himself as centre: “Jesus … creates the new space of the kingdom of God in gathering people around himself and sending them out to enlarge the space of that gathering”, which finds its climax in the universal “gathering” of the elect at the coming of the Son of Humankind (Mark 13:24–7).53 Without using the language of incursion, many commentators have drawn attention to how Jesus’ mission in Mark involves short, but decisive, trips into less-familiar regions, often designated “Gentile territory”, during his Galilean ministry. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, for example, observed that “the Markan Jesus, Jesus of Nazareth in Galilee, repeatedly crosses [the home/foreign, Jewish/ Gentile boundary] and ministers openly to residents on both sides”.54 Although the identification of “the region of the Gerasenes” as “Gentile territory” may be problematic,55 there is a decidedly incursive aspect to Jesus’ defeat of Legion. Remembered by contemporaries of Mark as the location of a “vicious and murderous assertion of Rome’s military power” under General Vespasian (Josephus, 49 Ibid.,

224.

50 M. Sleeman, ‘Mark, the Temple and Space: A Geographer’s Response’, in BibInt 15 (2007),

338–49, here: 349. 51 The following summary is based on Stewart, Gathered around Jesus, 179–219. 52 Ibid., 199. 53  Ibid., 219. 54  E. Struthers Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark, New Voices in Biblical Studies (San Francisco CA: Harper & Row, 1986), 43. 55  See A. Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2007), 267, and the literature she cites.

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Jewish War 4,487–9),56 in Mark’s narrative this region now becomes the site of Jesus’ violent overthrow of “Legion”, which is not merely an exorcism, but the undoing of Roman spatial control (Mark 5:1–20). Warren Carter has recently highlighted the military imagery embedded in the story: “Jesus embodies the threat and power of the Most High, all-conquering, warrior God who, like Rome’s rulers, claims sovereignty over the earth and nations . The occupying demon tries in v. 10 to maintain its imperial grip over land that is not its own but that it has claimed through invasion”.57 In keeping with Stewart’s observation mentioned earlier, the man spreads the news throughout the Decapolis, but Jesus himself does not stay to claim the territory through teaching, healing, or making disciples – he again crosses back to the other side (5:21). In the passage regarding the sending of the Twelve (Mark 6:6b–13, 30), we find similar injunctions against carrying provisions to those found in Q 10. The Twelve mimic Jesus’ preaching and teaching, as well as his healing and exorcistic activities: “and going out, they preached that they should repent, and they cast out many demons, and they anointed with oil many who were sick and they healed [them] (vv. 12–3)”.58 Upon their return, they reported to Jesus “everything they did and taught” (v. 30). However, Mark’s instructions are not as clear as Q in regard to missionary activity, for reception and hospitality in houses is expected (Mark 6:10), but such houses seem to be in “places” – that is, in towns – where either acceptance or rejection is possible (τόπος, v. 11). These places are probably the Galilean villages (κώμαι) already mentioned in 6:6b. As previously described, Jesus uses a spatial analogy to describe his exorcisms in the Beelzebul controversy (Mark 3:22–30): “but no one is able to enter the house of the strong man to plunder his things, unless he first bind the strong man, and then he can plunder his house” (v. 27). The metaphor is terse, but it implies a fairly unambiguous territorialization of the sphere of missionary activity, in contrast with the ambiguity in the Q mission instructions, especially if read in conjunction with the call of the Twelve (3:13–5). The exorcistic success of the Twelve in their mission in chapter six implies that they have entered the territory of Satan, defeated him, and brought Jesus’ order and wholeness into the “places” of their activity. Interestingly, the disciples are not sent to teach and cast out demons in synagogues, although in the context of the eschatological θλίψις, they 56 W. Carter, ‘Cross-Gendered Romans and Mark’s Jesus: Legion Enters the Pigs (Mark 5:1–20)’, in JBL 133 (2014), 139–55, here: 143–4. 57  Ibid., 146. 58 Folk medicine (i. e. not associated with professional patronage structures) and exorcism are often closely linked (Mark 1:34; 6:13) in the activities of popular healers, frequently accompanying teaching as proof of its authenticity. See S. Guijarro, ‘Healing Stories and Medical Anthropology: A Reading of Mark 10:46–52’, in BTB 30 (2000), 102–12, here: 104–5; J. J. Pilch, Healing in the New Testament: Insights from Medical and Mediterranean Anthropology (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2000), 70–2. For the “authorization” of Jesus’ teaching by means of these practices, see Mark 1:21–8.

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will testify before councils and synagogues, governors and kings (13:9–11). It is unclear here whether the preaching of the gospel εἰς πάντα τὰ ἔθνη (13:10) is part of the expected mission of Jesus’ followers, or simply a by-product of their eschatological oppression. As with Jesus himself, however, the result of the successful mission of the Twelve is not a new Jesus-oriented social formation in these locales – they lay no claim to this territory and there is no appropriation and reorientation of the “spaces of representation” that have been overthrown. The point of an incursion, after all, is to debilitate the enemy within their territory, not to necessarily gain ground, as illustrated by the story of the Gerasene demoniac.59 This is different from the idea in Q of the kingdom spreading to neighbouring villages as it is announced by the workers. In Mark, the success of the Twelve only contributes to the fame of Jesus, so that they are all recognized and then followed by a huge crowd “into a desert place” (εἰς ἔρημον τόπον, 6:31–2, 35). In this region, outside the spaces produced and controlled by both Rome and the temple/synagogue, Jesus has compassion on the crowd and multiplies the loaves of bread and fish to feed them, reproducing on a grand scale Q’s insistence that the Father would care of those who seek the kingdom (Mark 6:31–44; Q 12:22–31). Here as well, Jesus becomes broker of divine protection and patronage and thus becomes the shepherd to these sheep (v. 34). Can anything more be said about the spatial results of the successful mission of the Twelve besides that they attract people to “gather around Jesus” as the new spatial centre? Mark 3:31–5, like the sayings in Q in which the kingdom is described using the imagery of domestic space, is important in this regard. This passage constructs biological family as “outsiders”, but considers “insiders” as true family, for “whoever does the will of God, this one is my brother and sister and mother” (3:35). Furthermore, as Halvor Moxnes observes, when Jesus returns to his home town, he “confronts his household of origin … it is the old household that is the problem” (Mark 6:1–6).60 Despite Mark 3, Stewart argues that it is problematic to think of the “household” as a kind of “utopian sanctuary for the Jesus movement within Mark’s gospel”, both because it is a contested site and because it is not the only location in which Jesus’ instruction, healing, and new social formation are manifest.61 However, Mark is genuinely interested in what goes on in households, not only here, but elsewhere (10:28–31). Whether this meant that alternative, fictive-kinship households were actually supposed to be the result of mission (in Mark’s thinking) – for example, in the receptive houses in the mission instructions (6:10) – is difficult to tell. Those who actually left their households to follow Jesus would have faced ostracism, but, as Moxnes 59  The demons’ “incursion” into the pigs (Mark 5:11–3) is contextualized in graphic detail by Carter, ‘Cross-Gendered Romans’, 149–55. 60  Moxnes, Putting Jesus in His Place, 60. 61 Stewart, Gathered around Jesus, 200–3.

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argues, the social and economic realities of Galilee in the time of Jesus were such that kinship networks were weakened and this might have made alternative movements, such as the one led by Jesus, attractive.62 The force of Mark 3:31–5 for its hearers, however, is “thirdspatial” in that allegiance and obedience to the divine will are demanded as conditions for belonging to Jesus, while constructing this new identity by appropriating the language and the architectural and social dynamics of house and household. Yet, in order for the kingdom to be formed in this “real-and-imagined” household, the grip of the strong man must first be broken by means of the exorcistic incursions of Jesus and the Twelve.

IV. Mission and Space in Matthew and Luke: Conquest On the Two-Document Hypothesis, Matthew and Luke preserve traditions and ideas, already found in Q and Mark, about the missionary activities of Jesus’ followers during his ministry. However, the views of the later Synoptic evangelists concerning the post-Easter mission are not chiefly found in contemporizing adaptations of the mission instructions in their two sources (Mark 6:7–13; Q 10:2–16), but in what Jesus says after the resurrection and what the apostles do (in Acts) in fulfillment of his directives.63 The one exception to this is Matthew’s slight revision of Mark 13:10, which, as noted above, becomes a condition that must be satisfied before the coming of the Son of Humankind (Matt 24:14).64 There is obviously less material in Matthew than in Luke/Acts about the post-Easter mission, but there is enough to see that the approaches are remarkably similar. In both texts, Jesus appears after the resurrection as an imperial figure who commands a centrifugal mission to the nations (πάντα τὰ ἔθνη, Matt 28:19; Luke 24:47). Upon closer inspection, this seems to mimic Roman patterns of conquest and civilization. This becomes evident once certain aspects of the post-Easter mission instructions in Matthew and Luke/Acts are highlighted. First, the risen Jesus appears as an imperial figure. Wendy Cotter has noted the similarities between Matt  Moxnes, Putting Jesus in His Place, 64.  Matthew 10, which combines elements of Q 10 and Mark 6, is presented by the author as instructions for the mission of the Twelve to “the lost sheep of the house of Israel” (Matt 10:5–6). On the “archaizing, archival tendency” in Luke and Matthew 3–11, see J. M. Robinson, ‘The Matthean Trajectory from Q to Mark’, in A. Yarbro Collins (ed.), Ancient and Modern Perspectives on the Bible and Culture. FS H. D. Betz (Atlanta GA: Scholars, 1998), 122–54, here: 126–30. 64  Matt 10:16–23 merges the “sheep among wolves” saying from Q 10:3 with material from Mark 13:9–12 to present a similar idea to Mark 13:10, that is, that when Jesus’ followers appear before “governors and kings” this will be “as a testimony to them and to the nations” (Matt 10:18). Matt 24:14 represents a second use of this material. Luke, interestingly, omits the line altogether (Luke 21:12–9). 62 63

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28:16–20 and apotheosis and appearance scenes in Greek and Roman literature (for example, Plutarch, Rom. 28,1–3). “Matthew concluded his gospel with the appearance of the hero whose body has been transformed so that it is fitting for paradise … Jesus has been divinized and given a total cosmic imperium, a directing authorization for the remaining history of the cosmos”.65 By “cosmic imperium”, Cotter refers to the declaration, expressed in language taken from Dan 7:14 lxx, that “all power (ἐξουσία) in heaven and on earth has been given to me” (Matt 28:18).66 The Latin word imperium denoted both the complete military or political authority exercised by individuals on behalf of the Roman Senate and/ or Emperor, and by extension, the territory in which it was exercised – whence, of course, imperium Romanum.67 Matthew 28:18 likewise is about both authority and territory: “all power in heaven and on earth”. Interestingly, the universal authorization of the exalted one evidently requires no supplemental validation for his emissaries: healing and exorcism are not part of the directives of the risen Jesus in this commissioning, as they were in the mission instructions in Q and Mark (but cf. Mark’s Longer Ending). John Riches connects the Daniel 7 reference to other uses of Daniel in Matthew and states that “we are in the world of revolutionary apocalyptic rhetoric”, yet one that appeals to “an alternative mode of power and governance … effected through the dissemination of Jesus’ teaching and the judgment which he will execute at his parousia”.68 However, with Matthew’s Apocalyptic Discourse in mind (Matthew 24–5), one wonders whether the mode of power and governance envisioned in Matthew’s conclusion is “alternative” or imitative? For Jesus’ imperial might seems to be held in abeyance until he “executes judgment” and violently exterminates his enemies at his parousia, in a final completion of the conquest (see especially Matt 24:27–31). In Luke/Acts, as well as in Matthew, the risen and then ascended Jesus is an imperial figure with considerable territory falling (gradually, symbolically, proleptically) under his control. As in Mark and Matthew, Luke’s Jesus receives the imperial title “Son of God” (cf. Luke 24:47), but he is also called “Saviour”, σωτήρ 65 W. Cotter, ‘Greco-Roman Apotheosis Traditions and the Resurrection Appearances in the Gospel of Matthew’, in D. E. Aune (ed.), The Gospel of Matthew in Current Study: Studies in Memory of William G. Thompson, S. J. (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 2001), 127–53, here: 149, 151. The kind of transformation Cotter describes is certainly found in Greek and Roman sources, as well as in Judean ones (such as 1 En. 71), but I see little evidence of any such “theorizing” in Matthew about the embodied state of the risen Jesus (cf. Luke 24). 66 Dan 7:14 lxx (Theodotion) reads: “And there was given to him power (ἐξουσία), and all the nations (πάντα τὰ ἔθνη) of the earth by kind (κατὰ γένη) and every glory shall serve him; and his power is an eternal power, which will not be taken away, and his kingdom, which will never be destroyed”. 67  J. S. Richardson, ‘IMPERIUM ROMANUM: Empire and the Language of Power’, in JRS 81 (1991), 1–9. 68  J. Riches, ‘Matthew’s Missionary Strategy in Colonial Perspective’, in Id., D. C. Sim (eds.), The Gospel of Matthew in Its Roman Imperial Context, SupplJSNT 276 (London: T&T Clark, 2005), 128–42, here: 141–2.

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(Luke 2:11; Acts 13:23). The full significance of this title is seen in Jesus’ exaltation to the right hand of God (Acts 5:31).69 In addition, the territorial aspect is mapped out in Acts in much greater detail than it can be in Matthew: Luke/Acts describes the spread of “the Way” to “all the nations” (Luke 24:47) as an oikoumenē-wide movement, spreading from Jerusalem in concentric advances “to the limit of the earth” (Acts 1:8), but clearly the (narrative) goal of the author is Rome. Here, as in Matthew, the exalted Jesus is an imperial figure whose territory or jurisdiction will encompass the civilized world: God, Paul tells the Athenians, “has established a day on which he is about to judge the oikoumenē in righteousness, by means of a man whom he has appointed, providing an assurance to all by raising him from the dead” (Acts 17:31). This “territorializes” the inhabited world as the realm of the risen and exalted Jesus in much the same way as in the Matthean citation of Daniel. In both Matthew and Luke/Acts, the full exercise of power (ἐξουσία) is shifted into the eschatological future (cf. Matt 24:30), which means that the territorialization remains somewhat ambivalent, as seen above in the juxtaposed Q sayings. Again, Sack’s insights on the tendencies of territoriality become especially useful for clarifying the spatial implications.70 According to Sack’s first tendency, territoriality “classifies … by area rather than by type”, which means that total control is exerted by the entity who asserts territoriality. According to Sack’s second tendency, territoriality is communicated easily by means of boundaries. In practice, the Roman Empire communicated what was its territory through other (more concrete) means than “boundaries” – roads, mileposts, cities, buildings, inscriptions, coinage, troops, and the like. In addition (according to Sack’s fourth tendency), territoriality both enforces control efficiently, but also reifies power by making it spatially visible. Territoriality also tends to displace attention away from power relationships by spatializing them, so that “territory appears to be the agent doing the controlling” (the fifth tendency). This, in turn, can make the power relationships worked out within a territory seem impersonal and predetermined because of the space in which they occur (the sixth). Some of these tendencies might seem more appropriate to Rome’s territorialization of its Empire, but they also apply to the way both Matthew and, especially, Luke imagine “all the nations”, or the oikoumenē, as the territory of the risen Jesus. To be sure, there is classification here, and even if the territoriality is not communicated by means of borders, it is in other ways – for example, 69 See also Acts 2:36: the claim that “God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified”, follows directly on the claims that he has been exalted to God’s right hand and that all his enemies will be brought into subjugation under him (vv. 32–5, referencing Ps 110). 70  The discussion in this paragraph (including quotations) is based on the ten tendencies of territoriality given in Sack, Human Territoriality, 32–4. As above (p. 199), I only give the tendencies that seem to apply here.

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in the divinely empowered and ordained geographical spread and success of the movement, as mapped out in Acts. The power relationships Sack describes are, in some respects at least, held in abeyance until the risen one comes into his own, so to speak; in the meantime, the territorialization is ambivalent and the power relationships are problematic. This leads to the second point. The risen Jesus commands the Eleven to make disciples of (Matthew), and to preach repentance and sins-forgiveness to (Luke), “all the nations” (πάντα τὰ ἔθνη). “The nations”, importantly, is the term for conquered and assimilated peoples in Roman imperial propaganda. Davina Lopez explains that “from a Roman imperial perspective – from on top – the orbis/ world is composed of panta ta ethnē or omnes gentes, ‘all the nations’, most of whom are conquered or should be as a matter of Roman destiny”.71 It is difficult to over-estimate the pervasiveness of this message, especially given its extensive representation in coinage, inscriptions, sculpture, and text. Lopez writes: The universality of Roman rule is a thoroughgoing notion in Roman imperial ideology, consistent in image and text. In visual representation, the personification of nations as women’s bodies and conquerors as men’s bodies communicates hierarchical power relations between Romans and nations, as well as reinforcing those existing between male and female, masculinity and femininity, free and slave, colonizer and colonized, and cosmos and chaos.72

Of course, both Matthew and Luke use τὰ ἔθνη to designate non-Judeans in contrast to Judeans (e. g. Matt 10:5–6; 10:18; Luke 21:24; Acts 4:27; 10:45, etc.). However, to translate πάντα τὰ ἔθνη in the endings of Matthew and Luke as “all the Gentiles” is to import a theological category (τὰ ἔθνη = non-Judeans as future “Gentile Christians”) and erases an important aspect of the imitative imperialism of the post-Easter missions of both these gospels.73 The scope of the post-Easter mission, and of the eventual rule of Christ, is equated with the oikoumenē, the inhabited world currently under Roman imperial domination, in both Matthew and Luke/Acts (Matt 24:14; Luke 21:26; Acts 17:31; cf. Luke 2:1).74 “All the nations” are to be subjugated now to another imperial figure, and to be civilized by him and his ideology (more about this under the third point). One finds in Acts other strategies that map the Empire of Jesus onto the Empire of Rome: for example, the list of nations in Acts 2:9–11 presents a “competing judgment on the

 D. C. Lopez, ‘Paul, Gentiles, and Gender Paradigms’, in USQR 59 (2005), 92–106, here:

71

102.

72 D. C. Lopez, Apostle to the Conquered: Reimagining Paul’s Mission, Paul in Critical Contexts (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2008), 51. 73  Ibid., 4–6. 74  For οἰκουμένη as a term which “embraces the Roman Empire”, see O. Michel, ‘ἡ οἰκουμένη’, in TDNT 5, 157–9, here: 157, citing P.Oxy. 7.1021; see also Stewart, Gathered Around Jesus, 76–80 for Roman views of the οἰκουμένη.

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identity of the true ruler of the world”.75 The author also presents the expansion of the movement by depicting the protagonists having rhetorical success – that is, receiving the honour of unrestricted voice and persuading high-status individuals – in key locations (such as the Areopagus in Athens).76 Third, as just noted, Roman ideology reinforced the idea that the nations needed to be conquered in order to be civilized in fulfillment of Rome’s divine mission in the world. Philo, for example, describes Augustus as the one “who reclaimed every state (τὰς πόλεις ἁπάσας) to freedom, who led disorder into order, who tamed and brought to harmony all the uncivilized and beastly nations (τὰ ἄμικτα ἔθνη καὶ θηριώδη), who enlarged Greece with many new Greeks and Hellenized the outside world (τὴν βάρβαρον) in its most important regions, the keeper of the peace (ὁ εἰρηνοφύλαξ)” (Embassy 21,147).77 This excerpt shows, as Lopez also observes, that the nations were imagined as resistant to civilization and to the enforcement of peace.78 The main vehicle of Roman civilization and peace outside the capital was the city, “both the major cultural construct and conveyancer of Roman imperialism abroad”.79 The spatial component of this is important: Roman imperial emphasis on the “production of space” enabled the development of a self-referential Roman elite identity that also allowed for local indigenous elite to participate. Through the standardization of spatial production, the Roman Empire modeled connectivity, encouraged similar behaviors, and projected “the unity and stability of the imperial system while, at the same time, allowing for the display of local identity” throughout its territory.80

Specifically, “distinctive forms of urban organization and types of building” – such as the Capitolium – “spread throughout the empire as part of the expansion of imperial control”, so that new Roman cities and colonies projected an image of Roman culture, organization, and, above all, superiority, but also an idea of 75  G. Gilbert, ‘The List of Nations in Acts 2: Roman Propaganda and the Lukan Response’, in JBL 121 (2002), 497–529, here: 527. 76  J. H.  Neyrey, ‘“Teaching You in Public and from House to House” (Acts 20:20): Unpacking a Cultural Stereotype’, in JSNT 26 (2003), 69–102; D. A. Smith, ‘“Not Done in a Corner” (Acts 26:26): Space, Territory, and “Public Speaking” in Luke/Acts’, in J. S. Kloppenborg, J. Verheyden (eds.), Luke on Jesus, Paul and Christianity: What Did He Really Know?, BiTS 29 (Leuven: Peeters, 2017), 83–100. 77 Transl. Colson, LCL (adapted). The adjective ἄμικτος connotes disharmony and an unwillingness to mix, and θηριώδης can mean “full of wild beasts”, as well as “animalistic” (LSJ, ad loc.). 78 Lopez, Apostle to the Conquered, 26, 50–1. 79 C. R. Whittaker, ‘Imperialism and Culture: The Roman Initiative’, in D. J. Mattingly (ed.), Dialogues in Roman Imperialism: Power, Discourse, and Discrepant Experience in the ­Roman Empire, Supplements to the Journal of Roman Archaeology 23 (Portsmouth RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1997), 143–164, here: 145. 80  Lopez, Apostle to the Conquered, 27. The quotation is from R. Hingley, Globalizing ­Roman Culture: Unity, Diversity, and Empire (London: Routledge, 2005), 72.

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connection to the capital.81 As Laura Nasrallah has put it, Rome “is the meta-city to which the entire oikoumenē is a suburb”.82 Interestingly, Lefebvre observed a similar “standardization of spatial production” in contemporary capitalist states, as part of a threefold schema of “homogeneity  – fragmentation  – hierarchization”.83 This schema also applies to the Roman imperialist impulse. At the same time that there was a kind of forced assimilation, the Roman Empire also involved a spatial fragmentation and hierarchization. Lefebvre writes: Hierarchization takes general and specific forms: the distinction between the strong points of space and the centers – of power, wealth, material and spiritual exchange, leisure, and information, which are likewise multiplied and hierarchized – and the peripheries, which are also hierarchized, at varying degrees of distance from some principal or secondary center, to the point of sometimes appearing deserted, abandoned by gods and men.84

Of course, there was much more to Roman “civilization” than simply building cities and hierarchizing its territory spatially. Civilizing the nations also involved having local (provincial) elites take on aspects of Roman “culture” in combination with local values to varying degrees. “Roman culture was a ‘common culture’ shared by a widely spread group of governing elites, but one that was always, and everywhere, vulnerable to alternative readings”.85 The ending of Matthew projects a similar kind of civilization, one which aims at a certain degree of homogeneity, but in practice must have involved a wide variety of “alternative readings” (as history in fact had already proven). Jesus’ command in Matthew to “disciple all the nations” (28:19, μαθητεύσατε πάντα τὰ ἔθνη) applies a kind of idealized consistency and civilization upon converts through baptism and teaching (vv. 19b–20).86 Incidentally, there is an interesting contrast between Matthew and Luke here: Matthew’s “Great Commission” says nothing of the death-and-resurrection kerygma which was foundational for Paul’s gospel and of which we find a variant in Luke/Acts. Instead, the Matthean emphasis on “discipling” is “teaching them to keep all that I commanded you” (v. 20), much the same way that Matthew’s predecessor, text Q, put the emphasis on “hearing my words and doing them” (Q 6:47–9). Thus, in Matthew, the teachings of Jesus act as a non-spatial “centre” that exerts a homogenizing influence in  Hingley, Globalizing Roman Culture, 77–86; here: 86. ‘The Acts of the Apostles, Greek Cities, and Hadrian’s Panhellenion’, in JBL 127 (2008), 533–66, here: 541 (referencing Aristides, Roman Oration 93). 83  Lefebvre, ‘Space and Mode of Production’, in State, Space, World: Selected Essays, 210–22, here: 212–6. 84 Ibid., 215 (emphasis original). 85  Hingley, Globalizing Roman Culture, 71. 86  U. Luz, Matthew 21–28: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2005), 625 observes that πορεύομαι in Matthew “refers to an actual going to another place” (cf. Matt 10:5–6), and that the two participles βαπτίζοντες and διδάσκοντες are governed by the imperative μαθητεύσατε. 81

82 L. Nasrallah,

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relation to the “peripheries”. In Luke, the command is only that “repentance for the forgiveness of sins” be preached in Jesus’ name; the apostles act as “witnesses” whose testimony and exegetical insight tangibly connect the new movement to the robustly-embodied risen one (Luke 24:44–9).87 Here, the Jerusalem apostles function as a kind of “head office” of the movement that determines not only how, but also whether and to what extent, instantiations of the movement correspond to the original (and correct) apostolic “branding”. That Jerusalem will have this function in Acts is already clear in the first chapter. The so-called “Jerusalem conference” (Acts 15), in which the apostles determine the requirements for non-Judean adherents, is a good example of how the centre–periphery dynamic works to provide a measure of homogeneity. Paul and Barnabas “go up to Jerusalem … to the apostles and elders concerning this issue” (Acts 15:2), that is, the question of the circumcision of non-Judeans, and then they are sent out again by the apostles and elders with their determination (Acts 15:22–35): “and as they went through the cities, they handed down to them to keep the decrees (φυλάσσειν τὰ δόγματα) that had been determined by the apostles and elders in Jerusalem” (Acts 16:4). As this example suggests, there is (in contrast with Matthew) much more “space” in Acts in which this civilization can be played out. Nasrallah observes that “the characters … constantly make their way between cities, moving throughout the oikoumenē and producing a kind of Christian empire parallel to Roman rule” through the implementation of a “civilizing” influence comparable to the Roman use of Greek paideia during the Second Sophistic.88 In Nasrallah’s opinion, Luke appropriates the colonizing and civilizing aspects of Roman conquest ideology in order “to find a place for ‘the Way’ within a system of Roman domination”.89 Matthew, on the other hand, seems to appropriate in order to pronounce supersession and eventual apocalyptic judgment. Yet, even for Luke, God “is about to judge the oikoumenē in righteousness, by means of a man whom he has appointed” (Acts 17:31). In the meantime, the apostles destabilize the status quo: as the Thessalonian rioters claim in Acts 17, the oikoumenē is being turned upside-down by the apostles’ teaching, whether because they “act contrary to the decrees of the emperor by saying there is another king named Jesus” (Acts 17:6–7), or because their anti-temple rhetoric deprives deities like Artemis of the Ephesians their due honour (Acts 19:27). Lefebvre has some useful insights on space and the state, which can illuminate the appropriation of Roman imperial ideas about conquest in the post-Easter 87 For a full discussion, see S. Matthews, ‘Fleshly Resurrection, Authority Claims, and the Scriptural Practices of Lukan Christianity’, in JBL 136 (2017) 163–83. 88  Nasrallah, ‘Acts of the Apostles’, 534. This requires a late date for the Book of Acts. However, Hingley, Globalizing Roman Culture, 67–9 already situates the practice of “civilizing” provincial elite through classical education in the first century. 89 Nasrallah, ‘Acts of the Apostles’, 534.

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mission directives of Matthew and Luke/Acts. Applying his conceptual triad (to repeat: spatial practice i. e. l’espace perçu; representations of space i. e. l’espace conçu; spaces of representation i. e. l’espace véçu) to “the State”, he writes: “During the course of its development, the State binds itself to space through a complex and changing relation”.90 Corresponding to perceived space, the State is “the national territory”, that is, a “material – natural – space in which the actions of human generations, of classes, and of political forces have left their mark, as producers of durable objects and realities”. Secondly, the State is also the social space that it produces; there is a kind of consensus understanding of what this means for the actual use of space (and, Lefebvre adds, for the division of labour and supporting political domination). Thirdly, the State also “occupies a mental space that includes the representations of the State that people construct – confused or clear, directly lived or conceptually elaborated”.91 With the Roman context of Matthew and Luke in mind, I would argue that the State occupies the “mental space” of its subjects primarily in the meanings (spaces of representation) that the imperial system itself imposes – although, of course, the “spatial practice” of the Empire is also perceived space (cities, temples, architecture, roads) and the conceived space that undergirds it all. Matthew and Luke appear to have absorbed the spaces of representation inherent in the Roman system of conquest and civilization, and have made them the conceptual basis of the universal mission after Easter. Yet, both these authors and their readers continued to live within the spatial practice of Rome, and had to negotiate their own space within it. What does the “thirdspatial” character of their appropriation of Rome’s ideology of conquest – based on an imperial figure as centre, and on the subjugation, assimilation, and civilization of the nations – amount to? To say that the territory of Rome is really the territory of God’s agent, the exalted Jesus, is to pronounce judgment on Rome. For Matthew, it also makes the teachings of Jesus the true means by which the nations are civilized. Even though we know how things went historically, the actual success of this mission at the time of Matthew and Luke/Acts is immaterial compared with the effect these spatial negotiations had on their readers. It means that they must define their identity first as subjects of Jesus and only secondly as subjects of Rome. As Gary Gilbert puts it, Acts “creates a map of contested terrain and reinforces the claim that all the nations of the earth now rest under the dominion not of Caesar but of God and his son, Jesus”.92 Naturally, this would involve, as it would for the elites in the provinces who took on various aspects of Romanization, a great degree of cultural negotiation. How Roman can one be and yet still be a Thracian? Gilbert’s basic claim is correct;  Lefebvre, ‘Space and the State’, in State, Space, World: Selected Essays, 223–53, here: 224.  Ibid., 224–5. 92 Gilbert, ‘List of Nations’, 529. 90 91

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however, rather than “dismantle the ideological foundation upon which Rome built its empire”,93 Matthew and Luke simply appropriated it and replaced some of its moving parts. Whether they did this because of an anti-imperial interest or because of a fundamental agreement with – or unconscious assimilation of – the imperial paradigm of conquest, is another question.

V. Conclusion A more detailed analysis of the spatial features of mission in Q, Mark, Matthew, and Luke/Acts is not possible here, but the core exegetical insights sketched out in this paper, and their implications as seen from the perspective of critical spatial theory, are hopefully helpful. One basic result is that this study has shown the intense interest that our sources have in delineating the scope of missionary activity by territorializing it: while in Q there is a discernible ambivalence about the “mission field” as territory, in the later gospels (especially in Matthew and Luke/ Acts) it is theorized as the territory of the exalted Christ as an imperial figure, even if only proleptically. In the meantime, a complex set of negotiations must occur in order for the readers to make sense of their “place” in a Roman Empire that is also fundamentally Christ’s empire. A second basic result is that the interests of Matthew and Luke/Acts in appropriating and “christianizing” Roman imperial ideologies surrounding conquest and civilization have been initially sketched out. A further step in analysis would be to apply, in a more consistent and thoroughgoing manner, insights from Lefebvre and Soja to the progress of mission in the Book of Acts. In any event, one final thing is clear, even if the details have only been lightly treated: the materials about mission in the Synoptics have a clearly “thirdspatial”, “real-and-imagined” aspect to them, in that they construct space for the readers of these texts in such a way that it is determinative of their identity. The “placemakers”, then, are both the authors of these texts, and those who find in them foundational ideas about the impermanence of dominant (and dominating) Roman and Judean spatial practices, about the territory falling under the conquest of Christ and his emissaries, and about the ways in which they should negotiate their own place within the Roman world.

93 Ibid.

Visions

The Visions of Jesus and His Disciples Santiago Guijarro The concentration of visionary experiences around the Easter events, along with the importance of such events for the Christian faith, has shaped the way in which the Gospel visions have been understood and explained. However, Easter appearances are not the only context in which such experiences are reported to have taken place in the beginnings of Christianity. The Gospels also mention other episodes of visions experienced by Jesus either alone (Mark 1:10–1 par.; Luke 10:18) or in the company of his disciples (Mark 9:4–7 par.), as well as several sayings that announce future visions to the same disciples (Mark 13:26 par.; John 1:51). Although both the contents of these visions and the protagonists differ, the narrated experiences are very similar. The aim of this contribution is to approach these other visionary experiences from a perspective that takes into account what both the neurosciences and cultural studies have recently said about them in order to understand their contextual meaning.

I. The Traditional Interpretation of Visions and Its Limits Critical exegesis has explained Easter visions in various ways. A widespread explanation, for example, states that they belong to a process aimed at overcoming the cognitive dissonance caused by the death of Jesus. According to this explanation, Jesus’ disciples, confused by that traumatic event, went through a process of reflection to integrate that experience. The visions would be the outcome of this reflective process.1 From a different perspective, visions are explained as hallucinations triggered by complex psychological processes. In Peter’s case, for example, the vision of the Risen Lord would have been the result of an intense grieving process, while that of Paul could be explained as a means to overcome the guilt for his stubborn opposition to Jesus.2 Finally, from a literary point of view that is aware of the distance between the event and the story, visions have 1   U. B.  Müller, Die Entstehung des Glaubens an die Auferstehung Jesu: Historische Aspekte und Bedingungen, SBS 172 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1998), 61–6. 2  G. Lüdemann, Die Auferstehung Jesu: Historie, Erfarung, Theologie (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 72–128.

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been explained as literary elaborations aimed at awakening in the reader the hope that the expectations dashed by the death of Jesus would be fulfilled.3 These explanations are representative of those proposed by recent critical exegesis. Although they are different, they all assume the presuppositions of Western culture and strive to integrate the data provided by the biblical texts in the ontology of that culture. According to this perspective, visions were the result of processes of reflection, psychological activity, or literary creation, and interpreting them as actual events would be naive or pre-scientific. However, we might ask if this cognitive framework is adequate to understand the visual experiences reported in ancient texts. These texts belong, in fact, to a different culture, and presuppose a different cognitive framework. To explain the difference between modern Western culture and those with a different cognitive system, anthropologists divide groups into monophasic and polyphasic cultures. Monophasic cultures only value cognitive experiences that take place during normal waking phases, whereas polyphasic cultures also derive knowledge from visions, dreams, and other such experiences without drawing distinctions between this knowledge and that acquired in everyday life. The ancient Mediterranean culture was a polyphasic culture, as were many other cultures both past and present, whereas modern Western culture is a monophasic one.4 When approaching the visions reported in the Gospels, we cannot renounce our worldview or profoundly alter the way we think. But at the same time, we know that those visions presuppose a different cognitive system. This is usually solved by adopting two extreme positions: intercultural universalism or cultural relativism. The first option attempts to explain the phenomenon with categories that are valid for all cultures, whereas the second would accept as valid the explanation given to them by the native culture. There is, however, the possibility to overcome this dichotomy by adopting a perspectivist approach. This third option acknowledges the complexity of intercultural dialogue and strives to blend the two preceding options, thus accepting the multidimensional nature of reality.5 In this study, I will adopt this approach in order to explain the visions of Jesus (and his disciples) as reported in the Gospels. To that end, I will strive to combine aspects of the natives’ understanding with the universalistic explanations of Western culture. In other words, I will try to creatively blend the emic and the etic perspectives.6  C. Focant, L’évangile selon Marc (Paris: Cerf, 2004), 596. Life of Galilean Shaman: Jesus of Nazareth in Anthropological-Historical Perspective (Eugene OR: Cascade Books, 2008), 394–5. 5   G. E. R.  Lloyd, Being, Humanity, and Understanding: Studies in Ancient and Modern Societies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 1–4. See also the contribution of Pieter Craffert in this same volume. 6  Etic and emic are technical terms developed originally in the field of linguistics. They refer to two different ways of approaching the sound system: that of the native sounds (phon-emic) 3

4  P. F.  Craffert, The

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II. Visual Perception Before stating more precisely how I will approach analysing the visions from these two perspectives, it might be useful to take into consideration some characteristics of visual perception, a process that has been extensively studied within the fields of the neurosciences and psychology. Vision is a complex process that not only involves the sensory perception of our eyes, but also the “constructive” ability of our brain. To simplify, the ability of the human eye is very small and, because of that, it can only handle a small portion of the visual stimuli produced by the objects it sees. This compressed information must be processed and expanded later by our brain through a complex procedure that involves many different parts. The human brain uses information previously acquired, verified, and stored to expand the limited information received via the optic nerve. These prior expectations which our brain uses to reconfigure the data are a blend of personal experience and acquired cultural schemes.7 To see is, therefore, an interactive process that involves not only external stimuli, but also the activity of our brain that, through memory, has stored a huge amount of information. One can therefore say that the act of seeing is a hermeneutical activity, because what we see is ultimately the result of the interpretation that our brain makes of the stimuli that it receives.8 This interpretation, it should be emphasised, is determined by previous personal experience and, above all, by cultural clues acquired in the socialisation process. Cultural patterns are therefore a key element in the visual process. Usually, the visual process is triggered by external stimuli, but the process can also occur without any external input. Polyphasic cultures do not distinguish between these two kinds of visions, but monophasic cultures do. In monophasic cultures, vision is the process triggered by an external stimulus that typically takes place in a waking state, whereas hallucination is the visual process not and that of the universal sound system (phon-etic). In the social sciences, this distinction is used to characterise two approaches to the study of a culture; the first one (emic) is interested in acquiring the native point of view, while the second (etic) approaches the same culture from the outside in order to give a more universal explanation of it; see: E. Miquel, El Nuevo Testamento desde las ciencias sociales (Estella: Verbo Divino, 2011), 38–51. 7 A presentation of the visual process accessible to the non-specialist can be seen in: J. V.  Stone, Vision and Brain: How We Perceive the World (Cambridge MA: MIT Press, 2012). 8 S. L. Macknik, S. Martínez-Conde, Los engaños de la mente: Cómo los trucos de magia desvelan el funcionamiento del cerebro (Barcelona: Destino, 2014) states: “La verdad, por asombrosa que parezca, es esta: es nuestro cerebro el que construye la realidad, tanto visual como de cualquier otro tipo. Lo que usted ve, oye, siente y piensa se basa en lo que espera ver, oír, sentir y pensar. A su vez, sus expectativas se basan en la totalidad de sus recuerdos y experiencias previas” (21). “Nuestros ojos tan solo nos dicen una parte de lo que somos capaces de ‘ver’; del resto se encarga nuestro cerebro a través de un verdadero laberinto de estadios” (24).

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triggered by an external stimulus that normally takes place in other states of consciousness.9 In both cases, however, the hermeneutic activity involved in the visual process is the same. This observation opens the possibility of studying the visions as a complex phenomenon in which cultural expectations play an important role.

III. States of Consciousness In monophasic cultures, which favour knowledge acquired during waking phases, there is only one reliable form of consciousness, the so-called “ordinary consciousness”. Consequently, visions, dreams, and other experiences that do not take place in this state of consciousness are considered exceptional. These presuppositions determine the etic interpretation of visions as hallucinations. In contrast, polyphasic cultures typically accept the existence of various states of consciousness and, consequently, visions, dreams, and the like, belong to everyday consciousness, and can be the source of experience and knowledge. These presuppositions, in turn, shape the emic interpretation of visions. A holistic approach to the phenomenon of visions can facilitate a dialogue between these two perspectives. Such a dialogue would simultaneously permit us to approach them with both a respectful and critical attitude. This dialogical perspective can be labelled as derived etic, because the etic insight is modified to access a phenomenon that is alien to our culture.10 Such a perspective is the one adopted by recent studies on altered states of consciousness. Anchored in the scientific tradition of Western culture, such studies have, however, a cultural sensitivity that allows a considerate approach to visionary experiences of other cultures.11 An altered state of consciousness can be described as a human experience in which feelings, perceptions, cognitions, and emotions are modified so that the individual’s relationship with his body, identity, the environment, people, space,

 9  Although the phenomenon is more complex, this broad definition will suffice for our purposes. O. Sacks, Hallucinations (New York: Vintage, 2012), vii: “Precise definitions of the word ‘hallucination’ still vary considerably, chiefly because it is not always easy to discern where the boundary lies between hallucinations, misperception, and illusion. But generally, hallucinations are defined as percepts arising in the absence of any external reality”. 10 J. Pilch, Flights of the Soul: Visions, Heavenly Journeys, and Peak Experiences in the Biblical World (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 1–13. 11  The pioneering study by C. T. Tart, States of Consciousness (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1975), remains an obligatory reference. Today, however, we have abundant literature on the subject: see, for example, the studies collected in two volumes by E. Cardeña, M. J.  Winkelman (eds.), Altering Consciousness: Multidisciplinary Perspectives (Santa Barbara CA, Denver CO, Oxford: Praeger, 2011).

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and time changes.12 Such states allow people to access dimensions of reality that are not accessible to normal consciousness. They can be very different (sleep, hypnosis, trance, possession, sky journey, etc.), and are defined as “altered” by comparison with the normal or common state of consciousness. The term has no negative connotations, but is purely descriptive: it is used to designate a state of consciousness other than the normal one. Altered states of consciousness are thus defined by reference to the common state of consciousness. It should be noted that although the latter is spontaneously perceived as natural in monophasic cultures, it is in fact an arbitrary construction based on our way of perceiving reality. The features of the common consciousness of a person are configured during the process of enculturation, through which individuals in various stages of their lives assume the features of what their culture considers consensus reality.13 In the process of constructing this consensus reality, every human group makes a selection, and therefore ignores aspects or possibilities that do not belong to its common consciousness. Nonetheless, in many cultures, the possibilities that are not selected in the ordinary state of consciousness are selected in other states of consciousness, which are defined as different or “altered” in the sense mentioned before.14 Polyphasic cultures, which assume the existence of different states of consciousness, have culturally structured ways to induce the transition from the common state to various altered states. This process, which can be observed in monophasic cultures during the transition from wakefulness to sleep, or, as in cases of hypnosis and meditation, can be triggered using relatively simple techniques. The transition from one form of consciousness to another has three phases: a) baseline state structured; b) baseline state unstructured; c) altered state structured. The process implies two transitions: one in which the configuration of the baseline state of consciousness is destabilised, and another in which the new configuration of consciousness is stabilised.15 Studies of altered states of consciousness provide a suitable model for understanding the visual experiences narrated in the Gospels. In this framework, the visions are no longer understood as the visual expression of a process of reflection, the result of a psychological construction, or the symbolic formulation of theological ideas, but can be considered as actual experiences from which knowledge can be gained.

 This definition is based on Pilch, Flights of the Soul, 148.  Tart, States of Consciousness, 33–50. 14  Ibid., 42. 15 Ibid., 70–87. 12 13

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IV. The Cultural Grammar of Jesus’ Visions The visions reported in the Gospels can be described as altered states of consciousness.16 However, both the visual process and the configuration of such states are determined by culture. The culture of a group shapes the complex construction process that is performed by the human brain in the act of seeing. It also defines the configuration of the various states of consciousness. Consequently, in order to understand the visions of the Gospels, we should become acquainted with their cultural grammar, that is, with the motifs, forms, and expressions that those visions had in the ancient Mediterranean culture. In that culture, visions were closely related to religious experience and were, in actuality, a fundamental expression of faith. In his already-classic study on the irrational among the Greeks, Eric Dodds recognises the importance of these events in the Hellenistic context: It is likely that these (visions) were commoner in former times than they are today, since they seem to be relatively frequent among primitives; and even with us they are less rare than is often supposed. They have in general the same origin and psychological structure as dreams, and like dreams they tend to reflect traditional culture-patterns. Among the Greeks, by far the commonest type is the apparition of a god or the hearing of a divine voice which commands or forbids the performance of certain acts.17

In second temple Judaism, visions were also related to religious experience. In a book entitled The Visionary Mode, Michael Lieb has traced an important visionary tradition that originated in the vision of Ezekiel (Ezekiel 1–3). The purpose of this vision, which takes place in a state of ecstasy, is to see the glory of God. It is therefore the visio Dei to which every mystical experience tends. For this reason, Ezekiel’s vision was the starting point and the constant reference of a long visionary and mystical tradition that had different expressions in both Judaism and Christianity.18 In the pre-Christian Jewish tradition, Ezekiel’s vision inspired various visionary experiences. The visions described in the Book of Zechariah (Zechariah 1–6), for example, are most likely a recreation of that original vision. These visions, together with Ezekiel’s, also seem to have influenced those described in the Book of Daniel, the First Book of Enoch, and the Book of Revelation (Revelation 4–5). In the later Jewish tradition, this visionary trajectory received a name and acquired a cultural formulation. It was known as the tradition of the Merkabah (Sir Flights of the Soul, 109–23.   E. R.  Dodds, The Greek and the Irrational (Berkeley CA, Los Angeles CA: University of California Press, 1951), 116. 18  M. Lieb, The Visionary Mode: Biblical Prophecy, Hermeneutics, and Cultural Change (Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press, 1991). The story of Ezekiel’s calling has the features of an experience in an altered state of consciousness: Pilch, Flights of the Soul, 30–47. 16 Pilch, 17

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49:8), the celestial chariot in which the divine throne was placed, and could be experienced by practising the Ma’aseh Merkabah, the “works of the Merkabah”.19 This visionary tradition had a decisive influence on the Jewish and Christian apocalyptic, but does not exhaust the references to which first-century Jews could turn to explain their own visions. God had communicated with the patriarchs and prophets through dreams and visions (Gen 15:1, 12; Num 12:6), often at night (1 Sam 15:16; Isa 29:7; Job 4:13).20 Some of them, like Moses, had experienced God’s vision in a different way than that described in Ezekiel’s vision (Exodus 24). The biblical tradition had different models by which to construct the visionary experience throughout the first century. This visionary tradition may have played an important role in the visionary experiences of Jesus and his disciples. However, in order to fully understand them, it is not enough to describe the elements of the cultural grammar to which they may have resorted. It is also necessary to know the way these elements were articulated and, above all, the way in which individuals belonging to that culture used them to construct their own visionary experiences. In this connection, Michael Lieb speaks of the “visionary mode” as the means of accessing that primordial experience which transcends human understanding.21 By its very nature, this kind of experience cannot be explained with the categories of everyday life, and for that reason it can only be accessed through the recreation of the reported vision. This means that any interpretation of it actually implies a creative appropriation of that experience.22 Christopher Rowland has more explicitly formulated the consequences of this peculiar nature of the visionary experience. He believes that it is highly probable that the interpretations of the visions were not made through an explanation of them, but by what may be called “an exegesis through imagination”. This kind of exegesis is based on the conviction that in order to understand a vision, it is necessary to “see” what the visionary saw. This implies a re-enactment of his experience recreating anew the experience described in the vision.23 In a similar vein, 19 Lieb, The Visionary Mode, 15–41; L. S. Tiemeyer, Zechariah and His Visions: An Exegetical Study of Zechariah’s Vision Report (London, New York: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015), 37–44. 20  Tiemeyer, Zechariah and His Visions, 13–7. 21  Lieb, The Visionary Mode, 2–3, assumes a distinction proposed by psychologist Carl Gustav Jung, who, speaking of the modes of artistic creation, distinguishes between the “psychological mode” and the “visionary mode”. The first one uses elements of normal consciousness, while the second refers to a primordial experience that transcends human understanding. 22  Lieb states: “These reformulations are the means by which the visionary is acculturated in a complex act of transmission. Underlying this act is a hermeneutics in which the propensity of the Urerlebnis to undergo transformation at every state is realized in the very act of implementing it in ‘knowable’ form. Whether as a hermeneutics or as a poetics, that form is itself a re-enactment of the vision, one that says as much about how the re-enactment occurs as it does about the vision it seeks to elucidate” (ibid,. 7). 23  Rowland et al., ‘Visionary Experience in Ancient  Judaism and Christianity’, in A. D. ­DeConick (ed.), Paradise Now: Essays on Early Jewish and Christian Mysticism (Atlanta GA:

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Dan Merkur has identified some exegetical practices in Jewish and Christian apocalyptic literature that were intended to induce visions. The starting point of this kind of visionary exegesis was usually one or more passages of scripture (not necessarily a vision), which are displayed in the form of mental imagery as a means to induce visions.24 This exegesis might be called “performative” insofar as the act of interpreting necessarily implies having an experience of what is interpreted. For this kind of exegesis, it is not enough to enact the vision because the visual experience is the only means to accessing a new reality. In the aforementioned model of altered states of consciousness, the procedure presupposed by this kind of exegesis could be defined as a culturally-structured process to accessing an altered state of consciousness. Thus, we may conclude that Jesus and his disciples have at their disposal a cultural grammar that afforded them the motives and forms to configure their visions. Moreover, that culture provided them the clues to articulate this experience as a means of accessing an altered state of consciousness. These two indications help us to place the visions of Jesus and his disciples in their original cultural context.

V. The Pre-Easter Visions of Jesus In the tradition of Jesus, as in the rabbinic stories of holy men, the “ecstatic” side of his actions and teachings has been less valued than the “rational” one.25 However, among the memories preserved by his disciples there is clear evidence of his frequent interaction with the spirits, a kind of activity that his contemporaries related to ecstatic experiences.26 Visions belong to this less rational side of Jesus’ ministry. For this reason, it is noteworthy that the Gospels describe two of them in a very detailed form: the vision that he had after his baptism (Mark 1:10–1 par.), and the one he shared SBL, 2006), 41–56, here: 47–50. The text of Ezekiel 1–3 has been transmitted in so many different forms that it is almost impossible to reconstruct its original formulation. This seemingly erratic textual transmission reveals that this fundamental text of Jewish visionary tradition was reformulated by interpreters who accessed the vision through it. On the complexity of the textual transmission, see: Lieb, The Visionary Mode, 16–23. 24 D. Merkur, ‘Cultivating Visions through Exegetical Meditations’, in D. V. Arbel, A. A. Orlov (eds.), With Letters of Light: Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls, Early Jewish Apocalypticism, Magic, and Mysticism in Honor of Rachel Elior (Berlin, New York: de Gruyter, 2011), 62–91. 25  W. S.  Green, ‘Palestinian Holy Men: Charismatic Leadership and Rabbinic Tradition’, in ANRW II.19 (1979), 619–47, here: 646–7. 26  On the relationship between Jesus and the spirits, see E. Miquel Pericás, Jesús y los espíritus: Aproximación antropológica a la práctica exorcista de Jesús (Salamanca: Sígueme, 2009). On the relationship between possession and ecstatic experience: D. Neufeld, ‘Eating, Ecstasy, and Exorcism (Mark 3:21)’, in BTB 26 (1996), 152–62.

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with some of his followers on the occasion of his transfiguration (Mark 9:4–7 par.). Moreover, these two visions enjoy a place of preference in the story told by Mark and the other two synoptics, because the first in intentionally located at the initial stages of Jesus’ public activity and the second at the beginning of his way to Jerusalem. These are not, however, the only visions attributed to him. In a saying reported by Luke’s Gospel that has intense apocalyptic overtones, he claims to have seen Satan falling from heaven (Luke 10:18). According to some old versions of this same Gospel, Jesus had a vision in which an angel comforted him during the prayer in Gethsemane (Luke 22:43–4). Finally, the Gospel of John twice refers to visions of God attributed to Jesus (John 6:46; 8:38). These reports of Jesus’ visions come from different sources and fit well into the culture of his time. It is therefore historically plausible that Jesus not only may have had these types of experiences, but that his disciples may have also been initiated into them. The stories and sayings that portray them should, therefore, not be interpreted as literary formulations of theological ideas, but rather as testimonies of actual experiences that must be understood in the context of the culture to which they belong. Given the importance they have within the Gospel story, we will discuss the visions narrated on the occasion of Jesus’ baptism and transfiguration in more detail in order to identify their cultural grammar. We will also try to find out to what extent they re-enact previous visions and whether they can be identified as a means to induce an altered state of consciousness. 1. The Vision of Jesus after His Baptism Although the Baptist claims in John’s Gospel to have witnessed Jesus’ vision after his baptism (John 1:33–4: ἑώρακα), this event is depicted in the synoptics as a private one (Mark 1:10: εἶδεν). In any case, the content, form, and function of this vision are the same in the four Gospels. They draw on a well-known cultural grammar: the heavens open, the Spirit of God descends, and a heavenly voice is heard. Traditional exegesis has accurately identified these allusions to the scriptures, and has established the precise meaning of the statement that the voice from heaven makes about Jesus. Here, we want to emphasise, rather, that the narrative describes an altered state of consciousness. The elements of the cultural grammar, i. e. the heavens being torn (σχιζομένους), the Spirit of God descending in bodily form, and the voice that comes from the divine realm (ἐκ τῶν οὐρανῶν) call to mind Isaiah’s oracle: “Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down” (Isa 63:19 mt). More importantly, however, they recall the visionary tradition of the Merkabah, which by Jesus’ time was quite developed. The key element of this tradition was the interaction between the divine realm (the heavens), and the human one (the earth), primar-

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ily through the revelation of divine glory.27 The basic movement was top-down, but the forms of this communication may differ: the celestial chariot, the Son of Man, the Spirit of God. This revelatory movement allowed humans to access the divine realm: to hear the heavenly voice, ascend to heaven, etc. The relationship of Jesus’ vision with that of Ezekiel may be even more explicit, because the function played by the former within the Gospel story is very similar to that of the latter regarding the oracles and the ministry of the prophet. In both instances, an encounter with the divine occurs through a vision and, as a result of this encounter, the seer is transformed and receives a mission.28 Despite the obvious differences between the two stories, these structural connections suggest that the vision of Jesus could be the result of his own re-enactment of Ezekiel’s vision, which he may have used as a means to access an altered state of consciousness.29 In fact, the baptismal vision of Jesus has some of the characteristic traits of altered states of consciousness, such as sensory excitement and alterations in the perception of both the external world and one’s own identity.30 This does not mean, however, that such an experience was determined by the visions through which Jesus would have got into that state, because, as we have seen in the performative exegesis of the visionary tradition, the re-enactment of such visions facilitated access to another realm of reality, but did not determine the experience that the seer had in it. Although the Gospels only mention one episode of this type, it is likely that this was not an unusual practice during Jesus’ ministry. The widespread opinion that he was “out of his mind” (Mark 3:21: ἔλεγον γὰρ ὅτι ἐξέστη) is a clear reference to ecstatic practices. Jesus himself refers to another of his visions, enigmatically saying: “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven”, in which the opening of heavens is presupposed (Luke 10:18). The opening of the heavens is also a central motif in some visions of Jesus’ followers, such as the one he announced in the Gospel of John (John 1:52: ὄψεσθε τὸν οὐρανὸν ἀνεῳγότα), Peter’s, as reported in the Book of Acts (Acts 10:11: θεωρεῖ τὸν οὐρανὸν ἀνεῳγμένον), and the appearance of the heavenly throne described in the Book of Revelation (Rev 4:1: καὶ ἰδοὺ θύρα ἠνεῳγμένη ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ). This recurrence of the open heavens 27  Lieb, The Visionary Mode, 47: “From the perspective of the Hebrew Bible, the visionary experience is one largely enacted by means of a revelation of a deity that moves from the celestial region (the realm of God) to the terrestrial region (the human realm)”. 28  On Baptism as a visionary experience, see: C. Rowland, The Open Heaven: Study of Apocalyptic in Judaism and Early Christianity (London: SPCK, 1982), 358–63. 29 It should be noted that the baptismal vision of Jesus in the Synoptic Gospels belongs to an initiation process that includes such practices as fasting, temptation, etc. see S. Guijarro, ‘Why Does the Gospel of Mark Begin as It Does?’, in BTB 33 (2003), 28–38, here: 34–6. 30  Even though the story is very brief, it has some of the characteristics described by Tart for detecting an altered state: changes in the perception of external reality, sensory stimulation, an unusual perception of identity, etc. (Tart, States of Consciousness, 12–3).

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motif relates the baptismal vision of Jesus to Jewish experiences of the Merkabah. It also connects it to the subsequent visions of his followers. 2. The Vision in the Transfiguration The Gospels report another important vision of Jesus in the context of his transfiguration (Mark 9:4–8). This new vision is related to the previous one, since in both we essentially hear the same message: “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased” (Mark 1:11); “This is my beloved Son; listen to him” (Mark 9:7). However, both the circumstances in which these visions take place and the elements that configure them are different. To begin with, this new vision does not take place in the Jordan, but on a mountain, which Jesus has climbed with some of his disciples. In addition, Jesus is not the only beneficiary of the vision, because those who are with him are also involved in it.31 Thirdly, there are two important characters of Israel’s past that appear in the vision. Finally, the voice that declares the identity of Jesus does not come from the open heavens, but from a cloud that overshadows them. The content of the vision and the circumstances that surround it imply the passage to an altered state of consciousness. In this case, the transition from the baseline state of consciousness to the altered one takes place in the context of the initiation process of the disciples who are with Jesus. The mysterious hiking of this small group to a “high mountain”, and the subsequent transformation of Jesus that takes place before the vision, prepares them to access a different state of consciousness. Finally, the vision they experience takes place in a state in which the perception of the self and of the environment is changed.32 The cultural grammar of this vision is different from that of the baptism’s vision. Although the mention of the cloud that overshadows Jesus and those with him may imply that there is a movement from above, what is most characteristic in this episode is the movement upwards, a motion that the narrative emphasises by telling the reader that Jesus climbed a “high mountain” with his disciples (Mark 9:2). Thus, the model of this vision is not that of the Merkabah, but another one that the attentive reader can identify by paying attention to the characters who appear in the vision. The appearance of Elijah and Moses is not, in fact, a casual one, because they both play an important role in the vision. Their task is to guide those who are participating in it, because they were both known to have benefited from a vision of God after having climbed a mountain (1 Kings 19:9–18; Exod 24:12–8).

31  Later tradition will picture them as those who heard the voice in the mountain (2 Peter 1:17–8). 32  See: Pilch, Flights of the Soul, 124–45, especially 137–42, where some of the characteristic traits of the altered states of consciousness that appear in this passage are identified.

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Traditional exegesis has noticed that in the story of the transfiguration there are clear allusions to the vision of Moses in Mount Sinai: Like Moses, Jesus climbs the mountain, takes with him three companions whose names are mentioned (Exodus 24:1.9). On the seventh day, God’s voice is addressed to Moses … The cloud (in the singular!) is, as in Exodus 24:6.16ss, a sign of God’s presence. There is also an important coincidence in the fact that God’s voice resonates from the cloud.33

The grammar of this vision can easily be recognised. But the experience of Jesus and his disciples differs from that of Moses and his companions.34 The re-enactment of Moses’ or Elijah’s vision facilitated the access to an altered state of consciousness, but did not determine what was lived in it. In the vision of the transfiguration, Jesus has a central role, because he, not God, is the object of the vision. The different cultural grammar presupposed in the vision after the baptism and that of the transfiguration reveals that there were various ways of accessing the visionary experience. This fact is a partial confirmation of the thesis that Jesus knew and performed such activities. But the most revealing aspect in the story of the transfiguration is, no doubt, that Jesus initiates his disciples into these practices. The narrative highlights the stages of the initiation process. First, Jesus chooses a small group among his disciples. Then, he climbs a high mountain with them where they are alone. In the next step, before the vision occurs, Jesus is transfigured in their presence in order to show them how to access the altered state of consciousness. Only after these three steps are the disciples ready to experience the vision. In it, the appearance of Moses and Elijah offers them a clue to make sense of what is happening: they are having a vision like the one Moses and Elijah had, but, in this case, the content of the experience is not the vision of God, but the revelation of Jesus’ identity. If this interpretation of the transfiguration story is correct, then we may argue that Jesus initiated his disciples into these visionary practices. Moreover, the similarity between this vision and those of the Easter appearances suggests that this initiation of the disciples prepared them to experience such visions.35 33  J. Gnilka, Das Evangelium nach Markus, EKK 2/2 (Zürich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1979), 32. J. Marcus, Mark 8–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, Anchor Bible 27B (New Haven CT: Yale University Press, 2009), 1108–18, in an excursus about the parallels of the transfiguration story, concludes that Exodus 24 is the more evident reference. 34 The differences between the two episodes allow an explanation of the relationship between them in various ways. Some think the episode of the transfiguration could have been created from Exodus 24. Others, however, tend to think that the vision of Moses was recalled to interpret the experience of Jesus; see: Focant, L’évangile selon Marc, 333–4. 35  The structural similarity between the story of the transfiguration and the Easter visions has often been explained by postulating a relationship the other way around, i. e. from the Easter visions to the transfiguration. According to this explanation, the transfiguration story would

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VI. The Post-Easter Visions of the Disciples As stated at the beginning of this study, the close connection of the post-Easter visions of the disciples with the event of Jesus’ resurrection has triggered the interest of exegetes in those visions. The concern to elucidate the nature and details of the resurrection has determined the study of the Easter narratives in which those visions are reported. In this context, the visions have been explained as events closely related to that experience, and therefore have been understood as unique events. The preceding analysis of Jesus’ visionary experience challenges this explanation of the Easter visions. The fact that Jesus may have introduced some of his close followers to these practices suggests that there may be a closer relationship between the visions of his disciples before his death and those they experienced after his resurrection. The differences between the Easter narratives should not obscure the fact that they all follow the same pattern. This pattern has three basic elements: a) the setting that provides precise indications of time and place, as well as information about the characters involved; b) the vision in which a message or mission is communicated; c) and the conclusion, which usually describes the outcome and the actions triggered by the vision. The contexts in which the visions occur (the grave, the house, the mountain, the road, etc.), as well as the circumstances and the manner in which they take place, are varied. However, their format remains quite consistent. This pattern shared by the Easter visions has many elements in common with the vision of Jesus and his disciples in the transfiguration, the specific event in which we have identified the initiation process of the disciples to accessing an altered state of consciousness. The circumstances that pave the way to the vision in the transfiguration and in the Easter appearances (climbing the mountain, going to Jesus’ tomb …) prepare the disciples for that experience. In the Easter visions, as in the vision of the transfiguration, an appearance or manifestation of divine beings or of someone coming from the divine realm (Elijah and Moses, an angel, Jesus himself) takes place. They lead the seers in the new state of consciousness and help them to interpret what they see. Finally, in the vision of the transfiguration, as in the Easter visions, extraordinary phenomena happen (a cloud that overshadows them, the stone of the tomb miraculously rolled, etc.), and there is a revelation about Jesus (“He is my son”, “He is risen”, etc.). Thus, we may conclude that the Easter visions are patterned after the vision of the transfiguration. Just as this later vision can be understood as a creative have originally been an appearance story that Mark would have placed at the beginning of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem; see: T. J. Weeden, Mark: Traditions in Conflict (Philadelphia PA: Fortress, 1971), 128–36. This interpretation, however, does not explain the differences between the two narratives, as noted by Marcus, Mark 8–16, 1118.

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re-enactment of Moses’ vision in Mount Sinai, the Easter visions could also be explained as the result of experiences lived in an altered state of consciousness, which the disciples accessed by recreating an experience like the one reported in the transfiguration story. This connection between the pre-Easter and the post-Easter visionary experiences is stressed by the fact that, according to the Gospels, Jesus announced future visions to his disciples, visions in which the main content would be the glorious manifestation of the Son of Man. The most important of these was, no doubt, the one mentioned by the synoptics in the context of the eschatological discourse (Mark 13:26; with parallels in Matt and Luke), but this vision may be related to the one announced by Jesus to his first disciples in the Gospel of John (John 1:51). As is well known, the “Son of Man” was a self-designation of Jesus within the early Christian tradition. Thus, these sayings about his resurrection could have been easily understood as the announcement of future visions in which Jesus will appear in glory. An additional argument in favour of the continuity between the pre‑ and the post-Easter visions is the fact that Jesus initiated his disciples in other forms of contact with God, mainly through prayer. His teaching on how they should pray, as well as the imitation of his own practice, had an enduring impact on the way his followers worshipped God after his death. The fact that one of the most characteristic traits of Jesus’ prayer, namely invoking God as his Abba, was even preserved in some communities of the diaspora that did not speak Aramaic (Gal 4:6; Rom 8:15) is telling evidence of this enduring impact.36 These arguments support the assumption that Jesus may have initiated his disciples to access other states of consciousness by means of a precise kind of vision they could have learned to re-enact. This pre-Easter practice would explain why the encounter with the Risen Lord initially took place through visions in which the basic pattern is that of the vision reported in the transfiguration.

VII. Conclusion In concluding this essay, I would like to emphasise some aspects that may contribute to a better understanding of the visions in the Gospels. First, it is important to keep in mind that visual perception is a complex process in which the cultural background plays an important role. To “see” is a constructive process determined by the cultural grammar of the society in which the vision takes place. Second, the distinction between monophasic and polyphasic cultures provides an important clue to understanding the place and the role of visions in both 36   J. D. G.  Dunn, Jesus and the Spirit: A Study of the Religious and Charismatic Experience of Jesus and the First Christians as Reflected in the New Testament (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 1997), 187–8.

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Western and ancient Mediterranean culture. A perspectivist approach that takes into consideration both understandings of visions is facilitated by an approach that considers them as altered states of consciousness. The Mediterranean society of the first century, like many societies both past and present, not only acknowledged the existence of those states of consciousness, but also had culturally-structured means to accessing them. Third, the hypothesis proposed in previous studies about the existence of a performative exegesis of the visions facilitates a better understanding of the “initiating” function of the transfiguration story. Jesus progressively introduces some of his closest disciples to the visionary experience in this story, providing them with essential clues to accessing an altered state of consciousness. Visions could be considered as culturally-structured mechanisms that granted access to those states of consciousness. Finally, there are structural similarities between the visionary experiences of Jesus and his disciples before Easter and those of his followers during the Easter events. These similarities are not due, as some have suggested, to the fact that the transfiguration story is an Easter experience anticipated in the life of Jesus, but resulted from the disciples having been initiated by him into such practices. This conclusion questions the form in which Easter visions have been studied and interpreted: they are not a unique and novel phenomenon, but experiences connected to the visions the disciples had together with Jesus. This confirms a certain continuity between the ecstatic practices of Jesus and those of his disciples after his death.

Ghosts, Resurrections, and Empty Tombsin the Gospels, the Greek Novel, and the Second Sophistic Jan N. Bremmer In their invitation to the conference, the organizers asked me to talk about (an aspect) of ancient visionary reports and ghost stories, as these are relevant and linked to what the Gospels have to say on such matters. The thought is interesting, as recent studies and collections of texts on ancient ghosts and visionary stories do not include examples from the Gospels.1 However, as a preliminary study of the few surviving ghost stories did not throw much light on the Gospels, I decided to expand my theme with resurrections and empty tombs. In my contribution, I will concentrate on the Gospel of Luke and Acts, the dates of which are still debated, as there are no certain quotations from the Gospel of Luke before Justin Martyr and none from the Acts before 170 ce.2 In any view, of all the Gospels, Luke comes closest to the world of the Second Sophistic, the period of Greek culture and literature from about the rule of Nero to 230 ce.3 This period was also the cultural Umwelt of the Greek novel, which contains many interesting stories about ghosts, resurrections, and empty tombs. These, therefore, will be my main field of investigation. My interest is especially in the interplay between the Gospels and pagan literature, and I will argue that the latter, in particular the 1  Cf. D. Felton, Haunted Greece and Rome: Ghost Stories from Classical Antiquity (Austin TX: University of Texas Press, 1999); D. Ogden, Magic, Witchcraft and Ghosts in the Greek and Roman Worlds: A Sourcebook (New York: Oxford University Press, 20092), 168 (only the episode of Gerasa: Mark 5:1–20); C. Schneider, Paranormale antiquité: La mort et ses démons en Grèce et à Rome (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2011). 2  See the survey by F. Bovon, ‘The Reception and Use of the Gospel of Luke in the Second Century’, in C. Bartholomew et al. (eds.), Reading Luke: Interpretation, Reflection, Formation (Grand Rapids MI: Zondervan, 2005), 379–400, reprinted in his New Testament and Christian Apocrypha (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 289–306; M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 180–7. For the dating of Acts, see recently, e. g., R. Pervo, Dating Acts: Between the Evangelists and the Apologists (Santa Rosa CA: Polebridge, 2006); R. Dupertuis, T. Penner (eds.), Engaging Early Christian History: Reading Acts in the Second Century (Sheffield: Acumen, 2013; Abingdon TN, 2014); D. Smith, J. Tyson (eds.), Acts and Christian Beginnings: The Acts Seminar Report (Salem OR: Polebridge, 2013). 3  For a good brief introduction, see T. Whitmarsh, The Second Sophistic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). For a comparison of Luke’s Greek with that of the Second Sophistic, see J. de Zwaan, ‘The Use of the Greek Language in Acts’, in F. J. Foakes-Jackson, K. Lake (eds.), The Beginnings of Christianity: Acts of the Apostles, 5 vols. (London: McMillan and Company, 1920–33), 2:30–65, here: 37 f.

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novel of Chariton, influenced the Gospels, while the Gospels, in turn, influenced pagan literature, in particular the works by Lucian and Philostratus. I first look at reports of resurrections and apparitions in Luke’s two books (I), then continue with Scheintod, resurrection, and the empty tomb in the Greek novel (II), after which I proceed with resurrections and ghost stories in other contemporary literature (III), before ending with some conclusions (IV).

I. Resurrections and Ghosts in Luke–Acts Let us start with Luke 7. In this chapter, we first have the case of the slave of the centurion in Capernaum, “who was ill and close to death” (7:2).4 He is healed without us being informed in what manner. The text just says that the Jewish elders, who had been sent to Jesus by the Roman, returned to his house and “found the slave in good health” (7:10). After healings of lame, leprous, and handicapped people, we are clearly being prepared for ever bigger miracles. And indeed, immediately following the healing of the slave, we hear that Jesus went to the town of Nain. Here, he met the large funeral procession of the only son of a widow (7:12). The case is represented as dramatically as possible. Such accompanying crowds were not abnormal in Asia Minor, as we can also see from the Acts of Peter and the novel (II), and Luke may well have adapted the description here to what he saw elsewhere.5 This seems all the more likely as Nain, although still unidentified, must have been a Kleinstadt, which hardly will have had a proper gate, unlike many towns and cities in Asia Minor.6 In any case, the mention of the crowd does suggest that the widow was an important person in the town and undoubtedly wealthy. Jesus meets the funeral procession at the very moment that it is leaving the town, as the Jewish cemeteries were always located outside the town limits.7 The actual burial is perhaps only minutes away. At this decisive moment, he approaches and touches the bier, the bearers stand still, and he says: “young man, I say to you, wake up!” (7:14)8. Standard translations of the Bible usually render the Greek ἐγέρθητι, with “rise”, “sta op” (Dutch), but the Greeks differentiated between “rising” and “waking up”. As Ammonius, 4  All Bible translations are from the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV), although sometimes slightly adapted to make them more literal. 5 Cf. C. P. Jones, ‘Interrupted Funerals’, in APA 143 (1999), 588–600; A. Chaniotis, ‘Rituals between Norms and Emotions: Rituals as Shared Experience and Memory’, in E. Stavrianopoulou (ed.), Rituals and Communication in the Graeco-Roman World (Liège: Presses Universitaires de Liège, 2006), 211–38. 6  I owe this point to Jürgen Zangenberg. 7  For an unhelpful survey, see R. Hachlili, Jewish Funerary Customs, Practices and Rites in the Second Temple Period (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 1–27. 8  Luke 7:14: καὶ προσελθὼν ἥψατο τῆς σοροῦ, οἱ δὲ βαστάζοντες ἔστησαν, καὶ εἶπεν, Νεανίσκε, σοὶ λέγω, ἐγέρθητι.

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an early lexicographer likely from the second-century ce, states: “there is a difference between ἠγέρθη and ἀνέστη. ἠγέρθη is to be said ‘from sleep’, but ἀνέστη is to be said ‘from a couch’”.9 Admittedly, the rules of grammarians are often more prescriptive than descriptive, but the notice deserves more attention that it has received until now. Yet, Luke’s text leaves no doubt as regards the situation of the youth, as it continues with: “the corpse [νεκρός] sat up and started to talk” (7:15). Unlike the case of Capernaum with a few Jewish elders, here we see a large crowd witnessing the resurrection, which took place, presumably, shortly after the youth’s death, thus authenticating the resurrection. It is slightly different in the case of the daughter of Jairus, the archisynagogos (8:41–56).10 Here, the father relates that his only daughter, who is twelve years old, is dying, but instead of describing an action by Jesus, we first have to listen to the story of the hemorrhaging woman,11 a nice example of delay used to not only heighten the tension, but to also give the daughter time to die. Only when the latter story has been told in great detail do we get to hear that the daughter has actually passed away. Jesus goes to the house, but enters the room of the girl with only his three most trusted disciples and the parents. He tries to calm them down by saying: “Do not weep, for she has not died but sleeps” (8:53). When those present laugh at him, he grabs her hand and calls out: “Girl, wake up (ἔγειρε)!” Her spirit returns and she gets up (ἀνέστη) at once.12 Jesus then tells her parents to give her something to eat and orders them not to tell anybody what has happened.13 It is illuminating to compare these two resurrections with the resurrection of Lazarus in the Gospel of John, as it is striking how much more sensational that case must have been for a pagan reader. Here, Jesus goes to an actual grave. The deceased is already dead for 4 days and the rotting body smells. No waking up here. Instead, Jesus first orders the stone in front of his grave to be moved away,  9 [Ammonius], De adfin. voc. dif. 216, Nickau: ἠγέρθη καὶ ἀνέστη διαφέρει. ἠγέρθη μέν, λεκτέον, ἀπὸ ὕπνου, ἀνέστη δὲ ἀπὸ κλίνης; see also M. B. O’Donnell, ‘Some New Testament Words for Resurrection and the Company They Keep’, in S. Porter et al. (eds.), Resurrection (Sheffield: Academic Press, 1999), 136–63; M. Lacore, ‘Du “sommeil sans réveil” à la résurrection comme réveil’, in Gaia 13 (2010), 205–27 and, especially, the detailed discussion by J. G. Cook, ‘Resurrection in Paganism and the Question of an Empty Tomb in 1 Corinthians 15’, in NTS 63 (2017), 46–75, here: 57–60. 10  For the function, see most recently, T. Rajak, The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 393–429. 11 Cf. B. Baert (ed.), The Woman with the Bloodflow: Narrative, Iconic and Anthropological Spaces (Leuven: Peeters, 2013). 12 Luke 8:54–5: αὐτὸς δὲ κρατήσας τῆς χειρὸς αὐτῆς ἐφώνησεν λέγων,  Ἡ παῖς, ἔγειρε. καὶ ἐπέστρεψεν τὸ πνεῦμα αὐτῆς, καὶ ἀνέστη παραχρῆμα, καὶ διέταξεν αὐτῇ δοθῆναι φαγεῖν. 13  For the many approaches to the episode, see the detailed study by A. Zwiep, ‘Jairus, His Daughter and the Haemorrhaging Woman (Mk 5.21–43; Mt. 9.18–26; Lk. 8.40–56): Research Survey of a Gospel Story about People in Distress’, in Currents in Biblical Research 13 (2015), 351–87. For early Christian depictions of both resurrections, see G. Koch, Frühchristliche Sarkophage (Munich: Beck, 2000), 164–7, with earlier bibliography.

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then he cries with a loud voice “Lazarus, hither, out” (11:43), and Lazarus comes out as in a modern horror movie with “his hand and feet fettered with strips of cloth and his face was tied with a sweat cloth”.14 No wonder that Jesus says: “Untie him, and let him go” (11:44).15 Having briefly looked at his resurrections of others, let us now turn to Jesus’ own resurrection. Luke relates that after his death, Joseph of Arimathea buried him in a rock-cut grave after having wrapped him in a linen cloth. Interestingly, like Matthew and Mark, Luke is clearly keen on authenticating the burial, as he mentions that the women from Galilee saw the tomb and how his body had been laid to rest (23:55). In comparison with the versions of Matthew and Mark, Luke apparently thought it important to enlarge the number of witnesses, which is perhaps an indication of internal or external debates about the reality of Christ’s resurrection. In any case, on the third day, the women returned to the grave to find it opened and encountered two angels telling them that not only had Jesus woken up (ἠγέρθη), but that he had also stated that he would rise again (ἀναστῆναι) on the third day after his death. The women leave the grave and tell the apostles, who do not believe them. However, Peter goes to the grave and sees the bandages, although not Jesus himself (24:12). Afterwards, Jesus meets two men, of whom, curiously, only one of whom is named, as well as the apostles and their companions (24). This latter meeting is rather strange (24:36–43). Jesus is suddenly present, which terrifies the group, who thought they saw a pneuma. Yet, it is important to observe that the apostles are awake. This is a recurring part of the description of apparitions, as it helps to heighten the credibility of the witnesses of the appearance.16 Pneuma is normally translated as ‘ghost’ (24:37), but the English translation carries all kinds of connotations, such as immaterial, white, night, dead person, and so on, none of which is present with pneuma. Interestingly, Marcion in his Gospel, followed by the Codex Bezae, first used the word phantasma, but then continued with pneuma.17 The term phantasma occurs twice in the Gospels, but within the same story. When the disciples saw Jesus walking on the water (II), for example, they “were terrified, saying ‘it is a phantasma’, and they cried out in fear”.18 The same detail occurs in Mark (6:49), but the phantasma is lacking in John, who just mentions 14  For the discovery of the remains of such shrouds, see Hachlili, Jewish Funerary Customs, 480 f. 15 O. Hofius, ‘Die Auferweckung des Lazarus: Johannes 11, 1–44 als Zeugnis narrativer Christologie’, in Theologie und Kirche 102 (2005), 17–34. 16 A. Stramaglia, Res inauditae, incredulae: Storie di fantasmi nel mondo greco-latino (Bari: Levante, 1999), 22–3, 112, who compares, amongst other passages, Plautus, Most. 275; Pseudo-Quintilianus, D. Mai. 10. 17  Tert., Adv. Marc. 4,43: immo phantasma credentibus … spiritus ossa non habet, cf. A. von Harnack, Marcion (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 19242), 239. 18  Matt 14:26: οἱ δὲ μαθηταὶ ἰδόντες αὐτὸν ἐπὶ τῆς θαλάσσης περιπατοῦντα ἐταράχθησαν λέγοντες τι Φάντασμά ἐστιν, καὶ ἀπὸ τοῦ φόβου ἔκραξαν.

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that the disciples were terrified (6:15–21). Evidently, a phantasma is connected with fear and the act of being terrified. Indeed, phantasma comes much closer to our modern word ‘ghost’ than pneuma. It first appears in the fifth-century bce in the tragedians. Aeschylus (Septem. 710) connects phantasmata with dreams and nights (F310, Radt), but in Euripides’ Hecuba the shade of the murdered Polydorus emerges, as he tells us, “from where the dead are hidden and from the gates of darkness, where Hades lives settled apart from the gods” (1–2, tr. Collard), and calls himself a phantasma (54), just as the shade of Achilles, appearing “over the very top of his tomb,” is called a phantasma (94, see also 390).19 The expression “blackwinged phantasma” in the same tragedy (705) suggests that these apparitions were black.20 In short, we find here the connotations of black, murder, soul, and night, the latter of which was also present in the Wisdom of Solomon (17:14). Pneuma, on the other hand, does not seem to have these connotations, at least not in the Gospels, where it means a spirit-possessing people,21 sometimes qualified as impure or evil, or is explained as the “pneuma of an impure demon” (Luke 4:33).22 Rather striking is the fact that this usage of pneuma does not occur in the Gospel of John and seems most frequent in Mark. In later Greek, we find pneuma and phantasma combined in an exorcistic spell which aims to keep away from a young girl “every pneuma and phantasma and every wild animal”. The spell itself is from Late Antiquity, but parallels with liturgical exorcisms suggest that it goes back to Hellenistic Judaism, where pneuma, in the sense of “bad spirit”, will have originated, as it is not attested in the meaning “evil spirit” before the Gospels.23 Let us return to our story. After the consternation caused by his sudden entry, Jesus invited those present to look and touch his hands and feet, presumably to prove that he was not a pneuma, which apparently lacks flesh and bones; note that pneuma and sarka are juxtaposed here so as to strengthen the opposition.24 The final proof, though, was that he ate some fish in their presence – clearly not something normally done by a pneuma. The pericope shows the need for authen19 Note also Eur., Or. 407. For such shades in tragedy, see most recently S. I. Johnston, Restless Dead (Berkeley CA et al.: University of California Press, 1999), 23–30; R. Bardel, ‘Eidôla in Epic, Tragedy and Vase Painting’, in K. Rutter, B. Sparkes (eds.), Word and Image in Ancient Greece (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2000), 140–60 and ‘Spectral Traces: Ghosts in Tragic Fragments’, in F. McHardy et al. (eds.), Lost Dramas of Classical Athens (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2005), 83–112, here: 92–100 (Achilles’ ghost); M. Aguirre Castro, ‘Fantasmas trágicos: algunas observaciones sobre su papel, aparición en escena e iconografía’, in CFC (G): Estudios griegos e indoeuropeos 16 (2006), 107–20. 20 See also Greg. Naz., De vita sua 751–4. 21 Matt 8:16; Mark 9; Luke 10:20. 22  Impure: Matt 10:1; 12:43; Mark 1:23, 26–7; 3:11, 30; 5:2, 8, 13; 6:7; 7:25; Luke 4:36; 6:18; 8:29; 9:42. Evil: Matt 12:45; Luke 7:21; 8:2; 11:26. 23  Thus, R. Kotansky, Greek Magical Amulets (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1994), 384– 6. Not attested: see Danker, s. v. 4. 24 Luke 24:39: καὶ ἴδετε, ὅτι πνεῦμα σάρκα καὶ ὀστέα οὐκ ἔχει.

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tication, which is also clear in the first chapter of Acts, where the author states that Jesus offered many proofs (1:3) that he was alive again. We may even wonder if the eating refers back to the resurrection of the daughter of Jairus and thus, for the attentive reader, is an additional proof of his resurrection. Subsequently, in the Acts of the Apostles, we hear of two more resurrections, one by Peter and one by Paul. In the first case, Peter raises the wealthy woman Dorcas (9:36–42). She is clearly dead, as the women have already washed her and laid her out. Peter sends everybody away, prays and says: “Tabitha, get up” (9:40: ἀνάστηθι). Only then does he call the widows and shows her to be alive. Paul, on the other hand, resurrects a young man, who had fallen into a deep sleep during the obviously all-too-lengthy exposition (20:7–12). He fell to the ground three floors below and was picked up dead. Paul went down, fell upon him, and embraced him, saying: “don’t be alarmed, for his soul is in him”.25 He then returned upstairs and continued to talk until dawn, when, presumably, some others of his audience had also fallen asleep. Remarkable in this periscope is the matter-of-factness of the resurrection. It receives as little attention in the narrative as possible. For our purpose, I would like to draw the following conclusions. As is well known, sleep was an important metaphor for being dead in ancient Israel and the Second Temple Period, witness Isaiah 26, Ps 13:4 and Dan 12:1–3, which eventually gave rise to our term cemetery, or literally “sleeping place”.26 In ancient Greek mythology, Hypnos was a brother of Thanatos, but the metaphor is in general used far more often by Jews and Christians than by pagan writers.27 This metaphor is also behind the appeal to the dead to wake up, which mostly uses a form of the verb ἐγείρω. After the resurrection, the life of the resurrected is no longer of interest to the authors, except, of course, in the case of Jesus. The resurrected do not tell anything about a possible stay in an underworld, as, for example, Orpheus and Pythagoras do. Their bodies clearly have been returned to their pre-mortem state, witness their actions and appetite, as in the case of Jesus and the daughter of Jairus. There is sometimes disbelief, as with the daughter of Jairus (Luke 8:53) and Jesus himself from the side of the apostles (24:11), but the texts suggest that those resurrected resume their normal lives. Their later fate is 25 It is rather striking that Acts here uses psychê, whereas in the other cases it is always pneuma. 26  E. Rebillard, ‘Koimêtêrion et Coemeterium: tombe, tombe sainte, nécropole’, in MEFR (A) 105 (1993), 975–1001; H. Brandenburg, ‘Coemeterium: Der Wandel des Bestattungs­ wesens als Zeichen des Kulturumbruchs der Spätantike’, in Laverna 5 (1994), 206–32. 27  M. B. Ogle, ‘The Sleep of Death’, in MAAR 11 (1933), 81–117; R. Lattimore, Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs (Urbana IL: University of Illinois Press, 1962), 164–5; E. Mintsi, ‘Hypnos et Thanatos sur les lécythes attiques à fond blanc (deuxième moitié du V e siècle av. J. C.)’, in REA 99 (1997), 47–61; V. Hunink, ‘Sleep and Death [Lucan 9:818]’, in Materiali e Discussioni 42 (1999), 211–3.

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of no interest to the author, whose aim with these episodes was more to illustrate the power of Jesus than to inform us about the further lives of those resurrected.

II. Scheintod, Resurrection and the Empty Tomb in the Greek Novel Let us now turn to the Greek novel. In 1994, Glenn Bowersock published an attractive book on fiction as history, in which he proposed to consider the possibility that the Gospel stories provided the impetus for the emergence of stories about Scheintod, when somebody looks dead but is not, and resurrection in the novel. Bowersock could put forward this suggestion, as he supposed that the relevant Gospel stories had not yet been written in the time of the emperor Claudius, as the earliest were likely written during Nero’s reign, but were already circulating orally.28 The great merit of Bowersock’s book is that he lifted the Gospels out of the quarantine in which they are placed both by classical scholars and scholars of early Christianity.29 Yet, it must be said that there exists no proof for either of Bowersock’s propositions. We know nothing about the early oral tradition, and the dates of the Gospels are highly debated,30 but are rarely assigned to Nero’s earlier rule.31 Moreover, we know nothing about the reality and experiences that have given rise to the stories about the resurrections. What we can do, though, is look at their literary portrayal. In this respect, Bowersock is not that helpful, as he is not always convincing in the dates of the novels. So, let us turn to the earliest case of an empty tomb. Presently, the generally accepted oldest surviving pagan novel is Chariton’s Callirhoe. Its place of origin is clear, as, at the beginning of his work, Chariton (1,1) proudly mentions that he comes from Aphrodisias, where his name is well-attested.32 His origin is confirmed by an institutional detail in his work: he regularly uses the expression ‘first of the city’ or its variants, such as ‘first of 28 G. Bowersock, Fiction as History (Berkeley CA et al.: University of California Press, 1994), 99–119, here: 119 (Nero), followed and expanded upon by I. Ramelli, ‘The Ancient Novels and the New Testament: Possible Contacts’, in Ancient Narrative 5 (2005), 41–68; the reverse influence had also been suggested by C. P. Thiede, Ein Fisch für den römischen Kaiser: Juden, Griechen, Römer: Die Welt des Jesus Christus (Munich: Lübbe & Co., 1998), 124–34. 29 As rightly observed by C. Thomas, The Acts of Peter, Gospel Literature, and the Ancient Novel: Rewriting the Past (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 92–4. 30  See now the illuminating, but also discouraging, tables regarding Luke in M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels (Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 181–3. 31 This is also the problem with the work of I. Ramelli, even though there are many excellent observations in her work, which comes very close to my own, cf. I romanzi antichi e il Cristianesimo: contesto e contatti (Madrid: Signifer Libros, 2001) and ‘The Ancient Novels and the New Testament’. 32  A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names (LGPN) V.B, ed. J. S. Balzat et al. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).

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the Milesians’ or ‘first of the Ionians’.33 The centre of this aristocratic self-designation was Aphrodisias and Northern Lycia, from where it gradually spread to surrounding regions, such as Phrygia and Pisidia.34 The date of Chariton’s novel has been much debated, but in the last few decades a consensus seems to have been reached regarding a mid first-century date, but before 62 ce, the date of the death of the Roman satirist Persius, who plausibly mentions this novel (1,134).35 Now, there are certain similarities between Chariton and the description of Jesus’ empty tomb in both Luke and John, which deserve further discussion in our context. Chariton’s novel starts with the funeral of Callirhoe, who is laid to rest with many precious funeral offerings: gold, silver, and costly spices after she has been violently kicked by Chaereas, who suspected her of adultery (1,6,4; 1,7,2).36 As a result, she collapsed and was scheintod. Her bier was carried by the ephebes, a well-attested custom in Hellenistic-Roman times,37 and the rest of the people of Syracuse followed – we are reminded of the youth of Nain. The gold and silver of these gifts drew the attention of a pirate, Theron, who collected a group of men to rob the grave. When one of the robbers managed to break into her tomb and saw her, he was startled and called out: “A ghost (δαίμων) is guarding the treasure inside and will not let us in” (1,9,4). Theron made fun of him, entered the tomb  Chariton, Callirhoe 2,5,4; 3,6,5; 4,3,1; 4,4,3; 6,7,10.  L. Robert, Études anatoliennes: Recherches sur les inscriptions grecques de l’Asie Mineure (Paris: de Boccard, 1937), 342; P. Franchi de’ Cavalieri, Scritti agiografici II (Rome: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1962), 18 n. 4; F. Schindler, Die Inschriften von Bubon (Nordlykien) (Vienna: Hermann Bohlaus Nachfolger, 1972), 12–3; M. Wörrle, Stadt und Fest im kaiserzeitlichen Kleinasien (Munich: Beck, 1988), 56–7 and 135; R. MacMullen, Changes in the Roman Empire (Princeton NJ, Princeton University Press, 1990), 342; F. Quass, Die Honoratiorenschicht in den Städten des griechischen Ostens (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1993), 51–5; S. Sahin, Die Inschriften von Arykanda (Bonn: Habelt, 1994), 42, 49, 50; M. Adak, ‘Claudia Anassa – eine Wohltäterin aus Patara’, in Epigraphica Anatolica 27 (1996), 127–42; Th. Schmitz, Bildung und Macht (Munich: Beck, 1997), 97–101; S. Zoumbaki, ‘On the Vocabulary of Supremacy: The Question of Proteuontes Revisited’, in A. D. Rizakis, F. Camia (eds.), Pathways to Power: Civic Elites in the Eastern Part of the Roman Empire (Athens: Scuola Archeologica Italiana di Atene, 2008), 221–39; SEG 31.1316 (Lycian Xanthos); 41.1343, 1345–6, 1353 (Lycian Balboura); 42.1215 (Pisidian Etenna); 46.1524 (Lydian Sardis); 51.1811 D.II.11 (Pisidian Termessos); 55.1492 (Lycian Rhodiapolis), 60.1115 (Carian Iasos). The institutional background of the phrase is not recognised in any of the standard commentaries on Acts 13:50. 35  See the detailed discussions by E. Bowie, ‘The Chronology of the Earlier Greek Novels since B. E. Perry: Revisions and Precisions’, in Ancient Narrative 2 (2002), 47–63; P. Fullmer, Resurrection in Mark’s Literary-Historical Perspective (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2007), 73–93, to be added to S. Tilg, Chariton of Aphrodisias and the Invention of the Greek Love Novel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 36–79 and A. Henrichs, ‘Missing Pages: Papyrology, Genre, and the Greek Novel’, in D. Obbink, R. Rutherford (eds.), Culture in Pieces: Essays on Ancient Texts in Honour of Peter Parsons (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 302–22, here: 309–13, who all three arrive at the same pre-62 ce date. 36  I follow the text and translation of Chariton, Callirhoe, ed. and transl. G. P. Goold (Cambridge MA, London: Harvard University Press, 1995). 37  SEG 33.1039 (Cyme); I. Priene 104.9–12, 108.366.70, 113.I, 14–116; Cicero, Pro Flacc. 31 (Smyrna). 33 34

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and handed Callirhoe, “the ghost that scared you” (1,9,9), to the cowardly bandit. It is clear from the narrative that the intelligent Theron does not believe in ghosts in graves. This is important to note, as it gives us some idea what an intelligent reader would have thought when reading about the apostles seeing ghosts: not that much, presumably – a point also made by Luke by focusing on Jesus’ rejection of the apostles’ interpretation of him. We may compare the bandit’s reaction to epiphanies in the ancient novel: it is always the less educated or socially inferior who believe in a real epiphany.38 We see this also in the well-known episode of Paul and Barnabas in Lystra, where people shouted in the Lycaonian language that they were Zeus and Hermes (Acts 14:11–2): these clearly were country folk who could not speak proper Greek, let alone who were sufficiently enlightened enough to realise that the visitors to their town were not gods.39 Let us return to the novel. The robbers had not restored the tomb to its original state, and when Callirhoe’s lover, Chaereas, arrived at dawn, as did the women in Luke, he “discovered that the stones had been moved and that the entrance was wide open” (3,3,1). He was astonished and “seized by a fearful bewilderment”. No one dared to enter the tomb until Callirhoe’s father ordered a man to do so. The latter gave a full account, but “it seemed unbelievable that not even the corpse was lying there”.40 It is only then that Chaereas enters, but, of course, does not find his beloved. Looking back, we have the sequence of dawn, a visit to the grave, finding the stone removed, fear, inspection of the empty grave, disbelief, and again a visit to the grave. This sequence is paralleled in somewhat different ways in both Luke and John, as was seen by Roland Kany and Stefan Tilg, although the latter overlooked the former and failed to look closely at either Gospel.41 In Luke (24:1–12), the women go to Jesus’ tomb at dawn (24:1). They find the stone rolled away, enter, but do not find the body. They then return to Jerusalem and tell the apostles and the others what has happened, “but these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them”.42 Subsequently, Peter got up and ran to the tomb, only to see the linen cloths (24:12). In John (20:1–10), Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb at dawn only to find the stone removed. She then runs away and tells her discovery to “Simon Peter and the other apostle”. The latter outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He saw the linen wrappings, but did not enter the tomb, 38 T. Hägg, ‘Epiphany in the Greek Novels: The Emplotment of a Metaphor’, in Parthenope: Studies in Ancient Greek Fiction (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2004), 141–55, here: 146. 39 For a full bibliography of the passage, see H. S. Versnel, Coping with the Gods (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 42–3. 40  Chariton 3,3,3: ἄπιστον ἐδόκει τὸ μηδὲ τὴν νεκρὰν κεῖσθαι. 41  R. Kany, ‘Der lukanische Bericht von Tod und Auferstehung Jesu aus der Sicht eines hellenistischen Romanlesers’, in NT 28 (1986), 75–90; Tilg, Chariton, 59–63. 42  Luke 24:11: καὶ ἐφάνησαν ἐνώπιον αὐτῶν ὡσεὶ λῆρος τὰ ῥήματα ταῦτα,καὶ ἠπίστουν αὐταῖς.

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unlike Peter, who did enter the tomb. Then “the other apostle” also “went in, and he saw and believed”.43 Tilg considers the account of John closer to that of Chariton and does not even discuss Luke, but the differences do not seem that striking.44 In the case of Luke, we have the dawn and the removal of the stone, but more women than in John. In both gospels, we have the double entering of the grave, as well as the initial disbelief. In the case of John, we have only one visitor at the start, but the disbelief has become implicit in the belief after seeing. Bowersock, following Erwin Rohde,45 stated that the themes of Scheintod and resurrection first appeared in Antonius Diogenes’ novel Incredible Things beyond Thule, which is, unfortunately, known only from an epitome in Photius and some papyri.46 As Bowersock convincingly argued, Antonius also came from Aphrodisias, where he seems to have lived around the end of the first century ce.47 However, since Bowersock has misdated Chariton, he could not observe that those themes actually occur first in Chariton who, as Tilg has now shown, was rather proud of this invention.48 And rightly so, since before him, as is good to remember in connection with Jesus, people did ascend to heaven, but those who did never had a tomb.49 Indeed, there is no report of an empty tomb before Chariton.

 John 20:1–10: τότε οὖν εἰσῆλθεν καὶ ὁ ἄλλος μαθητὴς ὁ ἐλθὼν πρῶτος εἰς τὸ μνημεῖον, καὶ εἶδεν καὶ ἐπίστευσεν. 44 Contra Tilg, Chariton, 62 f. 45  Bowersock, Fiction, 99; E. Rohde, Der griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer (Leipzig: Druck and Verlag, 19143), 287; F. Wehrli, Theoria und Humanitas (Zurich, Munich: Artemis, 19722), 252–4. 46  Cf. M. Fusillo, Antonio Diogene: Le incredibili avventure al di là di Tule (Palermo: Sellerio Editore Palermo, 1990), with Greek text and Italian translation; S. A. Stephens, J. J. Winkler, Ancient Greek Novels: The Fragments (Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 148–72 (excellent introduction, notes and English translation [121–9], which I follow); add now P.Oxy. 90.4760–1, which are most likely from Antonius, cf. H. Bernsdorff, ‘Zur Handlung von P. Oxy. 4761 (Antonios Diogenes?)’, in Göttinger Forum für Altertumswissenschaft 9 (2006), 7–12 (http://gfa.gbv.de/dr,gfa,009,2006,a,02.pdf). 47  Bowersock, Fiction, 38–40; E. Bowie, ‘Links Between Antonius Diogenes and Petronius’, in M. Paschalis et al. (eds.), The Greek and the Roman Novel: Parallel Readings (Groningen: Barkhuis, 2007), 121–32; Tilg, Chariton, 98–9, 126–7. However, the identification of Antonius’ correspondent Faustinus with one of Martial’s principal patrons, as postulated by Bowersock, Bowie, and Tilg, is far from compelling, cf. R. Nauta, Poetry for Patrons (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 67 note 96. 48 Tilg, Chariton, 178–82. 49 This is well noted by J. J. Flinterman, ‘Apollonius’ Ascension’, in K. Demoen, D. Praet (eds.), Theios Sophistes (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 225–48, here: 229–30, but it was already seen by E. Bickerman, Studies in Jewish and Christian History III (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 73, in a still worthwhile study (‘Das leere Grab’, 19241), whose anti-Christian subtext is unmistakable. For Bickerman, see A. Baumgarten, Elias Bickerman as a Historian of the Jews: A Twentieth Century Tale (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). 43

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Bowersock particularly concentrates on the figure of Zalmoxis,50 but he was a deity of the Getae, and I would therefore rather point to a different passage of the epitome, where Photius summarizes the novel as follows: “All this and many other related matters, their burial, their emergence from the tomb (my italics), the love affair of Mantinias and all its dreadful repercussions, etc.”51 (Bibl. 110b11). In other words, Antonius also seems to have played with the theme of the empty tomb. Other examples of an empty tomb and Scheintod appear in the works of novelists Xenophon of Ephesus and Achilles Tatius. The former was writing between the late-Flavian and early-Antonine age, perhaps even in the first years of Antoninus Pius and probably came from the same area as Chariton, if not from the same city.52 Here we again have a Scheintod, as the heroine Anthia is buried after a dose of, eventually, non-fatal poison. Like Callirhoe, she too is abducted by pirates together with the loot of the funeral gold and silver. Her suitor, Perilaos, hears of the opened tomb and the robbery of the corpse, which saddens him deeply, but that is the end of the episode.53 The passage is clearly modelled on that of Chariton but, as so often with this Xenophon, is less subtle and elegant. It is different with Achilles Tatius, who lived at approximately the same time, albeit probably a bit later.54 The continuous discovery of papyri has gradually down-dated his work from the sixth (sic) century to, perhaps, the late first-half of the second-century. Like Xenophon, he must have lived at the time of the revolt of the Boukoloi (3,9.13; 4,7–18; 5,18,1), whose base Nikochis, the capital of the Mendesian nome in the Delta, he mentions with studied nonchalance.55 He also must have come from the same area as Chariton and Xenophon, as he has the same institutional vocabulary of ‘the first of the city’, and the only other example 50  See also D. Dana, ‘Zalmoxis in Antonius Diogenes’ Marvels beyond Thule’, in Studii Clasice 34–6 (1998–2000), 79–120. 51 Photius, Bibl. 110b11: Ταῦτα πάντα καὶ τούτων ἕτερα πολλὰ παραπλήσια, τήν τε ταφὴν αὐτῶν καὶ τὴν ἐκεῖθεν ὑπαναχώρησιν καὶ τοὺς ἔρωτας Μαντινίου, καὶ ὅσα διὰ τοῦτο συνέβη. 52 Date: K. Coleman, ‘Sailing to Nuceria: Evidence for the Date of Xenophon of Ephesus’, in Acta Classica 54 (2011), 27–41. Area: Bremmer, ‘The Representation of Priests and Priestesses in the Pagan and Christian Greek Novel’, in B. Dignas et al. (eds.), Priests and Prophets among Pagans, Jews and Christians (Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 136–61, here: 141. 53  Xenophon, Ephes. 3,6,4–9,1, here: 3,9,1: ὁ δὲ Περίλαος μαθὼν τὴν τοῦ τάφου διορυγὴν καὶ τοῦ σώματος ἀπώλειαν ἐν πολλῇ καὶ ἀκατασχέτῳ λύπῃ ἦν. 54 For his date, see Bremmer, ‘The Novel and the Apocryphal Acts: Place, Time and Readership’, in H. Hofmann, M. Zimmerman (eds.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel IX (Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 2002), 157–80, here: 167; Henrichs, ‘Missing Pages’, 306–9. 55 Ach. Tat., 4,12,8, cf. A. Henrichs, Die Phoinikika des Lollianus (Bonn: Habelt, 1972), 48–50; R. Alston, ‘The Revolt of the Boukoloi: Geography, History and Myth’, in K. Hopwood (ed.), Organised Crime in the Ancient World (London: Duckworth, 1999), 129–53; and especially K. Blouin, ‘La révolte des Boukoloi (delta du Nil, Égypte, ~166–172 de notre ère): Regard socio-environnemental sur la violence’, in Phoenix 64 (2010), 386–422. For the Egyptian tradition behind the Boukoloi, see I. Rutherford, ‘The Genealogy of the Boukoloi: How Greek Literature Appropriated an Egyptian Narrative-Motif’, in JHS 120 (2000), 106–21.

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of the very rare name Tatios (Τάτιος) in Anatolia derives from second-century Miletus (IG II2 9481).56 His novel contains several examples of a Scheintod, but no empty tomb, and the lurid nature of his cases suggests a later elaboration in a more sensational key. Our final example derives from a Latin novel: Apuleius’ Metamorphoses,57 written, plausibly, in the 170s or early 180s ce, just like Lucian’s Onos.58 The virtually contemporaneous appearance of both works can best be explained by the recent impact on the literary scene of their communal model, the Metamorphoseis of “Lucius of Patrai”.59 This lost novel had likely appeared during the preceding decades, as Lollianus also combined influences from this Greek novel with reminiscences of the recently suppressed revolt of the Boukoloi, as well as from Apuleius.60 Such a date would also fit the postulated date for Achilles Tatius, since “Lollianos’s narrative has points of overlap with the seamier aspects of both Apuleius and Achilles Tatius”,61 who, presumably, may also have drawn inspiration from the Greek Metamorphoseis. 56 For further arguments, see Bremmer, ‘The Representation of Priests and Priestesses’, 141. B. P. Reardon, ‘Chariton’, in G. Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 309–35, here: 323 notes Chariton’s familiarity with Miletus and environs. 57  Cf. A. Stramaglia, ‘Aspetti di letteratura fantastica in Apuleio: Zatchlas Aegyptius propheta primarius e la scena di necromanzia nella novella di Telifrone’, in O. Pecere, A. Stramaglia (eds.), Studi Apuleiani (Cassino: Edizioni dell’Universita degli Studi di Cassino, 2003) 61–111; D. van Mal-Maeder, Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses II (Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 2001), 367–95. 58 V. Schmidt, ‘Reaktionen auf das Christentum in den Metamorphosen des Apuleius’, in VigChr 51 (1997) 51–71, to be added to S. J. Harrison, Apuleius (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 10 f. N. V. Sekunda, ‘The Kylloi and Eubiotoi of Hypata during the Imperial Period’, in ZPE 118 (1997), 207–26, here: 221–3 on the Thessalian Flavia Habroia. 59  Differently: S. Tilg, Apuleius’ Metamorphoses: A Study in Roman Fiction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 2–3 (‘before the late first century ce’), but Tilg is less careful than his source, A. Stramaglia, ‘Le Metamorfosi di Apuleio tra iconografia e papiri’, in G. Bastianini, A. Casanova (eds.), I papiri del romanzo antico (Florence: Instituto Papirologico G. Vitelli, 2010), 165–92, who keeps the possibility open that the novel by ‘Lucius’ itself went back to another source. For the Metamorphoseis, see H. J. Mason, ‘Greek and Latin Versions of the Ass-Story’, in ANRW II.34.2 (1994), 1665–1707. 60  C. P. Jones, ‘Apuleius’ Metamorphoses and Lollianus’ Phoenikika’, in Phoenix 34 (1980) 243–54 ; R. Cioffi, Y. Trnka-Amrhein, ‘What’s in a Name? Further Similarities between Lollianos’ Phoinikika and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses’, in ZPE 173 (2010), 66–8. Several studies by A. Casanova: ‘Ambienti e luoghi nei frammenti di Lolliano’, in G. Bastianini, A. Casanova (eds.), I papiri del romanzo antico (Florence: Instituto Papirologico G. Vitelli, 2010), 121–37; Id., ‘Tombs and Stables, Roofs and Brothels, Dens and Raids in Lollianos’ Fragments’, in M. P. Futre Pinheiro et al. (eds.), The Ancient Novel and the Frontiers of Genre (Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 2014), 171–85 and ‘Un interpretazione del nuovo frammento di Lolliano’, in M. Tulli (ed.), Philia: Dieci contributi per Gabriele Burzacchini (Bologna: Pàtron, 2014), 115–32. 61  Stephens, Winkler, Ancient Greek Novels, 325, who have overlooked the study of J. Schwartz, ‘Quelques observations sur des romans grecques’, in L’Antiquité Classique 36 (1967), 536–52 who identified a considerable number of parallels between Lucian and Achilles Tatius and inferred various common models.

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In Apuleius’ Book 2, we hear that an old man has contracted an Egyptian prophet, named Zatchlas, “to bring (my nephew’s) spirit back from the underworld and reanimate this body from beyond the threshold of death”. The prophet “placed one small herb over the mouth of the corpse and placed another on its chest”. And indeed, after a silent prayer, another typical sign of magic,62 the corpse started to rise and speak. However, during a heated conversation between him and his wife, the protagonist runs away to escape derision after the resurrected corpse had revealed something only he could know, and we hear no more of this resurrected corpse (2,28–30).

III. Resurrections and Ghost Stories in Other Contemporary Literature Let us now turn to some pagan cases of resurrection and ghosts in the Second Sophistic, which seem to betray an influence of Christianity and shed light on the way the Gospel stories were received in this quarter. We will start with a resurrection performed by Apollonius of Tyana in his biography by Philostratus, which is simply introduced as: “And also the following miracle of Apollonius”. We are in Rome, and an anonymous girl seems to have died just before her wedding, traditionally the highlight of a girl’s life in ancient Greece. She was, of course, of the highest standing, as she belonged to a consular family. Her fiancé followed the bier, lamenting his unconsummated marriage, and Rome mourned with him. Such public funerals were not uncommon in Rome,63 but Philostratus has clearly transformed the already-mentioned Greek custom, in which the deceased children of the highest families were mourned by the whole city, into a Roman one. When Apollonius met the procession, “after merely touching her and saying something secretly, he woke (ἀφύπνισε) the bride from her apparent death (τοῦ δοκοῦντος θανάτου). The girl spoke, and went back to her father’s house, like when Alcestis was revived by Heracles. Her kinsmen wanted to give Apollonius a hundred and fifty thousand drachmas, but he said he gave it as an extra dowry for the girl. He may have seen a spark of life in her, which the doctors had not noticed, since apparently the sky was drizzling and steam was coming from her face, or he may have revived and restored her life when it was extinguished. The explanation (κατάληψις)64 of this, however, has proved unfathomable, not just to me, but also to the bystanders”.65 This “resuscitation of the Roman damsel,  Cf. Apuleius, Apol. 54,7: tacitas preces in templo dis allegasti: igitur magus es.

62

63 G. Wesch-Klein, Funus publicum: eine Studie zur öffentlichen Beisetzung und Gewährung

von Ehrengräbern in Rom und den Westprovinzen (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1993). 64  For the Stoic term, see Grossardt on Philostratus, Her. 33,41: ‘geistige Erfassung eines Sachverhalts’. 65  Philostratus, VA 4,45,1, ed. and transl. C. P. Jones, LCL (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 2005), ὁ δὲ οὐδὲν ἀλλ’ ἢ προσαψάμενος αὐτῆς καί τι ἀφανῶς ἐπειπὼν ἀφύπνισε τὴν κόρην τοῦ δοκοῦντος θανάτου, καὶ φωνήν τε ἡ παῖς ἀφῆκεν ἐπανῆλθέ τε ἐς τὴν οἰκίαν τοῦ πα-

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the only decisive miracle of them all”, as young John Henry Newman called it in a still-readable 1826 article,66 seems a clear composite of the resurrections of the daughter of Jairus and the youth of Nain. This should not be surprising as, Philostratus must have read one or more Gospels, certainly Luke, given the many parallels with the Gospels in his work.67 Several scholars have recently argued that it regularly happens that Philostratus intentionally leaves his readers with an ambiguous feeling about his protagonist. On the one hand, the author wants to absolve him from the accusation of being a magician, but, on the other, his defense is often so inadequate that a perspicacious reader is not convinced that the charge was unjustified.68 In this case too, the suggestion of magic is immediately undercut by relating that Apollonius refused to accept money for his miracle. In discussions of this resurrection, no attention is paid to that small detail of “something secret”. Yet, it is clearly important, as it suggests that Apollonius whispered some kind of magical formula,69 whereas Jesus called out with a loud voice to the daughter τρός, ὥσπερ ἡ Ἄλκηστις ὑπὸ τοῦ  Ἡρακλέους ἀναβιωθεῖσα. δωρουμένων δὲ αὐτῷ τῶν ξυγγενῶν τῆς κόρης μυριάδας δεκαπέντε φερνὴν ἔφη ἐπιδιδόναι αὐτὰς τῇ παιδί. καὶ εἴτε σπινθῆρα τῆς ψυχῆς εὗρεν ἐν αὐτῇ, ὃς ἐλελήθει τοὺς θεραπεύοντας – λέγεται γάρ, ὡς ψεκάζοι μὲν ὁ Ζεύς, ἡ δὲ ἀτμίζοι ἀπὸ τοῦ προσώπου – εἴτ’ ἀπεσβηκυῖαν τὴν ψυχὴν ἀνέθαλψέ τε καὶ ἀνέλαβεν, ἄρρητος ἡ κατάληψις τούτου γέγονεν οὐκ ἐμοὶ μόνῳ, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῖς παρατυχοῦσιν. 66  J. H. Newman, ‘Apollonius of Tyana’, in E. Smedley et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia metropolitana (London: B. Fellowes, 1817–45), 10,619–44, here: 329 n. 4 (from a later reprint) http:// www.newmanreader.org/works/ historical/volume1/apollonius/index.html. 67  The parallels have often been noted: see, more recently, H. D. Betz, Lukian von Samosata und das Neue Testament: Religionsgeschichtliche und paränetische Parallelen (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1961); G. Petzke, Die Traditionen über Apollonius von Tyana und das Neue Testament (Leiden: Brill, 1970); E. Koskenniemi, Apollonios von Tyana in der neutestamentlichen Exegese: Forschungsbericht und Weiterführung der Diskussion (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994); especially, M. Van Uytfanghe, ‘La Vie d’Apollonius de Tyane et le discours hagiographique’, in Demoen, Praet, Theios Sophistes, 335–74, here: 336–9; C. P. Jones, ‘Philostrat’, in RAC 27 (2014) 627–39; D. Praet, ‘Inclusivité et exclusivité dans la Vie d’Apollonius de Tyane: Philostrate sur le judaïsme, le christianisme et les traditions païennes’, in Revue de l’histoire des religions 234 (2017) 61–88. 68 Cf. Th. Schirren, Philosophos Bios: Die antike Philosophenbiographie als symbolische Form. Studien zur Vita Apollonii des Philostrat (Heidelberg: Winter, 2005); W. Gyselinck, Talis oratio, qualis vita: Een tekstpragmatische benadering van de poëtica van Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii (Diss. Gent, 2008), 316–8; J. Elsner, ‘Beyond Compare: Pagan Saint and Christian God in Late Antiquity’, in Critical Inquiry 35 (2009), 655–83, here: 675–9. 69 For whispering and magic, see L. Soverini, ‘Hermes, Afrodite e il susurro nella Grecia antica’, in S. Alessandri (ed.), ‘Ιστορíη: Studi offerti a Giuseppe Nenci (Galatina: Congedo, 1994), 183–210; E. Valette-Cagnac, La lecture à Rome (Paris: Belin, 1997), 42–7; P. W. van der Horst, Hellenism-Judaism-Christianity (Leuven: Peeters, 19982), 300–2; D. K. van Mal-Maeder, Apuleius Madaurensis, Metamorphoses: Livre II (Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 2001), 60; L. Moscadi, Magica Musa: La magia dei poeti latini: Figure e funzioni (Bologna: Pàtron, 2005), 165–74 (‘“Murmur” nella terminologia magica’, 19761); M. Andreassi, ‘Implicazioni magiche in Meleagro AP 5.152’, in ZPE 176 (2011), 69–81, here: 74–5; C. Schneider, [Quintilien], Le tombeau ensorcelé (grandes déclamations 10) (Cassino: Edizioni Università di Cassino, 2013), 171 f.

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of Jairus (I). Descriptions of magicians often stress their greed. For example, in the already cited episode in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses, the Egyptian Zatchlas is prepared to perform a necromancy grandi praemio (2,28), and the baker’s wife persuades ‘an old hag’ to bring back her husband multisque … muneribus (9,29). In Lucian’s Lovers of Lies (14) the Hyperborean magician even requires 20 minae, with 4 in advance (sic), for a necromancy and an erotic spell. On the other hand, the Christian apostles perform their miracles for free in the Apocryphal Acts.70 Apollonius’ generosity thus frees him from the suspicion of magic. Philostratus goes even further in his attempt to absolve Apollonius from the suspicion of magic and offers a rational explanation of the resurrection: Apollonius might have seen a spark of life, which had been missed by the doctors. This was not impossible, apparently, as Apuleius, in a rarely noticed anecdote in this context, relates in detail how in Rome the famous first century bce physician Asclepiades of Prusa saved a man from the pyre by discovering at the very last moment (sic) that he was not really dead.71 Although this explanation is what he first stresses by using the terms “woke up” and “apparent death”, Philostratus also keeps open the possibility of a real resurrection by subsequently saying that she might have been dead, but then concludes with: “the explanation of this has proved unfathomable, not just to me but to the bystanders”. In the end, we as readers are left wondering about the reality of the miracle. One of the great problems in Philostratus is his use or non-use of sources. He refers to various Greek authors (VA 1,3,1–2), but none of these have survived, and the suspicion of fiction in some cases cannot be avoided. Yet, we certainly know that Apollonius did exist, and that he probably had a reputation as a miracle worker already before Philostratus, as we can see from the title of the work by Moeragenes, which is quoted by Philostratus as one his sources. Origen tells us that it was called Reminiscences of Apollonius of Tyana, magos and philosopher (CC 6,41),72 and from his description it seems that Apollonius was associated with magical tricks. Although usually overlooked, resurrections have also been ascribed to him by a later author. In the Historia Augusta, the author of the Life of Aurelian, who calls himself Vopiscus, tells us: “He brought the dead back to 70  Cf. Bremmer, ‘Magic in the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles’, in Id., J. R. Veenstra (eds.), The Metamorphosis of Magic from Late Antiquity to the Early Modern Period (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 51–70, here: 54 f. 71 Apuleius, Flor. 19. The episode must have been famous, as it is also related by Celsus 2,6,15 and Pliny, NH 7,124; 26,15, although not in such dramatic detail as by Apuleius, who describes another Scheintod at Met. 10,11–12. 72 Origen, CC 6,41; Origen, CC in FGrH iv A, pt. vii, 1067 T 3; C. P. Jones (ed.), Philostratus: Apollonius of Tyana III: Letters of Apollonius (Cambridge MA, London: Harvard University Press, 2006), 90–1 (‘Testimonia, 9’), cf. E. L. Bowie, ‘Apollonius of Tyana: Tradition and Reality’, in ANRW II.16.2 (1978), 1652–99, here: 1673–4; D. H. Raynor, ‘Moeragenes and Philostratus: Two Views of Apollonius of Tyana’, in CQ 34 (1984), 222–6, also on Epp. Apoll. 16 and 17, in which Apollonius defends himself against accusations of being a magician; C. P. Jones, ‘A Philosophical Altercation (Philostratus, Vita Apollonii v. 39)’, in Studi Ellenistici 24 (2010), 251–4.

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life, and did and said many things beyond the power of man. If anyone should wish to learn these, let him read the Greek books which have been written concerning his life”.73 Both the Historia and the Life are notoriously unreliable. Yet, the notice seems to derive from a source not used or exhausted by Philostratus, as immediately before this notice the Life contains a report of an appearance at night by Apollonius to Aurelian during the latter’s siege of Tyana, which is absent from Philostratus. True to his many fictions, Vopiscus gives as his source Ulpian’s library in Rome, where he also claims elsewhere to have consulted.74 This need not be true, but the fact remains that he did know Greek and did consult some Greek works for his Life, as the period described lacked Latin biographies. There seem to have been one or two Latin versions of Philostratus’ work at the end of the fourth century, but these could hardly have been Vopiscus’ source, even though we do not know to what extent they were edited and expanded upon by their translators.75 There are three other relatively early mentions of resurrections. The first one, which does not seem to have received any attention in this respect, derives from Iamblichus’ Babyloniaka.76 The author wrote in the 170s or 180s ce,77 and was a Babylonian according to Photius’ epitome (Bibl. 94), but this origin is almost certainly derived from the novel’s content. In fact, a scholion in Photius78 by somebody who probably still had access to the complete text, relates that he was a Syrian, perhaps from Emesa, which would conform to his name, like that of the much better known author of the Life of Pythagoras.79 Unfortunately, his work is handed down only in an epitome in Photius, but we can still see the basic outline of the plot. The two protagonists, Rhodanes and Sinonis, have just escaped from some soldiers when “they come upon a maiden carried to the grave and they mingle with the crowd attending the spectacle. An old Chaldaean man stands 73  SHA, Aurel. 24,7: ille mortuis reddidit vitam, ille multa ultra homines et fecit et dixit. quae qui velit nosse, Graecos legat libros qui de eius vita conscripti sunt. 74  SHA, Aurel. 1,5–10; 8,1; Probus 2, cf. L. D. Bruce, ‘A Reappraisal of Roman Libraries in the “Scriptores Historiae Augustae”’, in JLH 16 (1981), 551–73; T. K. Dix, G. Houston, ‘Public Libraries in the City of Rome from the Augustan Age to the Time of Diocletian’, in MEFRA 118 (2006), 671–717. 75  For a detailed discussion, see M. Mülke, Der Autor und sein Text: Die Verfälschung des Originals im Urteil antiker Autoren (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008), 236–43, overlooked by A. ­Cameron, The Last Pagans of Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 778–9. 76 Cf. K. Dowden, ‘The Plot of Iamblichos’ Babyloniaka: Sources and Influence’, in J. R. Morgan (ed.), Festschrift in Honour of Bryan Reardon, forthcoming (http://www.iaalocal.bham. ac.uk/ infonet/staff/dowden/novel/texts/kdIamblichos.pdf.) 77 F. Millar, The Roman Near East 31 bc–ad 337 (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 490 observes that Photius (Bibl. 94) seems to represent Marcus Aurelius as the sole Emperor. 78  For the text, see M. Barbero, Babyloniaca di Giamblico (Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso, 2015), 64. 79  B. Lörincz, ‘Zur Herkunft eines Soldaten der cohors I Augusta Ituraeorum’, in ZPE 95 (1993), 297–9. S. Swain, Hellenism and Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 303–4.

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up and forbids the burial, saying the maiden is still alive and breathing – and she was shown to be so”.80 We see here a case that nicely illustrates the episode in Philostratus, but the theme of the empty tomb is also in the background, as Photius continues: “the maiden’s tomb is left empty, along with many of the robes which were to be burnt on it, and food and drink as well. The party of Rhodanes feasts on these and takes some clothes too, and sleeps that night in the maiden’s tomb” (74b42). Typical of the kind of literature that continuously thwarts our expectations is that in this case a Chaldaean speaks the truth, whereas normally they are depicted as liars and charlatans.81 At approximately the same time, Lucian, in his Alexander the False Prophet, which he wrote after 180 ce, mentions that the religious entrepreneur Alexander of Abonuteichos, who he also associates with Apollonius,82 had founded an oracle that was very lucrative: no such thing as a free lunch there. In order to advertise his services, he sent out people to other parts of Asia Minor to create reports in regard to the oracle and “to say that he made predictions, discovered fugitive slaves, detected thieves and robbers, caused treasures to be dug up, healed the sick, and even had actually raised some people who had already died”.83 It is clear from the sentence that resurrections in this case constitute the climax of what Alexander can achieve. Lucian does not tell us if the “missionaries” also reported the amount of time between death and resurrection, but he mentions an interesting claim in that respect. In a work with the ominous title Lovers of Lies, which cannot be dated precisely, but seems to belong to his later works,84 the fictitious Peripatetic philosopher Cleodemus relates that he saw a Hyperborean both flying in the clear light of day and walking on water (13). The latter is, of course, also reported of Jesus (Mark 6:45–51), but does not occur in ancient literature before this passage: since Homer, both gods and a few mortals could hover above the sea,85 80  Photius, Bibl. 74b42; Barbero, Stephens, Winkler (transl.): καὶ καταλαμβάνουσι κόρην ἐπὶ ταφὴν ἀγομένην, καὶ συρρέουσιν ἐπὶ τὴν θέαν καὶ Χαλδαῖος γέρων ἐπιστὰς κωλύει τὴν ταφήν, ἔμπνουν εἶναι τὴν κόρην ἔτι λέγων· καὶ ἐδείχθη οὕτω. 81  Cf. W. Keulen, ‘Apuleius and Gellius on the “Controversial” Chaldeans: Prophecy and Self-fashioning in Antonine Prose Narrative’, in M. Carmignani et al. (eds.), Collected Studies on the Roman Novel-Ensayos sobre la novela romana (Córdoba: Editorial Brujas, 2013), 179–208. 82  P. Robiano, ‘Lucien, un témoignage-clé sur Apollonios de Tyane’, in Revue de Philologie 77 (2003), 259–73. 83 Lucian, Alex. 5 (Apollonios), 24:  Ἤδη δέ τινας καὶ ἐπὶ τὴν ἀλλοδαπὴν ἐξέπεμπεν, φήμας ἐμποιήσοντας τοῖς ἔθνεσιν ὑπὲρ τοῦ μαντείου καὶ διηγησομένους ὡς προείποι καὶ ἀνεύροι δραπέτας καὶ κλέπτας καὶ λῃστὰς ἐξελέγξειε καὶ θησαυροὺς ἀνορύξαι παράσχοι καὶ νοσοῦντας ἰάσαιτο, ἐνίους δὲ καὶ ἤδη ἀποθανόντας ἀναστήσειεν. 84  For the date, see C. P. Jones, Culture and Society in Lucian (Cambridge MA, London, Harvard University Press, 1986), 167. 85  See Horsfall on Vergil, Aen. 7,810. The only possible exception is an unidentified papyrus, called ‘The Love Drug’ by Stephens, Winkler, Ancient Greek Novels, 173–8, which says, in an enumeration of magical feats: ‘if I wish to sail the sea, I have no need of a ship’ (lines 7–9).

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but they never walked on it. Thus, Cleodemus performed a number of feats, such as “sending Cupids after people, bringing up demons, calling back to life moldy corpses, making Hekate herself appear in plain light and drawing down the moon”.86 The resurrection in these “trivial” feats, as he calls them, is clearly nothing out of the extraordinary and certainly not the climax. Yet, it shows that the ancients distinguished between an immediate resurrection and one that took place some time after death, as we could also notice in the case of Lazarus.

IV. Conclusions With these examples, we have reached the end of our evidence, from which I would like to draw the following conclusions. First, when we look at the episodes in the Gospels about the resurrection of Jesus and the empty tomb, we cannot fail to see that their literary description closely resembles that of Chariton, who was very proud to advertise his innovative introduction of the motif of the empty tomb (II). In contrast to Bowersock, we suggest that the Gospels were influenced by Chariton, rather than the other way round. Indeed, it would be very hard to imagine that oral traditions of the Resurrection already had the precise structure of that of the Gospels, which are clearly carefully composed. It also has often been observed that Luke was well-acquainted with Western Asia Minor, perhaps even originating from there,87 which is also where our novels are from. Consequently, there is nothing against the supposition that Luke had read some of these novels, the more so as recent scholarship has pointed to the combination of similar motifs in his work and the novel, such as journeys fraught with peril, last-minute rescues, court-room scenes, and a shipwreck.88 Given the generally accepted date of the Gospels as after the destruction of the Temple, there seems to be no real difficulty in accepting an influence of the novel on the authors of the Gospels. Taking all this into account, it seems plausible to conclude that the 86  Lucian, Philops. 14: ἔρωτας ἐπιπέμπων καὶ δαίμονας ἀνάγων καὶ νεκροὺς ἑώλους ἀνακαλῶν καὶ τὴν  Ἑκάτην αὐτὴν ἐναργῆ παριστὰς καὶ τὴν Σελήνην καθαιρῶν. 87  See, most recently, C. A. Baker, Identity, Memory, and Narrative in Early Christianity: Peter, Paul, and Recategorization in the Acts of the Apostles (Eugene OR: Wipf & Stock, 2011) 34–5; D. R. MacDonald, Two Shipwrecked Gospels: The Logoi of Jesus and Papias’s Exposition of Logia about the Lord (Atlanta GA: SBL, 2012), 43. 88  P. Pokorny, ‘Die Romfahrt des Paulus und der antike Roman’, in ZNW 64 (1973), 233–44; S. P. and M. J. Schiering, ‘The Influence of the Ancient Romances on the Acts of the Apostles’, in Classical Bulletin 54 (1978), 81–8; R. Pervo, Profit with Delight: The Literary Genre of the Acts of the Apostles (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 1987); R. F. Hock, ‘The Greek Novel’, in D. Aune (ed.), Greco-Roman Literature and the New Testament (Atlanta GA: SBL, 1988), 127–46; N. Holzberg, The Ancient Novel (London, New York: Routledge, 1996), 22; P. J. Lalleman, ‘The Canonical and the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles’, in Hofmann, Zimmerman (eds.), Groningen Colloquia, 181–92.

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description of the episode of the empty tomb in Luke and John was influenced by the Greek novel. Admittedly, in opposition to Bowersock, Judith Perkins has argued that we should not accept a mutual influence between these novels and the Christian narratives, but instead suggests that they draw from a common cultural environment within the same historical context.89 Although her studies are very helpful in understanding aspects of second-century culture, Perkins’ position insufficiently takes into account that all Greek novels discussed seem to derive from Aphrodisias and environs, and date from a period lasting nearly a century and a half, starting with Chariton, who demonstrably influenced Xenophon of Ephesus. The taste for lurid and gruesome details was probably encouraged by the increasing presence of Roman gladiatorial games and executions in the area, but that influence should not be retrojected onto the earliest novels. Every case has to be judged on its own merits, and no possibility should be excluded a priori. Second, when we look at the time of the appearance of these resurrections, we cannot be but struck by the fact that Iamblichus, Lucian, and Apuleius all wrote their relevant works at the same time, around 170–80 ce, whereas Philostratus completed his novel a bit later. There is simply no resurrection by a human attested before that time in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, as there is also no account of a person walking on water (III). Moreover, there is a clear difference with the classical period. Empedocles advertises the claim to fetch the menos of a dead men out of Hades (B 111.9 DK),90 but that means that he was prepared to go down to Hades, just like Orpheus for Persephone or Heracles for Alcestis. However, raising somebody from the dead by commanding him or her to “Wake up” is unheard of for mortals in earlier antiquity.91 Consequently, it is possible to see in these resurrections the early reception of the Gospels by pagan intellectuals, the more so as the resurrection seems to have become more important after Marcion.92 It is well known that around 180 ce Christianity became visible in the works of a number of prominent pagans, such as Celsus, Galen, Lucian and Marcus Aurelius. There is also persuasive evidence that Lucian had read several Christian writings, such as a Gospel (Luke?), Rev89  J. Perkins, ‘Fictive Scheintod and Christian Resurrection’, in R&T 13 (2006), 396–418 and Roman Imperial Identities in the Early Christian Era (London, New York: Routledge, 2009), 45–61. 90 See now also the new evidence for this fragment adduced by D. Armstrong, J. A. Ponczoch, ‘[Philodemus] On Wealth (PHerc. 1570 Cols. VI–XX, Pcc. 4–6a): New Fragments of Empedocles, Menander, and Epicurus’, in Cronache Ercolanesi 41 (2011), 97–138. Note that F. Bovon, Das Evangelium nach Lukas 1 (Zurich: Benziger 1989), 359 wrongly states that ‘Empedokles eine Tote auferweckt habe’. 91  Bovon, Das Evangelium nach Lukas 1, 359 n. 24 also states wrongly that ‘Das Motiv (of a resurrection) ist jedoch älter als das Christentum’. 92  As argued by M. Vinzent, Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity and the Making of the New Testament (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), updated as Die Auferstehung Christi im frühen Christentum (Freiburg: Herder, 2014)

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elation, and the Apocalypse of Peter.93 I therefore conclude that the negotiation of the resurrection motif by pagan authors is a clear sign of their reception of the Gospel(s). Bowersock rightly reversed common insights by claiming an influence of the Gospels on the novel. That suggestion has not found acceptance and flies in the face of what we now know about the, admittedly still debated, chronology of the novels and the Gospels. Yet, the idea in itself remains inspiring. In my contribution, I have argued that the dynamics are even more complicated and that we have to reckon with an interplay between the novel and the Gospels. Yet, when all is said and done, we still see these things through a dark mirror.94

93  Cf. P. von Möllendorff, Auf der Suche nach der verlogenen Wahrheit: Lukians Wahre Geschichten (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 427–30 and ‘Christliche Apokalypsen und ihr mimetisches Potential in der paganen Bildungskultur. Ein Beitrag zu Lukians Wahren Geschichten’, in S. Alkier, R. B. Hayes (eds.), Die Bibel im Dialog der Schriften (Tübingen, Basel: Francke, 2005), 179–94; J. N. Bremmer, ‘Richard Reitzenstein’s Hellenistische Wundererzählungen’, in T. Nicklas, J. Spittler (eds.), Credible, Incredible: The Miraculous in the Ancient Mediterranean (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 1–19, here: 4–5. 94 I am most grateful to John Granger Cook for correcting my English.

Re-Visioning Jesus’ Resurrection: The Resurrection Stories in a Neuroanthropological Perspective Pieter F. Craffert “One of the advantages of anthropology as a scholarly enterprise is that no one, including its practitioners, quite knows exactly what it is”1 “Ethical interaction with others presupposes that we first come to terms with their reality, in their lifeworld”2

The theme of the colloquium The Gospels and Their Stories in Anthropological Perspective suggests that “an anthropological perspective” can add value to our understanding of the gospel stories. However, on the question: “What is the anthropological perspective?”, the anthropologist James Peacock answers: “There are as many perspectives as there are anthropologists”.3 It is not only because this nineteenth-century discipline developed (at least in America) into the “fourfield approach”4 of cultural anthropology, archaeology, linguistic anthropology and biological anthropology, or has fragmented into numerous sub-disciplines (medical anthropology, anthropology of consciousness, anthropology of religion, transpersonal anthropology, to name only a few) but also because they cannot agree on fundamental theoretical positions. Yet that does not mean that there is not a great deal to be learned from the anthropological perspective. The aim of this article is to apply a neuroanthropological perspective to the resurrection accounts. I will first argue the anthropological enterprise offers an interdisciplinary perspective for comparative and cross-cultural interpretation that avoids the pitfalls of ethnocentrism and relativism associated with 1 C. Geertz, ‘The State of the Art’, in Id., Available Light: Anthropological Reflections on Philosophical Topics (Princeton NJ, Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2000), 89–142, here: 89. 2  J.-G. A.  Goulet, ‘Moving beyond Culturally Bound Ethical Guidelines’, in Id., B. Miller (eds.), Extraordinary Anthropology: Transformations in the Field (Lincoln NE, London: University of Nebraska Press, 2006), 208–36, here: 208. 3   J. L.  Peacock, The Anthropological Lens: Harsh Light, Soft Focus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), viii. 4   M. J.  Winkelman, J. R.  Baker, Supernatural as Natural: A Biocultural Approach to Religion (Upper Saddle River NJ: Pearson / Prentice Hall, 2010), 15.

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other perspectives in anthropology. Based on this perspective I suggest that the resurrection accounts can be seen as visionary encounters which were locally interpreted as Jesus’ resurrection. Visions were the events that generated the narratives about the resurrection.

I. Anthropological Perspectives and the Neuroanthropological Perspective In order to understand a neuroanthropological perspective it is necessary to situate it within the framework of both the anthropological enterprise and some received views and practices in anthropology. In a recent evaluation of anthropology as a discipline, Kuper and Marks echo the aforementioned words of Geertz by stating that anthropologists do not quite know what anthropology is. They point out that most anthropologists “cannot agree on what the discipline is about”,5 while Whitehead6 refers to the social and biological anthropologists who could not even agree on what a question was. Nevertheless, most anthropologists will agree that the ideal of anthropology is to provide an all-encompassing perspective for understanding the human condition. Therefore, anthropologists, Winkelman and Baker point out, “tend to work from an interdisciplinary, holistic and integrative perspective”.7 But, as will be shown, that is not the case in real anthropological life. Neuroanthropology is a reaction against what it perceives as the shortcomings and failure in much of contemporary ethnography to fulfil its mandate as a comparative cross-cultural enterprise, to live up to its interdisciplinary heritage and to give expression to cross-cultural theorizing. 1. Shortcomings and Failure of Contemporary Anthropology The anthropological enterprise contains both a particularist and a comparative element, respectively known as ethnography,8 as a descriptive account of particular cultures and ethnology9 which aims to offer a complete picture of  A. Kuper, J. Marks, ‘Anthropologists Unite!’, in Nature 470/10 (2011), 166–68, here: 166.  See C. Whitehead, ‘Why the Behavioural Sciences Need the Concept of the Culture-Ready Brain’, in Anthropological Theory 12 (2012), 43–71, here: 44. 7  Winkelman, Baker, Supernatural as Natural, 6 [emphasis original]. 8 Ethnography is used to produce a descriptive account of a people (see S. R. Barrett, Anthropology: A Student’s Guide to Theory and Method [Toronto, Buffalo, London: University of Toronto Press, 2009], loc. 259) or, as Conklin says, “to record and describe the culturally significant behaviors of a particular society” (‘Ethnography’, 172). If one of the things that anthropologists do is ethnography, Geertz says, they have a concern with particularities and their aim is to document the variety of human ways of life. See C. Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (London: Fontana, 1973), 21–3. 9  Ethnology comes “to mean the comparative study of documented and contemporary cultures” (H. E.  Driver, ‘Ethnology’, in IESS [1968] 178). In other words, ethnographies are the 5 6

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human cultures by means of the comparative or cross-cultural method. At one extreme, fieldwork leads to involvement with a particular group and learning about that group and at its incompatible opposing end at the other extreme; anthropology therefore aspires to global generalization.10 In order to do that, the study of anthropology Klass11 points out, can be seen as a development from interest in culture to the cross-cultural comparison of cultures – from a particularist to a comparative stance. One of the reasons for this is, as Klass argues, that anthropologists “had learned enough to suspect that human behavior was so complex that you can never be certain what is inborn (or genetic) and thus irreversible for humans and what is a manifestation of cultural conditioning in a particular society, until you have examined the particular phenomenon cross-culturally [italics original]”.12 The laudable ideals of the comparative cross-cultural enterprise (ethnology) and the aim to provide an all-encompassing picture of the human condition proved to be a very difficult, if not impossible, ideal. As Evans-Pritchard is reported to have shrewdly remarked some fifty years ago: “There is only one method in social anthropology – the comparative method – and that is impossible … The comparative method aims at essentially two goals: to show how humans are alike and to show how they differ, and why”.13 It turns out that both tasks are fundamentally comparative and subject to two difficulties: cultural diversity and the human tendency of ethnocentrism. Anthropology exists by virtue of the cultural gap and attempts to bridge it; anthropology is the scholarly endeavour of dealing with the problem of other cultures.14 The primary axiom of anthropology, Hanson and Martin point out, is the “problem of other cultures”15 or simply, “cultural difference”16 which constitute the reality of cultural diversity. Since its inception the perspectives in sources of the data used in comparative or cross-cultural studies that aim to produce more general theories and models of culture, known as ethnologies (see Winkelman, Baker, Supernatural as Natural, 16). 10  See Peacock, The Anthropological Lens, 76. 11 See M. Klass, Mind over Mind: The Anthropology and Psychology of Spirit Possession (Lanham MD et al.: Rowman & Littlefield, 2003), 17–36. 12  Ibid., 23. 13  Quoted in Peacock, The Anthropological Lens, 77. 14  Hanson and Martin summarise the issues regarding the particularist project: “The axiom of cultural difference leads us in conflicting directions. On the one hand it counsels internal understanding by sympathic duplication in order to avoid ethnocentric distortion of other cultures; on the other hand it generates a barrage of arguments insisting that such internal understanding is impossible to achieve. Now if sympathic duplication is the only thing that would satisfy, fully and truly, the criterion of internal understanding and if the understanding of another culture is conceived, necessarily, as an internal one, then it follows that anthropological understanding is impossible. This, in capsule form, is what we call the problem of other cultures”. F. A. Hanson, R. Martin, ‘The Problem of Other Cultures’, in Philosophy of the Social Sciences 3 (1973), 191–208, here: 194. 15  Ibid. 16 Ibid., 192.

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anthropology, Geertz says, are reactions to “cultural diversity” as the “centrifugal impulse of anthropology”.17 He calls it the “undisputed facts” of anthropology because it is the anthropological record and not any particular anthropological theory or anthropologists that placed cultural diversity on the agenda – it is “anthropological data”18 itself that constitute the problem of other cultures. In that data we see “the vast variety in which men and women have tried to live their lives”.19 Ethnocentrism is the tendency to interpret and judge other cultures in terms of one’s own culture and cultural suppositions20 and it comes naturally; it is the normal human thing to view the world through the lenses of one’s own culture.21 This is not an apology for ethnocentrism but for the problem of ethnocentrism. Part of the human condition is being ethnocentric and it takes special efforts to overcome it. Since the anthropological enterprise has predominantly been a Western academic activity, it is understandable that what Shweder calls “‘West is best’ thinking”22 describes the ethnocentric problem in anthropology. It carries the twin response, Geertz points out, of either “domesticating” or “abominating”23 others. A good summary of this condition is provided by Tambiah: the grand problem, which is at the heart of the anthropological enterprise: How do we understand and represent the modes of thought and action of other societies, other cultures? Since we have to undertake this task from a Western baseline so to say, how are we to achieve ‘the translation of cultures’, i.e understand other cultures as far as possible in their own terms but in our language, a task which also ultimately entails the mapping of the ideas and practices onto Western categories of understanding, and hopefully modifying these in turn to evolve a language of anthropology as a comparative science?24

Three issues of central concern in anthropology will be used to illustrate how anthropologists go about their tasks in dealing with these issues: fieldwork, relativism, and comparative cross-cultural research.

 C. Geertz, ‘The Uses of Diversity’ [1986], in Id., Available Light, 68–88, here: 75.  C. Geertz, ‘Anti Anti-Relativism’ [1984], in Id., Available Light, 42–67, here: 43, 45, 51. 19  Geertz, ‘The Uses of Diversity’, 68. 20  See R. Wax, M. Wax, ‘The Magical World View’, in JSSR  1 (1962),  179–88, here: 180; P. V.  Giesler, ‘Ethnocentrism and Shamanism’, in M. N. Walter, E. J. N.  Fridman (eds.), Shamanism: An Encyclopedia of World Beliefs, Practices, and Culture (Santa Barbara CA, Denver CO, Oxford: ABC Clio, 2004), 119–24, here: 119. 21 See Winkelman, Baker, Supernatural as Natural, 7–8. 22  R. A.  Shweder, ‘Cliff Notes: The Pluralism of Clifford Geertz’, in Id., B. Good (eds.), Clifford Geertz by His Colleagues (Chicago IL, London: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 1–9, here: 8. 23  Geertz, ‘Anti Anti-Relativism’, 63. 24   S. J.  Tambiah, Magic, Science, Religion, and the Scope of Rationality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 3. 17 18

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a) Fieldwork as Discovering/Confirming the Cultural Gap In a very general sense anthropologists agree that their first task is to document the great diversity of human customs25 but they disagree on how to do it or what should be done. Most still consider fieldwork the hallmark of the anthropological enterprise but the history and practice of fieldwork displays as many of the failures and shortcomings as it does successes. The emergence of anthropology as a profession is closely related to a colonial, imperialist and scientistic setting. During the Victorian period, anthropologists were armchair anthropologists who obtained their data from colonial officers and relied on observations made by untrained amateurs to supply the data. Furthermore, anthropology in its early history was shaped by the trends in thinking that affected Western societies at the time, in particular superiority and evolutionary thinking. The data were used for categorising societies into developmental or evolutionary taxonomies.26 Every custom that differed from European ones was considered flawed and inferior27 and they made liberally use of denigrating labels such as savages and primitives.28 What started as “observation”, first by amateurs and then by anthropologists who participated in the explorations of European colonisers, developed into modern fieldwork, credited to Malinowski “with its emphasis on long-term participant observation in a small community, enabling the heroic researcher to understand life from the native’s perspective”.29 By 1925 fieldwork had become the accepted method of anthropological research30 with its focus on “observation”. That is, the “anthropologist followed the practice of natural scientists, observing people in their natural settings as if they were the equivalent of flora and fauna”.31 Franz Boas, the father of American anthropology, strongly supported the aim of fieldwork to live with people and understand their everyday lives and the way they look at the world through learning their language. Fieldwork is to immerse oneself in the native’s point of view. In its extreme form fieldwork results in what anthropologists call “crossing over”, “going native”, or of “really going over the edge”, as Turner describes her (actually her and her husband Victor Turner’s) experiences in the field.32 The ethnographer participates experientially in the life-world of the informants to  See Kuper, Marks, ‘Anthropologists Unite!’, 167.  See B. Tedlock, ‘From Participant Observation to the Observation of Participation: The Emergence of Narrative Ethnography’, in Journal of Anthropological Research 47 (1991), 69–94, here: 69; Barrett, Anthropology, loc. 942. 27  See Barrett, Anthropology, loc. 156. 28 See Goulet, ‘Moving beyond Culturally Bound Ethical Guidelines’, 209–11. 29 Barrett, Anthropology, loc. 1237. 30   See H. C.  Conklin, ‘Ethnography’, in IESS, 1968, 172–8, here: 173; Tedlock, ‘From Participant Observation to the Observation of Participation’, 69. 31  Barrett, Anthropology, loc. 1387. 32  E. Turner, ‘The Reality of Spirits: A Tabooed or Permitted Field of Study?’, in Anthropology of Consciousness 4/1 (1993), 9–12, here: 11. 25 26

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the point of becoming one of them.33 Crossing over results in becoming “bicultural”34 and, for advocates of experience-near anthropology, differs from “going native”, Miller argues, because it does not require the anthropologist to maintain a university persona.35 Observation turned into participation or participant-observation and for some in observation of participation. Instead of participant observation, anthropologists who crossed over – what Shanafelt36 refers to as reflexive seeker perspectives or, they themselves as experience-near anthropology – see fieldwork as “observation of participation”37 and eventually “radical participation” which means that the participants become co-authors or co-ethnographers in what is being produced. Towards the end of the twentieth century, every aspect of fieldwork came under critical scrutiny and some postmodern anthropologists even proposed a “post-fieldwork model”. Most anthropologists, however, did not give up on fieldwork38 since to this day it remains the hallmark of the anthropological enterprise. Observation, participation and crossing over as fieldwork methods all display particular attempts to cross the cultural gap but merely highlights the dilemma instead of addressing it. What Van Binsbergen calls “the tragedy of fieldwork”, however, has serious practical as well as theoretical implications since it leads to all sorts of difficulties.39 One example is that “in the field the ethnographer lives a committed communitas which she is subsequently compelled to instrumentally take distance from, in her professional and social life outside the field”.40 The anthropologist never stop being a member of his or her own cultural world and is often confronted with strange if not unacceptable practices and thus becomes the mediator that must represent the other in the world of academia. Others point out that the very term participant observation is an oxymoron because it implies emotional involvement and detachment at the same time.41 Another difficulty 33  See B. Glass-Coffin, ‘Anthropology, Shamanism, and Alternate Ways of Knowing–Being in the World: One Anthropologist’s Journey of Discovery and Transformation’, in Anthropology and Humanism 35 (2010), 204–17, here: 206, 212. 34 Tedlock, ‘From Participant Observation to the Observation of Participation’, 82. 35  B. G.  Miller, ‘The Politics of Ecstatic Research’, in Goulet, Miller, Extraordinary Anthropology, 186–207, here: 204. 36   R. A.  Shanafelt, ‘Magic, Miracle, and Marvels in Anthropology’, in Ethnos  69 (2004), 317–40, here: 326. 37  Tedlock, ‘From Participant Observation to the Observation of Participation’. 38 “If research, especially in other cultures, is unsound both on epistemological grounds (how can we ‘know’ the other) and on ethical grounds (what right do we have to represent the other), why not give up the exercise completely?” (Barrett, Anthropology, loc. 2878). 39  W. M. J.  Van Binsbergen, ‘Existential Dilemmas of a North Atlantic Anthropologist in the Production of Relevant Africanist Knowledge’, in R. Devisch, F. B.  Nyamnjoh (eds.), The Postcolonial Turn: Re-Imagining Anthropology and Africa (Leiden: African Studies Centre, 2011), 117–42, here: 128. See also G. Lahood, ‘One Hundred Years of Sacred Science: Participation and Hybridity in Transpersonal Anthropology’, in ReVision 29/2 (2007), 37–48, here: 41. 40  Van Binsbergen, ‘Existential Dilemmas’, 128. 41 See Tedlock, ‘From Participant Observation to the Observation of Participation’, 69.

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is that the fieldworker’s (who has been taught the ideal of tolerance) dilemma is that being openly sceptical about informants ideas and beliefs can be seen as a sign of disrespect.42 Also, after the Victorian armchair anthropologists who had no qualms in labelling their subjects as savages or primitives and condemned their beliefs as magic and superstition,43 fieldworkers today can no longer afford to affront their informants. As a way of moving there it should be pointed out that the issue of relativism within fieldwork is often a very personal and social issue: an exercise in how (not) to engage with other human beings. Whether the anthropologist “stays there” or “comes back”, going native does not address the problem of other cultures but merely adds one more “native” while avoiding the cultural gap. b) Ethnocentrism and Relativism as Bridging the Cultural Gap Among the many dilemmas anthropologists face, the questions of how to escape one’s own location and where to draw the line on cultural beliefs and practices remain acute. The history of anthropological research can be described by means of the tug of war between relativists who warn against abomination or provincialism and anti-relativists who warn against anything goes.44 In this tug of war ethnocentrism occupies a historical and privileged position. Ethnocentrism and relativism enable each other, are never widely separated and both operate at many levels, and come in different shades. For many anthropologists since Boas, relativism is a shield against racism and ethnocentrism because it allows them to not pass any judgement. Ethnocentrism, is considered the “bugbear for many anthropologists”45 and ever since the anthropologists of the nineteenth century first promoted the cross-cultural or comparative approach by means of evolutionary categories, ethnocentrism has been part of the (problem of the) discipline. As a reaction to evolutionary thinkers, what became known as historical particularism, emphasised that each culture is a unique constellation of environmental and historical factors and deserves to be understood on its own terms.46 Relativism thus stamps anthropological research by means of the notion of no judgement. When dealing with the marvellous, extraordinary, and strange elements in the ethnographic data, many, if not most, contemporary anthropologists turn to the safe haven of relativism known as cultural constructivism. It has the appearance of relativism because this position, while it does not directly call into question 42 See

Shanafelt, ‘Magic, Miracle, and Marvels in Anthropology’, 329. R. A.  Shanafelt, ‘Idols of Our Tribes? Relativism, Truth and Falsity in Ethnographic Fieldwork and Cross-Cultural Interaction’, in Critique of Anthropology 22 (2002), 7–29, here: 8. 44  Geertz, ‘Anti Anti-Relativism’, 46. 45  B. Saler, Conceptualizing Religion: Immanent Anthropologists, Transcendent Natives, and Unbounded Categories (Leiden: Brill, 1993), 8. 46 See Winkelman, Baker, Supernatural as Natural, 13. 43  See

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the claims of experients, it also does not take them as “really real” either.47 This relativistic anthropologist’s stance is something to the effect of “I will write down what you tell us, but I don’t believe you for a minute”.48 For example, poltergeists, spirits, ancestors, possessions and the like are not accepted as the realities that they represent for the informants, but are either treated as “metaphor or symbol”49 or translated into social facts. This stance of cultural relativism, Glass-Coffin argues, is not honouring the claims of the Others but rather dismissing and domesticating them.50 As Barrett shows, many anthropologists generally prefer to reduce “belief systems to sociological principles”.51 Phenomena, such as demon possession are analysed as concepts about person and selves, and desires and sexual exploitation and not as the entities they represent for the subjects. Anthropologists look for hidden or latent functions, such as the increase in social solidarity brought about by getting everyone together and evoking a transcendental force beyond the empirical world instead of accepting the informants’ beliefs about their realities. As such it remains a form of disguised ethnocentrism because relativists do not take their host really seriously. Young suggests that, “anthropology is still saddled with a curious blend of relativism and ethnocentrism”. Relativism made anthropologists tolerant of other modes of thought and behavior, but Young continues, “we don’t really take our informants seriously when their world views differ radically from our own”.52 Another shade of relativism is associated with what for many years was one of anthropologists’ chief fears, namely, being accused of “going native”. Despite Geertz’s remark some thirty years ago that there are not many anthropologists falling on their faces by bending too far backwards,53 evidence shows that crossing over while suspending judgement is alive and well today. The problem is that the anthropologist “going native” becomes so steeped in the language and life of the informants that his or her descriptions of them are intelligible to no one except him or herself and them.54 47 See

Shanafelt, ‘Magic, Miracle, and Marvels in Anthropology’, 326.   See C. D.  Laughlin, Communing with the Gods: Consciousness, Culture and the Dreaming Brain (Brisbane: Daily Grail, 2011), 387. 49  Turner, ‘The Reality of Spirits’, 10. 50  B. Glass-Coffin, ‘Belief Is Not Experience: Transformation as a Tool for Bridging the Ontological Divide in Anthropological Research and Reporting’, in International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 32 (2013), 117–26, here: 117; and see Miller, ‘The Politics of Ecstatic Research’, 204. 51 Barrett, Anthropology, loc. 491. 52  D. E.  Young, ‘Visitors in the Night: A Creative Energy Model of Spontaneous Visions’, in Id., J.-G. Goulet (eds.), Being Changed: The Anthropology of Extraordinary Experience (Peterborough: Broadview, 1994), 166–94, here: 191; see also R. Turner, ‘Culture and the Human Brain’, in Anthropology and Humanism 26 (2002), 167–72. 53  Geertz, ‘Anti Anti-Relativism’, 46. 54 See Peacock, The Anthropological Lens, 76. 48

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Two examples will suffice.55 With her own eyes, Turner says, she saw during a healing ritual “a large thing emerging out of the flesh” of the sick woman, “a sort of plasm – about six inches across, dark and opaque”56 which turned out to be, in her interpretation, a spirit. Bruce Grindal, another anthropologist unintentionally slipping into another world, witnessed what he described as the raising of a dead man.57 This is an example of what Laughlin calls an “ethno-ontological description”58 and Shanafelt calls a “reflexive and reflective”59 anthropological account in which Grindal relays a great deal about the society’s world-view from which the experience originated. Both of them fall back on a shade of relativism which demands space for the reality of death divination and spirits on the reality spectrum. There is also the darker blend of relativism and ethnocentrism where anthropologists not only go native, but turn the tables on their own cultural values by criticising them and celebrating those elsewhere, “to the point of romanticizing them”.60 Spiro refers to this as “inverted racism”61 where cultural relativism is used not only to fight racism and ethnocentrism, but also becomes a powerful tool of cultural criticism, if not derogation or “self hate”62 of the own culture. Xenocentrism, the notion that others have exclusive access to the truth – at least in their home setting63 is just another version of ethnocentrism. The reverse side of this coin is “the failure to distinguish genuine differences among people”.64 On the question of what anthropologists do, a range of answers present themselves: from ethnocentric relativism that does not take the others very seriously to crossing over, which adds one more native and xenocentric ethnocentrism which prioritises the other above the own view of reality. But none of them helps us to bridge the cultural gap and perform cross-cultural interpretation. c) Comparative Cross-Cultural Research A general disciplinary difficulty that has been troubling anthropology since the 1970s, if not longer, is, as Keane shows, the tension between its particularist and more examples can be listed. See, e. g., Young, Goulet (eds.), Being Changed.  E. Turner, ‘Advances in the Study of Spirit Experience: Drawing Together Many Threads’, in Anthropology of Consciousness 17/2 (2006), 31–61, here: 43. 57   B. T.  Grindal, ‘Into the Heart of Sisala Experience: Witnessing Death Divination’, Journal of Anthropological Research 39 (1983), 60–80. 58  C. D.  Laughlin, ‘The Ethno-Epistemology of Transpersonal Experience: The View from Transpersonal Anthropology’, in International Journal of Transpersonal Studies 32 (2013), 43– 50, here: 45. 59 Shanafelt, ‘Magic, Miracle, and Marvels in Anthropology’, 324. 60 Barrett, Anthropology, loc. 491. 61  Quoted in Geertz, ‘Anti Anti-Relativism’, 57. 62  Van Binsbergen, ‘Existential Dilemmas’, 131. 63   See R. A.  Hahn, Sickness and Healing: An Anthropological Perspective (New Haven CT, London: Yale University Press, 1995), 3. 64 Wax, Wax, ‘The Magical World View’, 180. 55 Many 56

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comparative projects.65 Anthropology, American anthropology in particular, Laughlin says, has a “great stake” in cultural constructivism (or “cultural relativism”) in seeking to avoid the racism that earlier characterised anthropology.66 However, when ethnography is fed by cultural relativism, anthropology displays an aversion to universals or cross-cultural similarities and its main contribution is the presentation of the variety of human expressions and experiences of life. In its extreme version cultural relativism denies the possibility of cultural universals67 and enters the grey area of amoral relativism. It presents in both harmful (“can clitoridectomy be endorsed?”) and harmless issues (“are spirits real and does the rain dance bring rain?”).68 As seen above, most anthropologists nowadays do not take such issues as really real. The dominance of the relativist perspectives in the anthropological enterprise resulted in the suspension of the comparative project. In his overview of the anthropological enterprise, Barrett shows, that the reality of anthropology today is that “from the time of Malinowski onwards most studies only were ‘comparative’ by virtue of having been conducted in other cultures”69 – a viewpoint shared by a growing number of anthropologists. Most anthropologists, Keane says, have given up the attempt to make comparative generalisations70 while Kuper and Marks remark: “Anthropologists hardly bother any longer to take issue with even the most outlandish generalizations about human nature”.71 This view is echoed by Luhrmann: “in recent years we have been so hesitant to make comparative claims that we are at risk of becoming solipsistic and speaking only to ourselves”.72 The impact of relativism on the identity of the discipline as the cross-cultural comparison of cultures is immense because the cultural gap mostly remains unaddressed. All generalizations about human beings were suspect, Kuper and Marks point out, “except for the iron law that culture trumps biology”.73 Constructivist (relativists) perspective(s), according to Laughlin, suffers from the idea “that in some way our species transcended biological conditioning when it became fully culturally in its patterns of adaptation”.74 In its extreme form the naive assumption of such a view is that there was “some kind of leap from ‘na65  See W. Keane, ‘The Evidence of the Senses and the Materiality of Religion’, in Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 14 (2008), S110-S127, here: S112. 66  Laughlin, Communing with the Gods, 49. 67  See ibid., 18. 68 See Barrett, Anthropology, loc. 472–501. 69 Ibid., loc 1430. 70  See W. Keane, ‘Self-Interpretation, Agency, and the Objects of Anthropology: Reflections on a Genealogy’, in Comparative Studies in Society and History 45 (2003), 222–48, here: 225. 71 Kuper, Marks, ‘Anthropologists Unite!’, 167. 72   T. M.  Luhrmann, ‘What Anthropologists Should Learn from G. E. R. Lloyd’, in HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory  3 (2013), 171–3, here: 172; see also Whitehead, ‘Why the Behavioural Sciences Need the Concept of the Culture-Ready Brain’, 45. 73  Kuper, Marks, ‘Anthropologists Unite!’, 167. 74 Laughlin, Communing with the Gods, 49.

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ture’ to ‘nurture’ during the evolution of humanity”75 because human universals are completely overshadowed by cultural variation. This is often referred to as culturology, the notion that culture explains everything and that biology can be ignored entirely. Its flip side is sociobiology which assumes that social and cultural life can be reduced and be explained by a biological framework.76 Visible here is the long standing tug of war between seeing anthropology as part of the humanities or the sciences.77 2. Neuroanthropology as an Emerging Interdisciplinary Form of Ethnology Neuroanthropology is one of the approaches reacting against the above discussed failure and shortcoming of the anthropological enterprise while explicitly opting for a perspectivist position. It shares the concern that most anthropological research is not comparative cross-cultural research and avoids theorising. In the words of Whitehead: “‘Grand theories’ became virtually taboo and the discipline focused on increasingly local studies with increasingly modest aims. Some went so far as to make a virtue of despair, embracing postmodernism and abandoning the idea of anthropological theorizing altogether”.78 Neuroanthropology combines ethnology with the neurosciences in order to be a truly comparative cross-cultural enterprise that can reclaim its place among the sciences as the discipline studying the human condition in a holistic, interdisciplinary and integrative way. The contribution of neuroanthropology is to deliberately articulate the relationships between two complementary realms of information: “(1) phenomenal experiences found cross-culturally … and (2) knowledge of the brain structures and functions”.79 It is premised on the insight that “humans are biological organisms whose most important means of adapting to the world is culture”.80 This insight emerges from the numerous universals in the anthropological record which indicate that they must have a biological basis and are related to the evolved capacities that humans have.81 It addresses certain experiences as an intrinsic  Ibid., 49–50.  See Barrett, Anthropology, loc. 279. 77  See Kuper, Marks, ‘Anthropologists Unite!’, 167. 78  Whitehead, ‘Why the Behavioural Sciences Need the Concept of the Culture-Ready Brain’, 45. 79  M. J.  Winkelman, Shamanism: A Biopsychosocial Paradigm of Consciousness and Healing (Santa Barbara CA: Praeger, 20102), xviii). Neuroanthropology, Laughlin says, embraces an interdisciplinary ethnological approach by integrating data from both the neurosciences and the cross-cultural studies (see C. D. Laughlin, ‘Body, Brain, and Behavior: The Neuroanthropology of the Body Image’, in Anthropology of Consciousness 8/2–3 [1997], 49–68, here 63 n. 1), thus merging ethnology and neuroscience (see Laughlin, Communing with the Gods, 28) and by fostering a “scientific anthropology” (ibid., 29). 80  Winkelman, Shamanism, 7. 81 See Winkelman, Baker, Supernatural as Natural, xxii. 75 76

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part of human nature and as innate aspects of brain functions.82 Neuroscience brings to anthropology something that it is lacking, namely, the study of humanity’s brain because “for everything that anthropologist study – every aspect of culture, of symbolism, of social action, of interpretation and knowledge – are the processes, products and artifacts of brain states”.83 This anthropological perspective is a phenomenologically grounded enterprise in which the anthropologist attempts to avoid both ethnocentrism and relativism while embracing perspectivism. In the words of Laughlin, neuroanthropology accepts that it is equally wrongheaded “to cleave to either the native explanation of the experience or the Western positivist account”.84 Perspectivism seeks to recover both the universalist and particularist impulses, attempts to reconcile the humanistic and scientific components and reclaim the interdisciplinary space for anthropology as a discipline. It honours the native’s point of view without accepting it at face value because it engages with others’ views without thinking they “were or are infallible any more than we are”.85 In no society do all people accept all claims and versions as real and true. Why should an anthropologist accept any local view on face value? Therefore, it is not a matter of “going native” because the ethnographer is under no obligation to agree with the hosts. What makes this approach different from “going native” is that one is applying “a perspectivist method, rather than merely taking a relativist’s position of accepting the native explanation of things at face value”.86 Instead of going native, perspectivism accepts what Lloyd calls the “multidimensionality of the phenomena”.87 That is, it explores the phenomena not as either literally true or false but in terms of their complex composition. It encourages anthropologists to struggle to make sense of others rather than rejecting them as wrong.88 With some other anthropologists, perspectivism aims to avoid simple models of complex reality and seeks to complicate the story.89 Perspectivism seeks not only to understand complex human phenomena but actively encourages the merger of biology and culture, nature and nurture or, brain and culture. It gives equal weight to the particularist and the universalist impulses. In  Winkelman, Shamanism, xiii.  Laughlin, Communing with the Gods, 28. 84  Ibid., 388. 85   G. E. R.  Lloyd, Being, Humanity, and Understanding: Studies in Ancient and Modern Societies (London: Oxford University Press, 2012), 5; and see J.-G. A. Goulet, D. E.  Young, ‘Theoretical and Methodological Issues’, in Young, Goulet (eds.), Being Changed, 298–335, here: 322. 86  Laughlin, Communing with the Gods, 171. 87  G. E. R.  Lloyd, ‘Response to Comments on Being, Humanity, and Understanding’, in Journal of Ethnographic Theory 3 (2013), 204–9, here: 205. 88  See Luhrmann, ‘What Anthropologists Should Learn from G. E. R. Lloyd’, 172. 89  See Keane, ‘Self-Interpretation, Agency, and the Objects of Anthropology’, 222; T. M.  Luhrmann, H. Nusbaum, R. Thisted, ‘The Absorption Hypothesis: Learning to Hear God in Evangelical Christianity’, in American Anthropologist  112 (2010), 66–78, here: 75; Laughlin, Communing with the Gods, 26; Lloyd, Being, Humanity, and Understanding, 27. 82 83

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the words of Lloyd: “What we need is not definitional fiat, but an understanding of the complexities of the question”,90 or to adapt a term from Taves, to operate with complex neurocultural phenomena.91 There are at least three components to this. First, instead of relativism, perspectivism accepts the fact of multiple cultural realities or what Lloyd calls the “multidimensionality of the real”.92 As Halperin explains: Negotiated reality is a complex matter … Thus, one religious tradition may hold that certain stones contain (or rather are, as Turner convincingly argues) spirits, while another religion might believe (or “know”) that tigers are spiritual entities, yet not revere stones … How can tigers be spirits here and not there, stones sacred entities there and just rocks over here? (Analogously, what if one culture holds that the stones are she-spirits, while another tradition maintains, in Turner’s words, the “absolute certainty” that they are male entities?) Or, how does the researcher fully accept one spirit medium’s declaration of divine incorporation when the same individual accuses another practitioner, one who claims to receive the same spirit, of “faking”, and vice versa?93

This is more than, and different from, merely accepting “if it is real for you, I will write it down”. It is accepting that “reality” is relative to consciousness and that it is equally real for all people. In the description of Lloyd: “What is suggested here is that within this – single – universe, different beings, different animals, and also different members of the human race have such different experiences, perceptions, and ways of interacting with their environment that we should think of them as living in different worlds”.94 Secondly, many believe in the notion that reality for any person is componential. Winkelman and Baker95 offer a perceptive discussion of the multidimensionality of reality for all species and make a distinction between five kinds of human reality: the Universe with certain features, patterns and structures: a species world which depends on particular perceptive capabilities; a perceptual world that is determined by individual and unique perceptual abilities; and both a cultural world and a personal world which depend on our ability to learn. The ability to symbolise (language being the main tool of symbolization) permits us to speak and refer to things in the consensual domain (“out there”), to non-consensual experiences that are available only to an individual self (“in here”), and to notions about reality that can be expressed through language but cannot be directly expeBeing, Humanity, and Understanding, 27. argues that in the study of “religion” we are dealing with a “complex cultural concept” due to the fact that it describes complex cultural phenomena (A. Taves, ‘Reverse Engineering Complex Cultural Concepts: Identifying Building Blocks of “Religion”’, in Journal of Cognition and Culture 15 [2015], 191–216). 92  Lloyd, ‘Response to Comments on Being, Humanity, and Understanding’, 205. 93  D. Halperin, ‘A Delicate Science: A Critique of an Exclusively Emic Anthropology’, in Anthropology and Humanism 21 (1996), 31–40, here: 35. 94  Lloyd, Being, Humanity, and Understanding, 21. 95 Winkelman, Baker, Supernatural as Natural, 37–40. 90 Lloyd, 91 Taves

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rienced and must be accepted on faith (“nowhere”). And because of our linguistic abilities, we tend to treat all three of these domains as if they are equally “real”. Thirdly, scholars acknowledge that certain cultural patterns of consensus realities exist in the world (referred to as mono‑ and polyphasic cultures). Most people on the planet accept and experience what is called polyphasic consciousness: many more states of consciousness (such as dreams or visions) are taken as real, and often constitute the content of experiences. Such cultures also provide the rituals and prescriptions for the how, when and who of these experiences.96 Perspectivism embraces the acknowledgement that the planet, as confirmed by the anthropological record, is populated by multiple models of the world or cultural realities and that polyphasic cultures constitute one of the options. The position of the neuroanthropologist, therefore, is your cultural realities are as real and real in the same way as mine but I do not have to adopt them. Instead, the tools of neuroanthropology allow us to analyse all human beliefs, experiences and practices as configurations of neurological and cultural features and processes. This is a particular perspective within the realm of anthropological studies that seeks to merge ethnology and the neurosciences in an attempt to contribute to the cross-cultural comparison of cultural phenomena, while avoiding either relativism or going native. In the remainder of this article, I want to indicate that it offers a new understanding of what the resurrection accounts are about.

II. From Visionary Experiences to Resurrection Accounts It is common knowledge that not a single canonical text claims that any of the first followers have witnessed Jesus’ resurrection. All the available canonical evidence suggests that his first followers were fully convinced about it because they saw Jesus or he appeared to them. Also, there is little doubt that the main argument in support of Jesus’ resurrection97 is the fact that his followers “saw” him or he appeared to them after his death. Habermas points out that “virtually all recent scholars conclude that the disciples thought that they had seen the risen Jesus”.98 However, there is no agreement on what that means. Elsewhere I have summarised the option in the following way: “Broadly speaking, on the one side of the debate the visions are taken as real seeing, Jesus’ body was physical 96  See P. F.  Craffert, ‘“I ‘Witnessed’ the Raising of the Dead”: Resurrection Accounts in a Neuroanthropological Perspective’, in Neot 45 (2011), 1–29, here: 5. 97 While there are also accounts of an empty tomb, it takes no great insight to say that the empty tomb accounts are not sufficient evidence to evoke belief in a resurrection. Data in the Gospels themselves confirm (see, e. g., Matt 27:64; 28:13 and John 20:13) that an empty tomb itself is not good evidence for a resurrection because a body could have been stolen or removed. 98   G. R.  Habermas, ‘Experiences of the Risen Jesus: The Foundational Historical Issue in the Early Proclamation of the Resurrection’, in Dialogue: A Journal of Theology 45 (2006), 288–97, here: 292.

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and the event was factual; on the other side, the visual perceptions were not real but probably hallucinations or delusions and consequently there was no body and Jesus’ resurrection is not taken as a physical event in history”.99 Based on a neuroanthropological perspective I suggest that the resurrection accounts can instead be seen as residues of visionary experiences which served as the basis for the belief that Jesus was resurrected. It is, however, important to keep two things in mind. The first is that the majority of Christians throughout the ages believed and still believe in Jesus’ bodily resurrection based on nothing more than preaching and teaching. For the majority of Christians today and throughout the ages Jesus’ resurrection is the cornerstone of their faith and without a literal resurrection the religion is considered worthless by most of its followers.100 Denial of this proposition has led many into severe conflict with the church. Most of them believe(d) it because it was transmitted as part of a faith tradition and they have little need for modern historical criticism or scientific proof for its truth.101 Already in Paul’s letters (but also elsewhere in the New Testament) there is ample evidence that many people believed in Jesus’ resurrection based on the preaching of the gospel. Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians says: “For I delivered to you as of first importance what I also received” (15:3) and part of what is transmitted is that Jesus’ was raised from the dead. Or, as he says in verse 11: “so we proclaim [preach] and so you believed”. The resurrection proclamation became part of and consequently obtained the status of culturally transmitted knowledge among Jesus’ first followers and subsequent generations. In most instances it is based on a literal interpretation of Scriptural accounts. Despite numerous differences between the gospel accounts, by means of various harmonizing devices and based on statements across the spectrum of New Testament books the Christian tradition proclaim that Jesus was literally and bodily resurrected from the dead.102 Secondly, one of the central issues in New Testament scholarship over the last two hundred years was whether Jesus’ resurrection “refers to an actual event in history, that is, whether or not the dead Jesus was raised to embodied life by his God”.103 On the one hand orthodox or evangelical scholars (probably the majority of New Testament scholars) support the traditional Christian position that Jesus was literally, bodily and physically raised from the dead. These scholars are convinced that something happened to Jesus after his death: his tomb was really  99 Craffert,

‘“I ‘Witnessed’ the Raising of the Dead”’, 2.   See W. L.  Craig, ‘Did Jesus Rise from the Dead?’ in M. J. Wilkins, J. P.  Moreland (eds.), Jesus under Fire (Grand Rapids MI: Zondervan, 1995), 141–76, here: 165. 101  See D. C.  Allison, Resurrecting Jesus: The Earliest Christian Tradition and Its Interpreters (New York, London: T&T Clark, 2005), 352. 102  See D. Nineham, ‘Forward to the Complete Edition’, in J. Bowden (ed.), Schweitzer, Albert: The Quest of the Historical Jesus (London: SCM, 2000), ix–xxvi, here: x–xi. 103   R. B.  Stewart, ‘Introduction’, in Id. (ed.), The Resurrection of Jesus: John Dominic Crossan and N. T. Wright in Dialogue (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2006), 1–15, here: 1. 100

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empty and his followers actually objectively saw him in some kind of physical body. The texts are analysed and scrutinised in order to make out a reasonable case that there is sufficient historical reason to accept the historicity of these events.104 In this view the texts are seen as reports about events that took place in time and space and these scholars are not afraid to admit, had a camera been around, it would have been possible to take pictures of the resurrected Jesus.105 On the other hand, critical scholars for whom the contradictory details106 in the Gospels together with the mythological or legendary claims about a dead person becoming alive exclude that anything happened to Jesus, maintain that something happened to his followers. According to this view, the resurrection of Jesus “must be a myth, must belong not to the real world but solely to the religious imagination”.107 Both views are premised on the assumption of a literal resurrection; for one group it is literally true and for the others literally false. Conservative or evangelical scholars claim to defend Jesus’ resurrection as it is “described and portrayed in the gospels”108 while critical scholars offer so-called “naturalistic” explanations “of the resurrection”. Even those who argue that something happened to the disciples, do so within the framework of first dismissing Jesus’ resurrection. Therefore, the most important feature of this debate is that scholars from all sides argue about the historicity of the resurrection of Jesus. It was either sober, rock-solid history or altogether illusory, Allison suggests: “Either God raised Jesus from the dead, or the disciples somehow got the job done in their imaginations”.109 The scholarly debate is trapped in the faith framework (Christian tradition) which claims that Jesus was resurrected but offers opposing explanations of the resurrection (either literally true or literally false). Instead of whether the resurrection was real or not, one could ask what the texts are about and how was it real for them. Thus, the challenge is to make sense of the conviction that Jesus was resurrected. This is not an alternative natural104   J. D. G.  Dunn, Jesus Remembered (Grand Rapids MI: Eerdmans, 2003), 825–76; N. T.  Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God (Minneapolis MN: Fortress, 2003),717; M. R.  Licona, The Resurrection of Jesus: A New Historiographical Approach (Downers Grove IL: IVP Academic, 2010). 105   See S. T.  Davis, ‘“Seeing” the Risen Jesus’, in Id., D. Kendall, G. O’Collins (eds.), The Resurrection: An Interdisciplinary Symposium on the Resurrection of Jesus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 126–47, here: 142; N. T. Wright, ‘The Transforming Reality of the Bodily Resurrection’, in M. J. Borg, N. T.  Wright (eds.), The Meaning of Jesus: Two Visions (San Francisco CA: HarperSanFrancisco, 1999), 111–27, here: 125. 106  These scholars find that almost “every detail of the resurrection of Jesus in one Gospel is contradicted in another Gospel”. J. S. Spong, Why Christianity Must Change or Die: A Bishop Speaks to Believers in Exile (San Francisco CA: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998), 15. 107   D. C.  Allison, ‘Explaining the Resurrection: Conflicting Convictions’, JSHJ  3 (2005), 117–33, here: 117. 108  See Licona, The Resurrection of Jesus; S. J.  Joseph, ‘Redescribing the Resurrection: Beyond the Methodological Impasse?’, in BTB 45 (2015), 155–73. 109 Allison, Resurrecting Jesus, 215.

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istic explanation of the resurrection but an explanation for the conviction of a resurrection as such.110 The data is not about an event that could merely be dis/ confirmed, but about events that were interpreted to constitute a resurrection. In fact, it recognises that the claim that Jesus was resurrected is itself a local explanation of particular experiences. Therefore, it does not aim to confirm or disconfirm what the “informants” claim but to complicate the story and offer a range of perspectives and arguments in order to make sense of the complex human phenomena that are implicated in the accounts. It will be done by means of three sets of arguments. 1. Visionary Experiences as a Basis for Creating Reality Visual experiences are a normal and natural human potential that play a role in many healthy psychological processes. Although the term hallucination111 has a strong pejorative connotation and is still often used in pathological settings only,112 many scholars nowadays realise that nonpathological hallucinations are not only different but probably also numerically by far the majority of instances.113 Nevertheless, the term will be avoided. I leave aside Winkelmann’s integrated modes of consciousness (IMC), as this would complicate things.114 110  Scott moves close to this position by arguing that we should not assume the resurrection accounts are about Jesus being raised from the dead. However, based on the texts themselves, he argues that all the references to Jesus’ resurrection are literary and metaphorical creations that object to the presence of Rome’ empire (B. B. Scott, The Trouble with Resurrection: From Paul to the Fourth Gospel [Salem OR: Polebridge, 2010], 223). Elsewhere he states: “The gospel writers are not reporting real ASC experiences, but using ASC experiences, part of their cultural map, to construct their own literary stories of fictional ASC experiences” (B. B. Scott, ‘A Response to Pieter Craffert’, in The Fourth R 26/2 [2013], 15–6, here: 16). In this view the resurrection accounts are accounts of disguised anti-Roman imperialism. I do not know, based only on the texts or reports themselves, how anyone can determine whether any version of an ASC (or any other experience) is actual or fictional. Be that as it may, if the resurrection accounts are literary fabrications in protest against the Roman Empire, I do not see what an anthropological perspective can add except to contribute to the question of how fiction is used cross-culturally to create, transfer and maintain knowledge in a group. 111 Hallucination is a percept, experienced when awake, for which no external stimulus exists. See R. K. Siegel, ‘Hallucinations’, in Scientific American 237/4 (1977), 132–40, here: 132; F. Waters, D. Collerton, D. Ffytche, R. Jardri, D. Pins, R. Dudley, J. D.  Blom, U. P.  Mosimann, F. Eperjesi, S. Ford, F. Larøi, ‘Visual Hallucinations in the Psychosis Spectrum, and Comparative Information from Neurodegenerative Disorders and Eye Disease’, in Schizophrenia Bulletin 40/4 (2014), 1–26, here: 4. 112  See, e. g., R. C.  Teeple, J. P. Caplan, T. A.  Stern, ‘Visual Hallucinations: Differential Diagnosis and Treatment’, in Primary Care Companion to the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry 11/1 (2009), 26–32. 113  See T. M.  Luhrmann, ‘Hallucinations and Sensory Overrides’, in Annual Review of Anthropology 40 (2011), 71–85, here: 73. 114  Winkelman proposes a neurophenomenological approach for reconceptualising altered states of consciousness (ASCs) as biologically based functional modes of operation. It differs from the ASC paradigm which by definition takes ordinary waking consciousness as frame of departure. He suggests that there are four basic modes of consciousness that are all equally natu-

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Vision and visions rely on very similar brain processes but visions can be more real than ordinary vision. More than a hundred years ago William James pointed out that in such experiences (ASCs) the deities encountered are “deities-out-there” and the worlds visited are “worlds-out-there” and the journeys undertaken are with a “real” soul or “real body”, as the case may be.115 In fact, James says, they are “as convincing to those who have them as any direct sense experience can be, and they are, as a rule, much more convincing than results established by mere logic ever are”.116 Ultimately it is not the brain itself that can determine the reality of a visual perception – it is the consensus reality or intersubjective validation of a community that is the final arbiter. Elsewhere I have argued in great detail that our natural way of thinking about visual perception as merely registering the information that enters the eye and are transported as electrochemical impulses to the brain, has irrevocably been altered.117 Visual perception is a complex brain process that takes place in various brain areas at once and often from very limited and fragmented pieces of information the brain actually creates a comprehensive and coherent picture of objects. Motion, shape, size, colour, and face recognition to mention only a few features, are all located in specialised brain areas. At the same time it became known that many of these normal and natural features of visual perception can take place without any external stimuli. ral neural functions and reflect common underlying biological structures (M. J. Winkelman, ‘A Paradigm for Understanding Altered Consciousness: The Integrative Mode of Consciousness’, in E. Cardeña, M. Winkelman [eds.], Altering Consciousness: Multidisciplinary Perspectives. Vol 1: History, Culture, and the Humanities [Santa Barbara CA, Denver CO, Oxford: Praeger, 2011], 23–41, here: 29). He identifies four such modes of consciousness: waking, deep sleep, dreaming (REM sleep) and the integrative mode of consciousness (IMC). Within each of these modes of consciousness are found different states of consciousness (SoC) – for example, during sleep modes one may experience a variety of SoC such as sleep walking, nightmares and sleep paralysis. The IMC includes various SOC, such as, soul flight and possession. The IMC is characterised by the integration of various levels of the brain, display particular brain wave patterns and can be induced by a variety of agents or procedures. This mode of consciousness is the result of physiological mechanisms that are based in common neurochemical pathways involving the temporal lobes and limbic system that are disrupted by means of induction agents. The proposed theory postulates that the prefrontal cortex (PFC) is temporarily dysregulated and integration of brain processes dominated by the limbic system and lower brain regions. Basic human neural functions like memory consequently override the typical functions of the PFC, such as, willful action, self-awareness, attention and creative thought and planning. Dysregulation of the PFC result in self-experiences and views on the world based on more ancient brain functions uncontrolled by “reason”. A disruption of the frontal lobes and PFC result in a variety of phenomenological alterations of aspects of consciousness such as the experience of the self, others, the environment as well as the internal world of psychological structures (see ibid., 31–3). 115  See W. James, The Varieties of Religious Experience (New York: Modern Library, 1902), 75; C. D.  Laughlin, J. McManus, E. G. d’Aquili, Brain, Symbol & Experience: Towards a Neurophenomenology of Human Consciousness (Boston MA: Shambhala, 1990), 132, 270. 116  James, The Varieties of Religious Experience, 83. 117 See Craffert, ‘“I ‘Witnessed’ the Raising of the Dead”’, 7 ff.

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It is nowadays not only acknowledged that visions are a special and sought after category of consciousness in many cultures and played a significant role in human history118 and that some forms of these experiences are normal and psychologically helpful. For example, visual hallucinations during bereavement and during dangerous and painful situations (such as commonly referred to as near-death experiences) are seen as natural psychological processes instead of pathologies.119 The ethnographic record confirms that for many people on the planet dreams and visions are more real than ordinary waking life and serve to inform views on reality.120 An important implication should be kept in mind. Insider participants either do not know or do not care that what they report are visionary experiences. In polyphasic cultures ASCs, such as, dreams and visions are as legitimate and real in obtaining knowledge and information as perceptions in waking consciousness. In the words of Miller: “Many scholars have observed that members of indigenous communities may not draw distinctions between the validity of knowledge derived from visions, the intervention of immortal beings, and forces, intuition, dreams, and sensations of various sorts on the one hand, and knowledge gained in ‘everyday life’ on the other”.121 To be clear about this, it is not that they do not or cannot make a distinction between real seeing and visionary perceptions; it is only that visionary perceptions are (if approved) equally real and valid for obtaining knowledge. The point to be taken is that in such cultures and by such actors no distinction is necessarily made (or can be made) in narratives about events out there and events experienced in visions. ASCs are bodily ways of knowing – that is to say, they are empirical realities in that they are based on human senses and normal neural processes.122 Therefore, a neuroanthropological perspective enable us first of all to realise that visionary experiences could easily bring people, based on such experiences, to believe in a resurrection or the existence of spirits. Crossing over in anthropological research is a way to engage in embodied knowledge – the idea “of the body that literally embodies thoughts and ideas”.123 This is in fact confirmed by the examples of Grindal and Turner mentioned above. Grindal, while knowing that his experience was an ASC, points out: “In conclusion, I can say with intuitive certainty that on the night of 23 October O. Sacks, Hallucinations (New York: Picador, 2012). D. J.  Hufford, ‘Visionary Spiritual Experiences in an Enchanted World’, in Anthropology and Humanism 35 (2010), 142–58, here: 155. 120  See, e. g., Young, ‘Visitors in the Night’, 186; Laughlin, Communing with the Gods, 213. 121 Miller, ‘The Politics of Ecstatic Research’, 189. 122  See J.-G. A. Goulet, B. G.  Miller, ‘Embodied Knowledge: Steps Towards a Radical Anthropology of Cross-Cultural Encounters’, in Iid. (eds.), Extraordinary Anthropology: Transformations in the Field (Lincoln NE, London: University of Nebraska Press, 2006), 1–13, here: 9; Laughlin, Communing with the Gods, 113–4. 123 Goulet, Miller, ‘Embodied Knowledge’, 9. 118 See

119  See

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1967, I witnessed the raising of the dead. This experience was real and was seen as such by those who sat to my right in the divination place, as well as by the goka who conjured the miraculous transformations”.124 Turner is convinced that spirits exist because she herself saw and experienced a spirit coming out of a women’s back. Therefore, “the Africans were right, there is spirit stuff ” and it is not a matter of metaphor or symbol.125 Based on her experience Turner claims that spirits are real, they are present.126 In one of her descriptions of this event Turner remarks: “I believe that if I had tried to touch the grey form, my fingers would have gone through”127 – while immaterial, still real. The significance of these examples stretches beyond the interpretations offered by the experients (anthropologists) themselves in showing that (trans)personal experiences have the potential of altering ones view of the world and notion of reality. Many anthropologists who have had transpersonal experiences when crossing over confirm that it changed their lives. Glass-Coffin remarks about her existential experience: “That experience changed the way I view anthropology”.128 They share in what is called “participatory knowing” because when a culture’s alterity brushes off on anthropologists, they “become religious hybrids, or some betwixt and between the categories of scientific objectivity and ‘going native’”.129 However, these examples show that even Western trained scholars can become subject to powerful experiences that alter their view of the world and of themselves. In themselves these are potent examples of the power of experiences to create a sense of reality. Cross-cultural comparison show that such experiences are universal and form the rational basis for many anomalous beliefs. The reality of spirits and the reality of a soul and the reality of Jesus’ resurrection are all on an equal footing in that they depend on the mental processes based on normal brain processes.130 It would not be unreasonable to accept that Jesus’ followers could, based on such experiences, believed that he was resurrected. In fact, a whole set of conditions make it highly plausible. 2. Conditions Conducive for Visions Grindal accounts in detail the conditions under which he experienced death divination. His experience did not happen out of the blue but resulted from 124 Grindal,

‘Into the Heart of Sisala Experience’, 77. ‘The Reality of Spirits’, 9. 126  See ibid., 11. 127 E. Turner, ‘A Visible Spirit Form in Zambia’, in D. E. Young, J.-G. Goulet (eds.), Being Changed: The Anthropology of Extraordinary Experience (Peterborough: Broadview, 1994), 71–95, here: 94 n. 4. 128  Glass-Coffin, ‘Belief Is Not Experience’, 117. 129  Lahood, ‘One Hundred Years of Sacred Science’, 41. 130  See Hufford, ‘Visionary Spiritual Experiences in an Enchanted World’, 156; Winkelman, Baker, Supernatural as Natural, 46. 125 Turner,

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induction to Sisala culture and was accompanied by very specific local circumstances. Particular circumstances surrounded the events of 23 October 1967. The ceremony was preceded for Grindal by three days131 in which he as anthropologist attended a funeral in a nearby village. The circumstances on and preceding the evening of 23 October included that he did not eat much, slept poorly the previous nights, was deprived of privacy, for several hours was involved in burial and funeral practices of the clan, the smell, cries and blood of sacrificial animals and the dead was with him for the three days while being a spectator to rites (including the frenzied killing of a goat with their teeth) and ceremonies for the dead.132 Many more examples can be given to show that such experiences are part of social processes and often happen to prepared minds.133 Like the Sisala death divination, the visionary experiences of a resurrected Jesus did not just happened to anybody at no particular place. It happened to Jesus’ followers and there are at least three sets of conditions to be considered that suggest visions could plausibly happen to them. Not only are the visionary experiences themselves complex phenomena but they were part of other sets of complex cultural assumptions. It is in the multidimensionality of the phenomena that this kind of perspective becomes convincingly plausible. The first set of conditions regards the cultural conditions that enable visionary experiences contain at least three elements: the astronomical complex,134 afterlife beliefs135 and a dualist notion of the human being, body or self 136 and all three 131  Two‑ to three-day funeral ceremonies among the Sisala normally takes place in the dry season and include sacrifices, rites, such as bringing the effigy of the diseased in the form of clothes into an outer yard, and celebrations in the form of dancing and eating and do not necessarily coincide with burial. 132  See Grindal, ‘Into the Heart of Sisala Experience’, 61–7, 70, 77. 133  Glass-Coffin tells of her attempts over more than eighteen years in Peru of trying to cross over to shamanic states of consciousness. It only happened during a special ceremony and after she has internalised the beliefs associated with the experience of transformation. See Glass-Coffin, ‘Anthropology, Shamanism, and Alternate Ways of Knowing–Being in the World’, 209–10. 134 The first element of this pattern is the astronomical complex which refers to the whole set of ideas that divine beings, celestial bodies and deceased ancestors were composed of the same substance and that some human beings can be turned into celestial bodies or angels. See A. F. Segal, Life after Death: A History of the Afterlife in the Religions of the West (New York, London, Toronto, Sydney, Auckland: Doubleday, 2004), 265 and P. F. Craffert, The Life of a Galilean Shaman: Jesus of Nazareth in Anthropological-Historical Perspective (Eugene OR: Cascade, 2008), 193–6 for a detailed description. 135  Among notions of astral transformation and sleeping with the ancestors, resurrection from the dead developed in Second Temple Judaism as one pathway for the Israelite deceased. In other words, at the time it became an acceptable cultural conception for life after death (or the afterlife). It is no co-incidence that the idea of bodily resurrection was first expressed in Israelite religious documents in Daniel 12 as given by a revelation, since ASC experiences are closely associated with such beliefs. See Segal, Life after Death, 262–5, 324–5. 136  Such experiences are closely related to cultural notions about the human body (see Craffert, The Life of a Galilean Shaman, 174–7, 187–96). Without particular notions about human

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of these were closely associated with certain ASC’s. These were not independent or isolated beliefs because within their cycle of meaning, experiences confirmed beliefs and beliefs fed experiences. The conviction of Jesus’ resurrection took place in a setting that contained all these elements. The second set of conditions relate to the history of visions and very likely an expectation of visions in the Jesus movement. When placed within the larger narrative world of the Jesus movement it is clear that right from the start at Jesus’ baptism up to the early phases in the life of the early church, visionary experiences, revelations and dreams played a significant role in their everyday encounters. For example, when coming down the mountain after the transfiguration event, in Matthew (17:9) Jesus commanded the disciples: “Tell no one the vision”. Neither his nor any of the parallel narratives of this scene creates the impression that a visionary event was extraordinary or any different from any other kind of event narrated. Such experiences represent a cultural pattern that characterises the Jesus movement and from the beginning it was constitutive of what they claimed to know and believe. The third set of factors that contribute to appreciate the multidimensionality of the phenomena regards the bodily and material conditions conducive to visionary experiences. I have mentioned above the conditions under which Grindal experienced his vision. What were the physical conditions and circumstances of Jesus’ followers during and after his crucifixion? For example, where and how much did they sleep and eat during those days? We have no real detail to go on but it is worth reflecting about the possible conditions because if we want to understand human beings they must be bodily situated. According to the sources the night before his arrest Jesus experienced a vision during a sleepless (or sleep interrupted) night in the open air (Matt 26:36–46par.). Littlewood tells about his fieldwork among the Earth People in Trinidad. Like them he went naked and slept on the ground without any covering and although located in the tropics, it became very cold most nights. It made for interrupted sleep and long periods of trying to sleep while not certain whether he was sleeping and dreaming or awake. He remarks that it was a “situation ripe for a coalescence of physical life and dream-time visionary quest”.137 Even if they could buy food to eat in Jerusalem, apparently their treasurer has fled with the purse. The role of fasting and starvation for inducing visions is widely accepted in many cultures.138 So-called near-death experiences where being and the human body, afterlife ideas cannot exist. Put the other way round, a dualist notion of the human self is essential for these beliefs. The idea that the self can exist independent from the body is a prerequisite for any kind of afterlife existence. 137  R. Littlewood, ‘From Elsewhere: Prophetic Visions and Dreams Among the People of the Earth’, in Dreaming 14/2–3 (2004), 94–106, here: 106. 138  See J. Kroll, B. Bachrach, ‘Visions and Psychopathology in the Middle Ages’, in The Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease 170/1 (1982), 41–9, here:45; D. M. T. Fessler, ‘Starva-

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people record composite extra-corporeal experiences (being out of their bodies, bright lights, travelling through a tunnel, etc.) are often associated with fear and near-danger situations.139 Taken together, it is not surprising that some of Jesus’ followers could have had some kind of visionary experiences during such circumstances. Claims of a bodily resurrection did not happen to any human being. It happened to Jesus of Nazareth and was testified by his closest followers within a setting supporting such beliefs and experiences and conditions conducive to visionary experiences. 3. Culture Clues for Visionary Experiences in the Sources While none of the following examples provide conclusive evidence of visual hallucinations, they strongly suggest something to that effect. While certainly not part of the earliest manuscript tradition (due to text critical considerations), the longer ending of Mark contains summary reports of appearances to three distinct groups  – accidentally these are also the people mentioned in the other narrative reports. It is remarkable that the text repeatedly states (Mark 16:9, 12, 14) that these were appearances or revelations (φανερόω). At least twelve individuals or groups of people are credited in the canonical texts with “having seen Jesus”, or, of “having had visions of Jesus”. In addition to his own visionary experience, Paul mentions in 1 Corinthians 15 appearances to Cephas (v. 5) and James (v. 6), the twelve (v. 5) and the apostles (v. 7) and to five hundred brothers (v. 6). When defending Jesus’ resurrection in 1 Corinthians 15, Paul is convinced about it because of these (visionary) experiences. While it is impossible to reconcile the data if these were reports about actual vision events, what remains constant is that some women had visionary encounters of Jesus (John 20:11 and Matt 28:2). In fact, in both cases side-by-side to having seen Jesus, the women are reported to also have seen angels (or in the Lucan version [24:4], two men in dazzling apparel). When referring to the women’s experience, Luke explicitly says that they saw “a vision of angels” (24:23). There is no reason to think that seeing Jesus was any different from seeing the angels or men. If the resurrection accounts are taken as reports about actual events, it remains remarkable that an author can in such a casual way add that while certain things were happening (seeing, hugging and talking to Jesus), Mary Magdalene also had a vision of angels. tion, Serotonin, and Symbolism: A Psychobiocultural Perspective on Stigmata’, in Mind and Society 3/2 (2002), 81–96, here: 83–4. 139 See E. Cardeña, ‘The Etiologies of Dissociation’, in S. Krippner, S. M. Powers (eds.), Broken Images, Broken Selves: Dissociative Narratives in Clinical Practice (Washington DC: Brunner/Mazel, 1997, 61–87, here: 68; V. Charland-Verville, J.-P. Jourdan, M. Thonnard, D. Ledoux, A.-F. Donneau, E. Quertemont, S. Laureys, ‘Near-Death Experiences in NonLife Threatening Events and Coma of Different Etiologies’, in Frontiers in Human Neuroscience 8 (2014), 1–8, here: 2.

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It is possible that the Marcan reference to the two disciples walking into the country (Mark 16:12) is a reference to the Lucan story about the Emmaus account that is clearly presented as a visionary encounter. Jesus’ appearance to Cleopas in the Emmaus story also demonstrates remarkable aspects of the seeing because apart from the fact that Jesus suddenly appears, he was not immediately recognised and appeared and disappeared randomly (Luke 24:13–35). According to the Marcan (16:12) account he appeared to them in “another form” (ἐν ἕτερᾳ μορφῃ) – a feature associated with visionary experiences.140 It is clear that for Paul his own as well as the resurrection appearances to the other disciples were not normal events of visual perception but visions or revelations in which God revealed his Son – deduced from the passive verb ὤφθη used four times in 1 Cor 15). In 1 Cor 9:1 he affirms that he has seen (ὁράω) Jesus while in Gal 1:12 he calls his vision a revelation (ἀποκάλυψις). Paul probably was fully convinced about what he saw (as Grindal was) and that was that Jesus was resurrected. In the Gospels three different locations are mentioned for the appearances to the disciples: Jerusalem (John 20:19–23), somewhere between Jerusalem and Emmaus (Luke 24:13–35) and Galilee (Luke 24:36–49par., John 21:1). These engagements with Jesus all contain elements typical of visionary encounters, such as, a lack of immediate recognition of his face or his ability to travel (in the visions) through closed doors or thin air. The Gospels all contain and agree on the fact that Jesus appeared to his first followers while John (21:1) explicitly states that Jesus revealed himself. Matthew (28:16) mentions that it was on a mountain – a setting conducive to visionary experiences. In fact, in Matthew’s account of visionary experiences started already at the time of Jesus’ death when a number of saints emerged (in a vision) from their tombs (27:52–3). 4. Summary Remarks Taken together the three sets of arguments, the cultural assumptions together with the circumstances and conditions, make it highly plausible that after his death some of Jesus’ followers experienced visions. They clearly lived in a polyphasic world where dreams and visions contributed to their picture of reality.

III. The Resurrection Accounts as Residues of Visionary Encounters If some of Jesus’ followers experienced visions after his death, what were they like and how did they end up in the kind of accounts that we have today? At first sight 140   See J. J.  Pilch, ‘Appearances of the Risen Jesus in Cultural Context: Experiences of Alternate Reality’, in BTB 28 (1998), 52–60, here: 58; P. F. Craffert, ‘“Seeing” a Body Into Being: Reflections on Scholarly Interpretations of the Nature and Reality of Jesus’ Resurrected Body’, in R&T 9 (2002), 89–107, here: 101.

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two simple questions but in reality they point towards extremely complex phenomena. I am not referring to the complexity of the content of the resurrection accounts which we know contain numerous unsolvable problems. For example, those who are credited to have “seen” Jesus were either a group of women or only one female and his disciples – either individually or as a group. What they saw included angels, Jesus at the tomb and Jesus elsewhere. Activities in the visions included hugging Jesus and talking to him, walking with him, eating with him, and being taught by Jesus. The teaching/instruction include directions to the disciples for meeting Jesus, encouragement, exposition of the Scriptures and a commission to mission. Since we have very little to go on, it is necessary to apply ethnographic analogy141 and imagine what the case could have been like. How did visions develop into the extant resurrection narrative accounts? My suggestion is that one or more visions were turned into visionary encounters which resulted in multiple narratives about what was seen. First of all, these are not first-person accounts (like Grindal’s version) and not even reports about such accounts (of the kind: Grindal told me that he saw this and that). If they reflect visionary experiences, they are third person narratives not about the visions but about visionary encounters. A vision takes place in someone’s head and remains private until shared with others when it turns into a visionary encounter. A visionary encounter is a social process. We know from anthropological research that dreams and visions only become shared knowledge via social and cultural processes of sharing, interpretation and retelling. Goulet, for example, explains in detail how his involvement with Guajiro dreaming took many years of training in which he “became aware of, and came to participate in, a complex system of dreaming and dream telling”.142 Relaying a dream or vision is a social process and the visionary accounts reported by third party persons are not verbatim reports about the vision but the encounter. Secondly, without an audience who responds and shares it, a visions remains a private experience in one’s head. Recall Grindal’s vision above. He could only arrive at the conclusion that his vision was shared by clan members after publicly sharing it (in which it became the group’s property) and was affirmed. Therefore, imagine for a moment a third person report about it. Once his vision was authenticated, reports about it were no longer of the kind Grindal had a vision in which he saw but rather Grindal, together with our elders, saw our leader playing 141  The way in which anthropological insights can be applied to the study of texts is by means of the methods of ethnographic and ethnological analogy often applied by archaeologists. In an imaginative way New Testament scholars can learn by comparing the society they are studying with ethnographic descriptions of recent or contemporary cultures (see Winkelman, Baker, Supernatural as Natural, 18–9). One way of doing this is to ask about what kind of human activity or experience is this texts a residue or product. 142   J.-G. A.  Goulet, ‘Dreams and Visions in Other Lifeworlds’, in Young, Goulet (eds.), Being Changed Pages, 16–38, here 22.

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the drum. It does not mean that other people had similar visions at the same moment but that his shared experience became group knowledge by means of a social process. Once shared and accepted third person reports would simply confirm that they saw the drummer playing. My suggestion is that the resurrection accounts should be seen as third person narratives not of a vision but about visionary encounters. What is reported is neither visual perceptions nor “the vision” but what the vision(s) contained. This can thirdly be illustrated by means of the claim of so-called “group-, or collective visions”. According to the narrative reports, Jesus was not only seen multiple times (what I will call “multiple visions”) but even by groups of followers (e. g., “he appeared to the eleven themselves as they sat at table”, Mark 16:14) what will be called “collective visions”. Evangelical or conservative New Testament scholars go out of their way to discredited the idea that groups of people may experience similar visions. Bergeron and Habermas, for example say: “Collective hallucination as an explanation for the disciples’ post-crucifixion group experiences of Jesus is indefensible”.143 Besides the fact that they define it in a way that it is impossible to fulfil (“simultaneous identical collective hallucinations”), they claim that peer-reviewed medical literature does not recognise the category and that it is not part of current psychiatric understanding of hallucinations. This is also argued by Licona who counters the idea that each disciple experienced an individual hallucination “at the same time”.144 Multiple visions of the same figure is actually undisputed, as is testified by the many visitations of Jesus or the Mother Mary through the ages. But there are also examples of multiple visions within particular circumstances. During the siege of Jerusalem in 1098, under stressful circumstances, numerous people at different occasions saw the deceased Bishop of Le Puy from Antioch to appear at different places in the Holy City.145 Collective visions also are not unusual. O’Connell investigated instances of group visions and concludes: “The popular argument that the resurrection appearances could not have been hallucinations because collective hallucinations are impossible should be abandoned; for an examination of the group religious visions considered above reveals that collective hallucinations, while certainly unusual events, have occurred”.146 It is a feature 143  J. W.  Bergeron, G. R.  Habermas, ‘The Resurrection of Jesus: A Clinical Review of Psychiatric Hypotheses for the Biblical Story of Easter’, in ITQ 80 (2015), 157–72. 144  Licona, The Resurrection of Jesus, 485. 145 See Kroll, Bachrach, ‘Visions and Psychopathology in the Middle Ages’, 45. 146 J. O’Connell, ‘Jesus’ Resurrection and Collective Hallucinations’, in TynBull 60 (2009), 69–105, here: 105. just does not think the visions of Jesus were group hallucinations. This is based on the random argument that if they were hallucinations (visions), Jesus must have appeared in a glorious form (spectacular, illuminated, majestic) and since that is not the case, these were not hallucinations. See ibid., 91–2. For more examples of group visions, see Young, ‘Visitors in the Night’, 181–2.

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of group visions that people see it differently and they see different things.147 Group visions such as the Emmaus story (Luke 24:13–35) and the accounts of the appearances to the eleven disciples (Luke 24:36–43par.) are not impossible. However, this line of argument is to still confuse characters in a vision with people having visions. It should be taken seriously that a vision is not a perception of something else, but is itself the event constituting reality. Where “ghosts and spirits are as ‘real’ as merchants and clients”148 all features experienced in visual hallucinations obtain reality value. What happens in a vision is what happened; it merely transpires because in polyphasic cultures it is a different source of social knowledge. This is what it means to take the idea of polyphasic cultures seriously: what is seen in a vision is reported in a narrative as what has happened. When Turner saw the spirit emerging she would have received general approval from the group, even if most of them were not experiencing a vision at that time. Therefore, if Jesus spoke to Satan after his baptism, then that is what he did, he spoke to Satan. If Jesus was seen sharing a meal with his followers, that is what happened: he ate fish with his disciples. Seeing the eleven engaging with Jesus in a vision can easily turn into a narrative about the appearance to the eleven – if they “ate” with him they obviously “saw” him. Our challenge is to move beyond the idea that the resurrection accounts are reports about events that took place and imagine them as narratives generated by visionary encounters. Thus, instead of seeing the resurrection accounts as reports of events that took place (trips to a tomb and Emmaus and encounters with Jesus) sprinkled with some mythical elements (discussion with an angel or non-human beings in white clothes), my suggestion is that we look at the data as residues of visionary experiences which contain encounters with Jesus and/or with angels (or beings in white robes) as well as events taking place in the visions (eating, touching and teaching). What was seen in the visions were reported as what had transpired. By means of ethnographic analogy I am trying to convey what it looks like if we see these text as residues of real human activities (visions turned into visionary encounters) that are embedded and embodied in particular people and not as reports about a miraculous event that took place somewhere in first-century Palestine.

IV. Concluding Remarks Despite the fact that they find it hard to know what anthropology is and impossible to formulate the anthropological perspective, New Testament scholarship can

 See O’Connell, ‘Jesus’ Resurrection and Collective Hallucinations’, 85. ‘Dreams and Visions in Other Lifeworlds’, 16.

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148 Goulet,

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still benefit a great deal from the anthropological enterprise.149 This enterprise is first and foremost testimony to the many ways in which anthropologists struggle to come to terms with cultural differences, the cultural gap and ethnocentrism. It confronts us first and foremost with the challenge of coming to terms with the reality of the subjects in their own lifeworld. A neuroanthropological perspective offers an interdisciplinary attempt to overcome the shortcomings of both ethnocentrism and relativism by treating the data as the product of complex human processes from a different lifeworld. From this perspective brief concluding remarks can be made both on the resurrection accounts and resurrection scholarship. In order to grasp what the texts are about, it is suggested that they should literally be re-visioned as narratives about visions which were turned into visionary encounters and ultimately into resurrection narratives. This perspective of the resurrection accounts does not provide tools and insights to dis/confirm the “events” described in the texts but instead to understand them as reports about visual encounters that functioned in their world to instil the belief that Jesus was resurrected. From one, but probably more than one visionary experience after Jesus’ death, his followers were engaged in visionary encounters which served as the source for the various narratives of Jesus’ appearances. For them it probably was not a leap of faith to conclude from such engagements that Jesus was alive, encountered (talked, touched, seen) and resurrected. Something really happened to the disciples and that something included visions and the social processes of visionary encounters and resurrection narratives. From this point of view it is secondly interesting to reflect about New Testament scholarship which takes the confession of Jesus’ resurrection (Christian tradition) as framework in order to argue for or against the historicity of the resurrection as an event. It departs from the position of the Christian tradition and takes the insider’s view that the resurrection accounts are about an event (or events) that can either be confirmed or disconfirmed for granted. For anthropologists the cultural shock which leads to the problem of other cultures normally comes with being immersed in an alien and strange life-world. Although reading ancient texts is not the same as fieldwork, from a neuroanthropological perspective the absence of any awareness in NT scholarship that the content of the resurrection accounts might come from a different and alien cultural world would 149  Two significant differences between them should, however, be kept in mind here. The first is that anthropology study humans not texts; that is, human beliefs and actions as they manifest in real life situations. Even though anthropology includes the study of texts and artifacts, it only studies these as residues of the great diversity of human ways of life. Secondly, unlike anthropologists, NT scholars cannot do fieldwork or observe human beings. Therefore, New Testament scholarship does not really have sufficient data to do the kind of analyses expected from an anthropological perspective. Nevertheless, a neuroanthropological perspective offers an interdisciplinary framework for performing an ethnographic analogy.

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be remarkable. At the very least New Testament scholarship can learn a great deal from the anthropological enterprise by complexifying the insiders’ views. But the comparison goes further. At first sight it might be tempting to equate conservative and evangelical NT scholars who seek to show that Jesus’ resurrection was literally true and an event in history with anthropologists going native. However, anthropologists like Grindal and Turner crossing over, provided versions of reality that were obtained through transpersonal experiences and not reflection. To speculate along these lines: had such an anthropologist been present after Jesus’ death, it could have happened that s/he also crossed over and saw Jesus in a visionary experience. But this is not what conservative and evangelical scholars affirm since they are more like xenocentric anthropologists turning back onto their own culture in adopting the cultural viewpoint of the other. Instead of affirming the reality of a native experience, they affirm the truth of a believed tradition. There is also an interesting parallel between critical NT scholars and the majority of anthropologist adopting cultural constructivism. The latter represent a blend of ethnocentrism and relativism while acting from the position of the cultural gap (I write it down without believing it). Critical NT scholars take the resurrection accounts literally (though false  – “it did not really happen”) and translate them into social processes – like relativistic anthropologists they find myths, delusions, superstition, legends or metaphors or literary creations when being confronted with the resurrection accounts but without taking them seriously as human phenomena (at least not in the comprehensive sense suggested above). As with conservative scholars the content of the texts and not the complex processes that generated them, are taken seriously. To denigrate all visions as delusions or hallucinations is the same as to disregard the cultural explanations, experiences and construction of reality of the other. The common denominator in these scholarly positions on visions is not only the opposition between hallucinations and real seeing, but the inability to realise that for others in polyphasic cultures, visions can indeed constitute cultural realities. Without the theoretical tools for understanding polyphasic cultural systems the myth of realism inevitably follows: texts are treated as if they are talking about events in (our) common world and without the realisation that for them visions could indeed have constituted true and reliable features about the world. In contrast, I am suggesting that Jesus’ resurrection was real (in the neuroanthropological sense) in that the visionary encounters were instances where embodied knowledge created community knowledge. Something happened to the disciples (not to Jesus) which was different than mere hallucinations. There was a materiality (neurological and social) to their alteration of consciousness. A recognition that the texts we read probably are the product of people who lived in a completely different cultural world and consensus reality and that they could have been produced by means of the complex processes of visionary encounters

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calls for a revisioning of received scholarship that is merely concerned with the content of the accounts. When the human phenomena behind the resurrection accounts are re-visioned, it leads to a revisioning of traditional scholarship.

Response

Being Undisciplined: An Anthropologist’s Response Simon Coleman The contributors to this volume would not call themselves anthropologists, but their task is nonetheless a deeply anthropological one: to introduce the contemporary reader to the unfamiliarity of the world of the Gospels, while showing how such unfamiliarity is nonetheless comprehensible within scholarly categories of understanding. The hermeneutics involved in the project involve a process of double translation: of anthropology into the language and research designs of scholars of early Christianity, and of the Gospels into the contextual and comparative – and sometimes universalizing – frameworks that are the basis of an anthropological approach. In the following, I begin by exploring how members of my own discipline have approached the study of Holy Scripture (including the Gospels), and of Christianity as a whole. I highlight both the recurring themes and some of the omissions in such work, and suggest that a significant divide exists between an anthropology of Scripture and one of Christianity. This distinction rests largely (if unsurprisingly) on the extent to which researchers use – or neglect – the role of sacred text in their analysis of religion. Such reflections contextualize my subsequent comments on how the authors in this volume draw upon, but also extend, anthropological work. In other words, I do not see contributors as merely invoking the discipline; they are also powerfully demonstrating its salience in scholarly areas that go beyond the competencies of most ethnographers. Finally, I briefly suggest one particular way in which an anthropology of Christianity and the study of Christian origins – mediated through the Gospels – might find further common ground.

I. Anthropologies of Scripture and Christianity As the fledgling discipline of anthropology emerged in the latter half of the nineteenth-century, Victorian scholars attempted to establish a new science for understanding humanity.1 The perceived scope of human history was widening in the light of new textual, archaeological, and ethnological data, and was 1 See,

for example, G. Stocking, Victorian Anthropology (New York: The Free Press, 1987).

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also becoming more intellectually and morally challenging in the harsh light of evolutionary theory. “Darwin’s Dangerous Idea”2 did more than suggest that humanity’s origins were much older than had been thought: it also presented an inherently unsettling picture of the processual character of all existence. As Darwin realized, at least in private, a parallel inquiry had now been opened up about the supposed unique qualities of both Christianity and humanity: Did the Christian faith transcend all other belief-systems; and were humans inherently superior to the animal world? Or were disturbing similarities to other religions and other species all too obvious? The Darwinian challenge was soon adapted to fit the procrustean demands of social evolutionism.3 Cross-cultural and historical evidence could be interpreted as supporting unilinear assumptions about the increasing elaboration and complexification of human institutions, including not only kinship, politics, and economics, but also religion. “Western” culture, including Christianity, was temporarily restored to a space on top of the cultural, technological, and moral ladder of human development: unpredictable “process” was morphed into reassuring “progress”. Yet, the very acceptance of progressionism4 involved acknowledging the inevitability of chronic transformation in all areas of human life. Evolutionary frameworks thus raised awkward historical questions not only about the precariousness of Western institutions, but also about Scripture as containing either antecedents to the present or exemplars for the future: To what extent did both Old and New Testaments retain “primal” pagan residues?5 Was Christianity less the culmination of religious development, and more a passing phase? Indeed, was all religion, in a kind of intellectualist zero-sum game, likely to be superseded by the reasoning power of science? All of these questions were salient to the new students of humanity, who could not ignore the implications of their work for established religion. In his important Marett Lecture on “Anthropologists and the Bible”, Adam Kuper argues that the Victorian discipline was shaped by its relationship to, and understandings of, the Holy Scriptures, even as it attempted to shape such understandings.6 For many of these scholars, missionary fieldwork provided examples of “false” religions – riddled by totems, taboos, brutal sacrifice, the irrationalities of magical thought  – against which ancient  D. C. Dennett, Darwin’s Dangerous Idea (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1995).

2

3 As proposed by such figures as James Frazer and Edward Tylor in Britain, and Lewis Henry

Morgan in the United States. 4  See M. Ruse, Monad to Man: The Concept of Progress in Evolutionary Biology (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1996). 5 Thus, E. B. Tylor, author of Primitive Culture, was concerned to show how anthropology might identify “the vestiges of ancient cults haunting even the most advanced religions”. See A. Kuper, ‘Anthropologists and the Bible: The Marett Lecture, April 2012’, in R. Darnell, F. W.  Gleach (eds.), Local Knowledge, Global Stage (Lincoln NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2016). 6 Ibid., passim.

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Judaism could be seen, by contrast, as “the prototype of authentic religion”.7 Even so, the authentic prototype might still be marked by traces of earlier, primitive customs. Kuper notes that the Scottish ethnologist John McLennan “suggested in passing that the serpent story in Genesis may have had a totemic significance”.8 But it was McLennan’s friend, William Robertson Smith, who famously linked totemism to sacrifice. Robertson Smith termed the latter “the typical form of all complete acts of worship in the antique religions”,9 and showed how it formed a resonant, if problematic, bridge between religious worlds, practiced not only in pagan Rome, but also in the Jerusalem temple. It evoked the idea of communion between divinity and assembled worshippers; and if this idea were extended to include the notion of a God who was willing to become a martyr, it might indeed foreshadow “the deepest thought in the Christian doctrine: the thought that the Redeemer gives Himself for his people”.10 Such foreshadowing was not necessarily perceived in a positive light. James Frazer’s The Golden Bough provided an exhaustive literary journey through numerous religious practices around the world, claiming to discern basic trajectories of human thought, before depositing the reader back in Italy.11 In claiming to have finally unravelled the puzzle of the killing of the priest at the Roman shrine at Nemi (another sacrifice), Frazer was equating a myth about an obscure, ritual assassination carried out by pagan ancestors with the fate of a figure much more familiar to his readers, that of Christ himself. The implication was that both were equally appropriate objects of the anthropological gaze; He also implied that both religious practice and belief should be consigned to a more superstitious past.12 If Frazer’s aim was to cut Christianity down to size, his weapon was the comparative method, which could slice swiftly across culture, time, and space. The very superficiality of the method’s engagement with individual ethnographic examples aided the intellectual purpose of divining patterns across human societies, past and present, since it flattened out essential differences among the prac Ibid., 5.  Ibid., 7.  9  W. Robertson Smith, Lectures on the Religion of the Semites (Edinburgh: A. and C. Black, 1894), 214. Quoted in Kuper, ‘Anthropologists and the Bible’, 9. 10 Robertson Smith, quoted ibid., 10. 11  J. G.  Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Comparative Religion (London: Macmillan, 1890). 12 Frazer was making this point at the end of a century which had also seen the controversial historicizing of the Bible, the development of archaeological and textual techniques to subject sacred Christian text to secular analysis, as well as Marxist characterizations of Christianity as mystification, even though Marx’s colleague, Friedrich Engels, also perceived early Christianity as the socialism of its time. On Frazer, see also R. Ackerman, J. G. Frazer: His Life and Work (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987). For an important recent work, see T. Larsen, The Slain God: Anthropologists and the Christian Faith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014).  7  8

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tices being surveyed.13 Yet, the strategy of flitting unapologetically between case studies, and the associated search for origins in order to demonstrate subsequent progress, came to seem deeply anachronistic in a discipline that was schooling itself through the challenges of direct, extended, observational fieldwork. Anthropology would remain a comparative discipline in the twentieth-century, but its distinctive and emergent functionalist method was constructed around the idea of context. The latter involved the need to draw an observational and epistemological boundary around the social, spatial, and cultural object of study – be it tribe, village, or institution – in order to reveal its internal rationale. This new anthropological gaze was far less likely to place its faith in “things unseen” – such as speculation about origins – and much more given to fixing its gaze on what it could directly view, and record, in the present.14 Emphasis on the close study of (frequently) non-literate societies established the credentials of a discipline now eager to separate itself not only from Christian mission, but also from Christian themes. The urge (or duty) to invoke biblical religion for comparative purposes had passed.15 As Fenella Cannell points out, “Social science takes some of its earliest and most important steps toward a separate disciplinary identity by means of a unilateral declaration of independence from metaphysics, including Christian theology”.16 It is therefore striking that the next major focus on the Scriptures in anthropological scholarship coincided with a methodological shift that rendered sacred text newly accessible to a rather different form of analysis. Certain proponents of Symbolic and Structuralist Anthropology in the 1960s and 1970s rediscovered the Bible, but viewed it less as history or theology and more as a collection of “myths” – powerfully resonant narratives that might reveal the workings of the human mind, while also legiti13  As discussed in R. Willerslev, ‘Frazer Strikes Back from the Armchair: A New Search for the Animist Soul’, in Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 17 (2011), 504–26. 14  Thus, Kuper notes Wittgenstein’s contempt for The Golden Bough, and its inability to take into account the links between meaning and context. See Kuper, ‘Anthropologists and the Bible’, 14. 15  Even when biblical links were asserted, the circumstances were rather unusual. Thus, the Africanist Edward Evans-Pritchard confesses in Nuer Religion, that “I sometimes draw comparisons between Nuer and Hebrew conceptions … because I myself find it helpful, and I think others may do so too, in trying to understand Nuer ideas to note this likeness to something with which we are ourselves familiar without being too intimately involved in it” (E. Evans-­ Pritchard, Nuer Religion [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1956], vii; quoted in Kuper, ‘Anthropologists and the Bible’, 15). In Kuper’s interpretation, one of Evans-Pritchard’s motivations, as a Roman Catholic convert, was to imply that the Nuer possessed “a sort of pre-knowledge of scriptural truths” (ibid.). But, as Kuper also indicates, the last sentences of the book end with a necessary parting of the ways, as Evans-Pritchard states on page 322 that the meaning of Nuer rites “depends finally on an awareness of God and that men are dependent on him and must be resigned to his will. At this point the theologian takes over from the anthropologist”. 16  F. Cannell, ‘The Anthropology of Christianity’, in Id. (ed.), The Anthropology of Christianity (Durham NC: Duke University Press, 2008), 14.

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mating and guiding social action. Ronald Hendel17 notes that Mary Douglas, one of the leading figures in this field, acknowledged her lack of linguistic skills, and yet still justified her studies of Holy Scripture: My personal project in the study of the Bible is to bring anthropology to bear on the sources of our own civilization. This is in itself enough of an explanation for having to learn Hebrew. But there is more. In pre-Enlightenment Europe, other religions were condemned as false, even as evil; the Enlightenment changed the condemnation to irrational superstition. Neither stance was conducive to understanding. The practice of anthropology has been to provide a critical, humane, and sensitive interpretation of other religions.18

One of Douglas’ most famous analyses, although one that she herself later criticized, involved an interpretation of the laws of Kashrut and the associated biblical abominations of Leviticus.19 To explain why certain animals were deemed impure by the Israelites, Douglas maintained that they subscribed to a cosmological schema that expressed their acute concerns over social boundaries and the need to create an ordered picture of the universe. What is significant here is not so much the detail of the argument, but the intellectual vista that it opened up.20 In Purity and Danger, Douglas demonstrated how the taboos of the ancient Israelites could be systematically compared and contrasted with other systems of ritual regulation and culturally-bound perception evident among Irish Catholics, Hindus, and even supposedly secular Western urbanites. On the one hand, Douglas’ concerns were not so far from those of Frazer: magic, taboo, and modes of thought. On the other, her analysis was rooted in establishing detailed links between cosmology and social context. Furthermore, for her, much of the anti-ritualism of contemporary Western discourse derived not from “common-sense” or scientific rationality, but from Protestant assumptions and taboos that underlay the cosmology of Western modernity. If Douglas had a Roman Catholic, as well as a Durkheimian, axe to grind in her analysis of Scripture, Edmund Leach, her contemporary, adopted a more provocatively secularist and structuralist viewpoint. Leach’s Frazer lecture, given in 1982,21 re-examined the latter’s juxtaposition of the crucifixion of Christ with 17  R. Hendel, ‘Mary Douglas and Anthropological Modernism’, in The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 8 (2008), 1–11, here: 2. 18  M. Douglas, ‘Why I Have to Learn Hebrew’, in T. Ryba, G. D.  Bond, H. Tull (eds.), The Comity and Grace of Method: Essays in Honor of Edmund F. Perry (Evanston IL: Northwestern University Press, 2004), 151. Quoted in Hendel, ‘Mary Douglas and Anthropological Modernism’, 2. 19 M. Douglas, Purity and Danger (London: Routledge, 1966), 69–70. 20 Hendel argues that in certain respects this anthropological approach is a refinement of the critical method in biblical studies developed by Spinoza, Herder, and others, which involved addressing the Bible’s meanings within its own semantic and cultural horizons: see Hendel, ‘Mary Douglas and Anthropological Modernism’, 2. 21  Finally published online as E. Leach, ‘Kingship and Divinity’, in HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 1, at http://www.haujournal.org/index.php/hau/article/view/hau1.1.012/1106

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other ethnographic cases of the slaying of Divine Kings. While Leach praised Frazer’s analytical acumen, he also mocked the latter’s free-wheeling use of analogy, and added in typically uncompromising fashion that any quest for the “historical” Jesus would be utterly misguided. For Leach, “The story of the Crucifixion is a myth, a sacred tale which justifies the performance of a sacrament”.22 In Structuralist Interpretations of Biblical Myth,23 written with Alan Aycock, he further stated that the Bible should be read in its entirety and synchronically, so that the binary oppositions and mediations that formed structural patterns across the text could be detected. One of Leach’s most famous analyses concerned “Virgin Birth”,24 where he argued that stories of the ignorance of the facts of paternity among “primitive” peoples should not be taken literally, but interpreted in light of similar tales concerning the miraculous birth of deities in supposedly higher religions, including Christianity. Such accounts were fundamentally about creating and reconciling opposed categories, expressing the anomalous and yet powerful character of the divine as it descended to earth. Although very different in religious outlook, Leach and Douglas shared the anthropological mission of demonstrating that “savage minds” exhibited modes of thought recognizable to those of modern readers. Examination of Christianity and its Scriptures revealed kinship with other cosmologies, not uniqueness or superiority. This is not to say that Lévi-Strauss, the founder of French structuralism, agreed with this approach. According to Kuper, for Lévi-Strauss the problem was that the Bible had been distorted by its editors. Moreover, the lack of direct ethnographic information meant that reliable interpretation was very difficult to achieve.25 Nonetheless, other anthropologists, such as Seth Kunin (1995) and Maureen Bloom (2007), have subsequently deployed structuralist methods in biblical research, often with a greater command of relevant languages than those displayed by Douglas or Leach. In the context of this volume, Kuper’s conclusions to his Marett Lecture provide a significant critique of anthropological work. His statement that “The anthropology of religion was shaped by a certain understanding of the bible” places much weight on the word “certain”, indicating the limitations of such research. Thus, one “strange” neglect for Kuper has been the lack of work specifically on the Gospels, despite the occasional allusions to Virgin Birth and Crucifixion. The Old Testament has generally proved a more fertile hunting ground for anthropologists, allowing them to harken back to themes originally raised by Victorian 22 Ibid.

23 E. Leach, A. Aycock, Structuralist Interpretation of Biblical Myth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 24  E. Leach, ‘Virgin Birth’, in Proceedings of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland (1966), 39–49. 25  C. Lévi-Strauss, ‘De la fidélité au texte’, L’homme 27 (1987), 117–40. Quoted in Kuper, ‘Anthropologists and the Bible’, 21.

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interest in “primitive religion” and associated topics of totem, taboo, sacrifice, magic and myth. Kuper adds, “To a remarkable extent the anthropology of the bible has constituted a single discourse for 150 years, so that the ghosts of Ro­ bertson Smith, Frazer and Marett would find recent contributions rather familiar, perhaps even persuasive. This is not altogether reassuring”. A notable area of anthropological study that Kuper does not address is the emergence over the past two decades of “the anthropology of Christianity”. Although this sub-field might appear to be closely allied with the anthropology of the Bible, significant distinctions are evident. As the “comparative” was replaced by the more “contextual” method in the inter-war years of the twentieth-century, many ethnographers failed to follow up on the challenge to subject lived-Christianities to a detailed analysis. To be sure, Christian cultural influences were typically present during fieldwork, spread through missionary efforts that had often attempted to establish a scripturally-based technology of religious reproduction in previously non-literate societies. Yet, ethnographers preferred not to examine linkages between local worlds and globalizing religion. An anthropology of non-Western worlds was one that celebrated the continuity, resilience, rootedness, and integrity of the smaller-scale cultures being explored. Given these reservations, it is significant that the study of Christianity emerged after World War II out of regional, as opposed to religious, interests. For instance, the anthropology of the Mediterranean established its credentials by carrying out research on rural, relatively remote areas: this work could hardly avoid drawing on Christianity, but tended not to make it a prime focus. Thus, Jean Peristiany’s edited volume Honour and Shame located such values26 within Catholic and Orthodox practices, but also perceived them as operating in non-Christian parts of the Mediterranean, and originating from the small-scale, face-to-face relations regarded as still characterizing certain parts of southern Europe and North Africa. An incipient sense of a dedicated anthropology of Christianity could be traced in an influential, if maverick, text, produced by two anthropologists who had made their own journey from Marxism to Catholicism. Victor and Edith Turner’s Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture (1978) involved an attempt to transcend locality by examining Christianity across different parts of the world. Yet, the book remained conventional in its emphasis on Christianity as a “lived” cultural experience: its focus on pilgrimage encouraged an exploration of popular, rather than scripturally-oriented, dimensions of faith.27 To be sure, the anthropological work that subsequently challenged the Turnerian paradigm most 26  J. G. Peristiany (ed.), Honour and Shame: The Values of Mediterranean Society (Chicago IL: Chicago University Press, 1966). For discussions of shame in this volume, see chapters by e. g. Crook and Bazzana. 27  V. Turner, E. Turner, Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011).

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powerfully, John Eade’s and Mike Sallnow’s Contesting the Sacred, suggested that pilgrimages might be conceptualized as involving interaction among persons, places, and texts, presumably including the Holy Scriptures. But Eade and Sallnow did not follow up on their own recommendation.28 Soon after the publication of Contesting the Sacred, a self-conscious anthropology of Christianity did indeed begin to emerge.29 Scholars in the 1990s and 2000s could no longer ignore the salience of religion, including militant Christianity, in the public spheres of many societies, including those generally regarded as “modern”. Nor could they continue to fix their gaze exclusively on the local and/ or the non-Western. Intriguingly, the new scrutiny placed on global Christianity began to once again pose some significant questions about origins: not of religion this time, but of anthropology itself. As Cannell pointed out, the “anthropology of Christianity” was useful in unearthing the repressed “Christianity of anthropology” – a discipline that had ignored its religious roots in its attempt to assert itself as a secular social science.30 Among the themes explored by the new sub-field was the significance of language to the articulation of Christian belief and authority. However, the renewed focus on Christianity did not signal a return to studying Scripture as Holy Writ as a means of understanding the biblical world or the cultural presuppositions behind the authors of the Gospels31. Susan Harding’s celebrated The Book of Jerry Falwell was a case in point. While Harding focused on Bible stories in much of her analysis, these were presented as narratives filtered through the sermons and testimonies of Falwell himself.32 Similarly, James Bielo’s edited volume The Social Life of Scriptures presented cross-cultural perspectives on “Biblicism”; Bielo, however, did not mean direct reference to the New or the Old Testaments as such, but rather a focus on the interactions between particular groups of Christians and their Scriptures, as observed by ethnographers.33 Matthew Engelke’s A Problem of Presence was precisely about how the Friday Apostolics in Zimbabwe avoided using the Bible as a physical presence in their ritual practices, in favor of a more “live and direct” relationship with divine authority.34 28  J. Eade, M. Sallnow, ‘Introduction’, in Iid. (eds.), Contesting the Sacred: The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage (London: Routledge, 1991), 1–20, here: 9. 29  See discussion in S. Coleman, R. Hackett, ‘Introduction: A New Field?’, in Iid. (eds.), The Anthropology of Global Evangelicalism and Evangelicalism (New York: New York University Press, 2015), 1–40. 30 Cannell, ‘The Anthropology of Christianity’. 31   See T. G. Kirsch, Spirits and Letters: Reading, Writing and Charisma in African Christianity (New York: Berghahn, 2008). 32 S. Harding, The Book of Jerry Falwell: Fundamentalist Language and Politics (Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000). 33  J. Bielo (ed.), The Social Life of Scriptures: Cross-Cultural Perspectives on Biblicism (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2009). 34  M. Engelke, A Problem of Presence: Beyond Scripture in an African Church (Berkeley CA: University of California Press, 2007).

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So far, then, I have indicated the intellectual pathways taken – and not taken – by anthropologists themselves in their exploration of the Holy Scriptures and Christianity. Whatever interest there has been on biblical texts has placed attention less on close details of language and etymology and more on broad content, appealing initially to Victorian anthropologists keen to establish the viability of a comparative method that could include all religions in their purview, or, later, symbolic and structuralist approaches more rooted in considerations of social context and dismissive of the assumptions behind “progressionism”, albeit still concerned with questions of human rationality. The consistency of interest for over more than a century in such topics as totemism, sacrifice, and magic has been notable, and yet not of sufficient centrality to the discipline to prompt major developments or advances in perspective. Meanwhile, the anthropology of Christianity has hugely expanded over the past two decades, but such work has emerged after a century of relative neglect of, and ambivalence towards, studying Christian practices, and retains a focus on contemporary expressions of ritual. Much of this new development has focused on the expansion of Pentecostalism around the world, and the intellectual catalysts behind the development of the sub-field reflect attempts to understand the links between globalizing religious practices and forms of modernity that – despite many predictions otherwise – have retained ample space for the practice of public religion. Such pathways have often proved highly fruitful, but they have clearly gone down some routes and avoided others. Neither the anthropological approach to Scripture nor the ethnographic study of Christianity has placed much focus on the Gospels, and certainly not in their written form. Later on, I shall suggest at least one way in which I think anthropology might have something relevant to say concerning the language of both the New and the Old Testament. However, it is now time to move from being “disciplined” to being “undisciplined”; in other words, to look at how the scholars in this volume, while not anthropologist themselves, have nonetheless deployed the discipline in their studies of Gospel texts.

II. Multiple Appropriations There is no single anthropology, and the discipline has expanded considerably since the days of Frazer and Malinowski. This volume provides a sample of the approaches now available. For instance, Brigidda Bell takes an “embodiment approach”, Daniel Smith tackles “spatial theory”, and Sarah Rollens invokes an “anthropology of violence” – all sub-fields with particular genealogies, concerns, and methods. Some of the work drawn upon by contributors actually emerges out of deep internal fractures within the discipline. Gilbert Herdt, cited by Halvor Moxnes, presents an analysis of secrecy pitched against what he sees as the self-limiting, gender-biased approaches of his colleagues. The “neuroanthro-

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pological perspective” borrowed by Pieter Craffert is highly critical of what its practitioners consider to be the ultra-relativism of mainstream socio-cultural approaches. A striking feature of this book’s deployment of anthropology is that, varied as its approaches are, it nonetheless pays comparatively little attention to the works I cited in the previous section. For better or worse, the anthropologies of the Bible and of Christianity appear not to be foremost in the thoughts of other scholars who deploy anthropological frameworks to study the Gospels. To be sure, Frazer is sometimes quoted (usually to be refuted), and Mary Douglas is briefly mentioned by Sarah Rollens in her discussion of the social control of individual human bodies. Bell locates her analysis quite extensively within the analytical frameworks established by Tanya Luhrmann and Thomas Csordas, but these two authors have generally been more concerned with establishing new forms of cognitive and/or phenomenological anthropology than they are with engaging the characteristic concerns of the anthropology of Christianity as a sub-field. How, then, is an anthropological approach articulated by the chapters of the present volume? One answer is that authors use ethnography’s comparativism to destabilize certain assumptions concerning the categorization of religion. Giovanni Bazzana provides a good example in his analysis of “spirit possession” among Jesus groups. His point is not merely that possession was present, but also that ethnographic evidence counters the theological temptation to marginalize such phenomena or to de-emphasize their socially productive qualities. In Bazzana’s view, first-hand observations of possession taken from contemporary fieldwork contribute to a better understanding of how to interpret “ancient textual reports”, while also indicating the parochial character of post-Enlightenment assumptions of the autonomy of the person. In line with the fact that anthropology typically valorizes the everyday and the grounded, possession emerges here as more mundane, and yet more significant, than previously supposed: “ordinary”, but linked closely to significant material and political relations at a local level. Other chapters further indicate the fruitful interaction between comparative ethnography and textual analysis. In Brigidda Bell’s discussion of discernment, for instance, this approach is invoked to caution against reproducing modern, anachronistic divisions between speech and practice. Bell moves away from a problematic “textualization” of speech toward an embodied approach that enmeshes past processes of performance within profoundly social evaluations. Both Bazzana’s and Bell’s analyses successfully illustrate Talal Asad’s well-known point about the inherent politics involved in providing fixed definitions of religion, which inevitably naturalize the ideological preconceptions of the person doing the defining.35 They also remind me of what in the 1970s and 1980s came 35  See T. Asad, Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam (Baltimore MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009).

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to be known as “ethno-archeology” – the use of ethnography to interpret material remains through the deployment of analogy; but here instead we have what might be called an “ethno-hermeneutic” approach to textual traces from the past. A different kind of comparativism is evident in the chapters that look more to cross-cultural understandings of cognitive frameworks in order to challenge default assumptions concerning the nature of religion. Santiago Guijarro’s analysis of visionary experiences as recounted in the Gospels deploys a combination of neuroscience and cultural studies to explore distinctions between “monophasic” and “polyphasic” cultures: in other words, between those that value experiences derived exclusively from waking consciousness, and those that also draw on knowledge taken from visions and dreams. Whether or not we accept the terms of this distinction, it certainly draws attention to the problematic use of parochial Western lenses to interpret ancient Mediterranean culture; but I also want to emphasize how it takes us back to considerations of the relatively “ordinary” and “mundane” in our consideration of Gospel-based religious practice. For one of the payoffs of Guijarro’s analysis is the counter-intuitive suggestion that Easter-related visions were not unique, unprecedented events. Indeed, they should be understood in light of broader patterns in the format of visionary practice. What is being uncovered, therefore, is a social scientifically plausible interpretation of the regularized cultivation of ecstatic practices. Pieter F. Craffert also draws on the mono‑ and polyphasic contrast in his effort to convince Western, text-oriented scholars of the normality, or at least regular quality, of the latter. The aim is not to go back to a Lévi-Bruhlian differentiation between “primitive” and “modern” modes of thought, but rather to indicate how visionary perception might be viewed as a valid means of obtaining, indeed constituting, knowledge. For Craffert, then, “a vision is not a perception of something else, but is itself the event constituting reality”, and here his work resonates with Bell’s analysis of prophecy. Vision, like prophecy, should not be understood as always already textualized or as a representation of a reality that may or may not exist elsewhere. Both are embodied experiences that constitute an indigenous religious aesthetic and ontology of knowledge. Guijarro’s and Craffert’s perspectival approaches also allow for comparisons with work that does not necessarily adopt the monophasic-polyphasic distinction wholesale. For instance an influential contribution to the social scientific analysis of visual phenomena in religious contexts has been David Morgan’s discussions of the “sacred gaze”36 – a resonant phrase intended to convey the cultural, ideologically charged, and embodied framing of vision in ways that invest the object of the gaze with sacred qualities. In thus acknowledging the institutionalized qualities of creating visions of the divine, we bring the latter, if 36  D. Morgan, The Sacred Gaze: Religious Visual Culture in Theory and Practice (Berkeley CA: University of California Press, 2005).

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not down to earth, then at least into fields of social scientific comprehension. We also invite comparisons with much work in the anthropology of Christianity that challenges assumptions concerning any great temporal divide between monophasic and polyphasic contexts: for instance, contemporary studies of Pentecostalism and other forms of charismatic worship look to analyse ways in which different ontologies of visual experience, both wakeful and more dream-like, co-exist and are experienced within the same religious movement.37 If anthropologists tend to emphasize the power of the mundane and the iterative, their invocation of “context” frequently has the effect of blurring categorical boundaries. The uniqueness and sui generis qualities of ritual actions or sacred figures are often dissolved, and emphasis is placed instead on local precedents, parallels, and resonances. A consequence and a tool of contextualization is therefore the uncovering of implicit connections and continuities among apparently diverse behaviors and spheres of activity. It is therefore telling that a frequent trope evident across chapters in this volume involves the identification of ambiguous or fuzzy borders between activities often held to be distinct in contemporary academic discourses. Jan N. Bremmer exposes some of the fascinating interplays and mutual influences between the Gospels and pagan literature, including the Greek “novel”. Arguably, in his analysis Jesus’ resurrection becomes a little more “ordinary” in the sense of having precedents and resonances elsewhere. Martin Ebner examines Jesus’ relationship to contemporary understandings of the role of the teacher. Laura Feldt explores the significance of blurring by highlighting the emotional power of the “monstrous”, derived from its bridging of the negative and the positive, the frightening and the benign. Her approach thus highlights the significance and shifting location of “intermediacy” in Gospel accounts of hybridity, as its inherently ambiguous force moves from the external wilderness to penetrate the boundary of the human body and to inhabit an interior realm. Identification of challenges to binaries takes us back to an old intellectual (and intellectualist) debate: magic “versus” religion – itself the object and catalyst of much politically loaded accusation and counter-accusation in the politics of defining religious terms. In her analysis of coercive prayer, Zeba A. Crook reminds us of Frazer’s Victorian habit of “accounting”, wherein religion was valued above magic because of its supposedly greater appeal to rationality. While he is hardly alone in questioning such assumptions, Crook makes his point in a particularly illuminating way by linking questions of coercion to a wider moral economy of honor and patronage, while also indicating the parallel ritual grammars that characterize prayer and sacrifice.38 Once again, the approach is to render religious action intelligible not by denying its capacity for believers to reach into 37  See Coleman, Hackett, The Anthropology of Global Evangelicalism and Evangelicalism, passim. 38  See e. g. M. Mauss, The Gift; Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies (London: Cohen & West, 1966).

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transcendent realms, but by showing how it also plays off and emerges from more “ordinary” cultural and ideological registers. In Crook’s contextualizing analysis, the Lord’s Prayer is an utterance in which the semantic content might seem slightly baffling to a modern speaker (assuming they ever pay attention to what they are collectively intoning), but becomes more intelligible if understood in local terms as a complex exercise in rhetorical reciprocity and benefaction. Crook performs a particular methodological pivot in his piece, moving away from older evolutionary tendencies to hierarchize rationality and uncovering instead some key social and cultural referents of ritual action. In other words, he pushes us toward a Maussian anthropology of analyzing “total social facts” and away from much thinner Frazerian habits of the jagged juxtaposition of cases. William Arnal’s piece also provides a re-description of magic as it is encountered in the New Testament, and, as with Crook, the revisiting of an old analytical theme is justified by the creation of a new interpretive frame that renders magic both “strange” (as in, needing to be interpreted for the modern reader) but comprehensible through the richly detailed, socially productive work that it is shown to perform. Arnal’s nuanced analysis  – going far beyond a crude functionalism – views magic through a scalar perspective that points to its power to bridge worlds and indeed blur boundaries: between a distant there and proximate here, metropolitan temple and local cult. A kind of hierarchy is retained, perhaps, but it plays out across space and not across time (or rationalities), and is used to link rather than separate worlds. Taken as a whole, rather than individually, the chapters in this volume provide a composite picture of one particular figure who, of course, emerges as the ultimate boundary-blurrer: Jesus himself, who both invokes and challenges Jewish and Roman expressions of political and religious legitimacy – becoming, in Feldt’s hybridizing and “monstrous” terms, both authority and transgressor.39 Here, I emphasize, but also extend, what these chapters say about two interlinked frames against which Jesus’ mediating spiritual agency is highlighted and indexed in the Gospels: the boundaries of the body, and the boundaries of landscape. Note that Rollens points to the violence committed against the physical surface of Jesus’ person – not merely through the tortures of the Passion, but also in numerous other violent acts. At the same time, in Bazzana’s account of the so-called Beelzebul accusation, Jesus’ body becomes a permeable vessel for external forces, open to being “possessed”, even as such an experience is followed by a new sense of empowerment enacted through practicing exorcism. I want to juxtapose these depictions of Jesus’ body as a site of patience (passion, permeability, possession) and subsequent action (reconstructing subjectivity, 39  In making this point, I acknowledge, though do not directly address, Ebner’s suggestion, in this volume, that we should obviously differentiate among the Gospels as well as seeing them as a whole.

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controlling spirits) with his explicitly mobile presence in the Gospels, traversing landscapes normally kept apart. For Ebner, of course, Jesus is a “Wanderprediger”. Smith, meanwhile, presents Jesus and his disciples venturing into both neighboring towns and liminal spaces. But, interestingly, he also indicates how such diffuse movement also takes on a centripetal quality that also comes to focus on Jesus’ body. Here, Smith uses the work of Eric Stewart and Matthew Sleeman40 to show how Jesus himself becomes not merely a mediator, but also a spatial center, thereby challenging the geographical and architectural authority of temple and synagogue, and, ultimately, Jerusalem. Wilderness and the city are played off against each other, as Jesus becomes exiled and, eventually, exalted. These complex tropes of embodiment and movement, working at both material and spiritual levels, come together most obviously in William Arnal’s account (which also draws on the Beelzebul story) of Jesus as performer of religious ritual, who extends, but also potentially replaces, the role and range of the temple. In such accounts, Jesus clearly invites comparison with anthropological analyses in which liminality plays a major role, but the latter is most effective as an analytical category when it takes on specific inflections. One obviously salient frame of evaluation is that of pilgrimage, which in ethnographic accounts often expresses a relationship to established religious authority that is complex and ambivalent, shifting between opposition and appropriation. Thus, in Victor and Edith Turner’s classic Image and Pilgrimage, mentioned above, pilgrimage sites both extend but also provide mirror images of political centers, creating anti-structure in relation to a secular authority’s structure. Victor Turner famously describes the liminal landscape of the pilgrimage shrine as “the center out there”, pointing to the idea of a gathering together of spiritual forces, but also the creation of an alternative spatial and ideological locus of orientation. In this sense, the Gospels’ depiction of Jesus’ contested and mobile body is significant since he is shown physically reinscribing a spiritual landscape that touches on, but also traverses, Roman and Jewish centers of power and authority – in Weberian terms replacing institution with charisma – as he also collapses place into person. The closest ethnographic analogy that occurs to me here is Roderick Stirratt’s chapter on “Person and Place in Sinhala Catholic Pilgrimage”, from Eade and Sallnow’s Contesting the Sacred.41 Stirratt traces the shift in Catholic pilgrimage in Sri Lanka in recent decades from sacred places to holy men, who are imbued with divine power. He shows how new forms of spiritual legitimacy play on, but also distance themselves from, older Catholic forms, becoming concentrated precisely in bodies whose popularity challenges the legitimacy of the established 40  See for instance M. Sleeman, ‘Mark, the Temple and Space: A Geographer’s Response’, in BibInt 15 (2007), 338–49; and E. C. Stewart, Gathered around Jesus: An Alternative Spatial Practice in the Gospel of Mark (Eugene OR: Cascade, 2009). 41   R. L.  Stirratt, ‘Place and Person in Sinhala Catholic Pilgrimage’, in Eade, Sallnow, Contesting the Sacred, 122–36.

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Church. Spiritual centralization (in holy persons) occurs even as such concentrated authority is also rendered mobile, distinct from and not reliant upon (or compromised by) fixed locations. A further comparison with anthropological themes of liminality emerges through considering parallels with initiation rituals. Written many decades after Arnold van Gennep, Maurice Bloch’s Prey into Hunter argues for the existence of a basic grammar underlying a number of different types of rituals across cultures, ranging from initiation and sacrifice to possession. The idea is that an “irreducible core” of the ritual process involves a symbolically or physically violent conquest of the present world by the transcendental.42 What Bloch calls “rebounding” violence occurs because willing co-operation by the ritual subject with a transcendental attack on his/her vitality is followed by that subject’s violent recovery of new vitality from an external source. For instance, the New Guinean Orokaiva ceremony that Bloch summarizes acts out the transformation of initiates precisely from prey into hunters – into a state where their spirit element is considered to dominate their mortal element, as they take on new roles and a new subjectivity.43 Indeed, Orokaiva initiation ends with an open-ended menace to outsiders, which can sometimes spark serious hostilities. Bloch does occasionally refer to Christianity, talking for instance of how the lives of Christian saints illustrate the process of the person turning against his/ her mortal bodily form in favor of supernatural invasion. More generally, he argues that “the aggressive ideology of rebounding conquest has … been very evident in Christianity. … This element was particularly evident during the crusades or when religious fervour could be backed by military might, as in the periods of European colonial expansion”.44 What interests me here, however, is the possibility of taking the trope of rebounding violence back into a reading of Jesus/Christ as both patient and agent, both vessel for and controller of spirits, and a figure whose mobile body is subjected to violence and yet re-emerges as empowered. We might think here of not only Smith’s tracing of the passage between excursus and conquest in his chapter, but also of how Jesus’ relationship with his disciples is highlighted through another image of New Guinean initiation in Moxnes’ deployment of Herdt’s work on the Sambia:45 as members of the Matthean group are initiated by Jesus himself into “an alternative conception of reality”, they are in training to enter a Kingdom of Heaven that gives access to, and celebrates the ultimate triumph of, a supernatural realm of power.

42 M. Bloch, Prey into Hunter: The Politics of Religious Experience (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992). 43  Ibid., 8 ff. 44  Ibid., 96. 45  G. Herdt, Secrecy and Cultural Reality: Utopian Ideologies of the New Guinea Men’s Houses (Ann Arbor MI: University of Michigan Press, 2003).

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III. Back to Text My argument has been that contributors have created an anthropology of the Gospels that, for the most part, has been significantly different than those carried out on the Holy Scriptures by anthropologists themselves. Many of these chapters derive much of their force by drawing on work that is precisely not concerned with seeking parallels with ethnography of Christian practices. However, I think that the latter sub-field does have some significant resonances with the themes of this volume. Ironically, perhaps, these resonances are connected with a topic that has seemed to divide ethnographers from scholars of early Christianity: the analysis of language. Ethnographers are not particularly skilled at approaching sacred texts from epigraphical perspectives. Nonetheless, they are interested in the politics of language-use, and the extent to which it is possible to uncover articulations and clashes between different ideologies and ontologies of language  – examining how, for instance, a Christian missionary translates the Bible into indigenous languages, or a dominant group attempts to win an argument less by logic than by framing and restricting the ways in which discourse is expressed. Examining the politics of language involves becoming more conscious of the specific linguistic ideology of the analyst, while also developing an awareness of the different uses of and values attached to language by informants as the latter engage in numerous speech acts – praying, preaching, prophesying, promising, and so on. Jon Bialecki and Eric Hoenes del Pinal cite Kathryn Woolard’s generic description of language ideologies as “representations, whether explicit or implicit, that construe the intersection of language and human beings in a social world” and argue that such a focus has helped anthropologists of Christianity to anatomize the assumptions implicit in varieties of belief, social commitment, and formation of subjectivity.46 In other words, an examination of language has helped to make a number of Christian-inflected phenomena “intelligible” across sociocultural terrains, not merely through highlighting changes in, or challenges to, speech and ritual, but also prompting analysis of “changes in conceptions, representations, and practices of kinship, time, exchange, and money”.47 What is at stake here is developing an awareness of how, as Bialecki and del Pinal put it, the “metapragmatic ordering of ethical and unethical language found in Christian language ideology practices also functions as an ordering of agency, subjectivity, sociality,

46 J. Bialecki, E. Hoenes del Pinal, ‘Introduction: Beyond Logos: Extensions of the Language Ideology Paradigm in the Study of Global Christianity(‑ies)’, in Anthropological Quarterly 85 (2011), 575–93, here: 578. They are citing K. Woolard, ‘Language Ideology as a Field of Inquiry’, in B. B. Schieffelin, K. A.  Woolard, P. V.  Kroskrity (eds.), Language Ideologies: Practice and Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 3. 47 Bialecki, Hoenes del Pilal, ‘Introduction’, 581.

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and the material world”.48 We might add, of course, that just as such an approach assumes the existence of heterogeneity in language use by self-identified Christians, it is also likely to prompt examination of “competing language and semiotic ideological stances”49 in the interactions among religious groups – such as those evident in the Gospels between emergent Christians and others, and not least in the figure of Jesus as personified and agentive Word: the creator of an alternative religious, spatial, and linguistic dispensation. Thus, my basic point here is that, if contemporary ethnographers of Christianity and scholars of Christian origins have both complementary skills and shared interests, the latter are likely to revolve around paying close attention to Gospel language as both tool and object of analysis. And if this point sounds obscure, I want to finish by furnishing just one example of how it is in fact exemplified in this volume. Bell’s analysis of discernment and “prophetic testing” juxtaposes modern evangelical and ancient “discernment” practices in order to both promote and extend our understanding of prophecy as (more than) a linguistic phenomenon. Her argument is based around some of the ways in which scholars go beyond understanding the prophet’s words as mere utterance or text and comprehend it by suturing together language and practice. Thus, a complex hermeneutic forms part of this analysis, as modern categorical assumptions come up against ancient – and perhaps also contested – conceptualizations and representations of speech by biblical writers as they document Gospel events and acts. What one might call the analytical “detextualization” of prophetic speech – in other words, its removal from modern assumptions about the separation of speech and practice – leads to an ethnographically informed re-contextualization of early Christian prophets as embodied “unified subjects”. The “ancient discerner” is revealed as seeing – and speaking to – the world in ways that are more unfamiliar to us than we might have expected, and yet still potentially intelligible. And so, through a combination of ethnography and early Christian scholarship, we learn to “discern” some of our own, prevailing, linguistic ideologies that both enable and limit our understandings of the Gospels.

 Ibid., 584. 581.

48

49 Ibid.,

List of Contributors William Arnal, Ph.D. in 1997 from the University of Toronto, studied Christian Origins, Religions of Antiquity, and Religious Studies and is currently Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Regina. He has published in the field of theories of religion, Christian origins, the Gospel of Mark, Q, and the Gospel of Thomas. Recently he has co-edited Scribal Practices and Social Structures among Jesus Adherents (with R. Ascough, R. Derrenbacker, and P. Harland, Leuven, 2016), and has co-written The Sacred is the Profane (with R. McCutcheon, Oxford, 2013). His most recent articles include “Mark, War, and Creative Imagination” (in Redescribing the Gospel of Mark, Atlanta, 2017); “What Kind of Category is ‘Religion’?” (in Religion / Theory / Critique: Classic and Contemporary Approaches and Methodologies, New York, 2017); and “How the Gospel of Thomas Works” (in Scribal Practices and Social Structures among Jesus Adherents, Leuven, 2016). Giovanni Bazzana, Associate Professor Harvard Divinity School. Recent publications include Kingdom of Bureaucracy: The Political Theology of Village Scribes in the Sayings Gospel Q (Leuven, 2015) and “‘You will write two booklets and send one to Clement and one to Grapte’: Formal Features, Circulation, and Social Function of Ancient Apocalyptic Literature” (in Scribal Practices and Social Structures among Jesus Adherents, Leuven, 2016). Brigidda Bell, MA (2011), is a doctoral candidate at the Department for the Study of Religion at the University of Toronto. Her thesis focuses on how people conceptualized power and authority through prophecy and ecstatic practices in the New Testament and Graeco-Roman religions. Jan N. Bremmer, Dr. Litt. in 1979 from the Free University of Amsterdam, studied Classics and Spanish, and is Professor Emeritus of Religious Studies at the University of Groningen. He has published widely in the field of Greek, Roman and Early Christian religion as well as its historiography in modern times. He recently published The Rise of Christianity through the Eyes of Gibbon, Harnack and Rodney Stark (Groningen, 2010), Initiation into the Mysteries of the Ancient World (Berlin – Boston, 2014) and Maidens, Magic and Martyrs in Early Christianity (Tübingen, 2017), and co-edited, The Gods of Ancient Greece (with Andrew Erskine, Edinburgh, 2010), Perpetua’s Passions (with Marco Formisano, Oxford,

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2012), The Materiality of Magic (with Dietrich Boschung, Munich, 2015), The Ascension of Isaiah (with Thomas Karmann and Tobias Nicklas, Leuven, 2016) and Thecla: Paul’s Disciple and Saint in the East and West (with Jeremy W. Barrier, Tobias Nicklas, and Armang Puig i Tàrrech, Leuven, 2016). Simon Colemanis Chancellor Jackman Professor at the Department for the Study of Religion, University of Toronto. He is President of the Society for the Anthropology of Religion, and co-editor of the journal Religion and Society: Advances in Research. He has carried out fieldwork in Sweden, the UK, and Nigeria, and his work focuses on the globalisation of Pentecostalism, Christian pilgrimage, ritual, and urban forms of contemporary religion. Pieter F. Craffert, DTh in 1992 from the University of South Africa, is currently Professor of New Testament and Early Christian Studies at the University of South Africa in Pretoria. He has published widely on historical Jesus research, altered states of consciousness and more recently in the field of religious experiences from a neuro-anthropological perspective. He published The Life of a Galilean Shaman: Jesus of Nazareth in Anthropological-Historical Perspective (Eugene, 2008) and recently a number of articles on out-of-body and near-death experiences. Zeba Crook, Ph.D. in 2003 from the University of St. Michael’s College at the University of Toronto, is currently Full Professor of Religious Studies at Carleton University, Canada. He has published in anthropological theory as it pertains to the study of ancient Mediterranean culture. Most recently he is the author of “Economic Location of Benefactors in Pauline Communities”, in Paul and Economics,  Thomas R. Blanton IV and Raymond Pickett, eds. (Minneapolis, 2017), pp 183–204; and “Scribal Remembering”, in Scribal Practices and Social Structures Among Jesus Adherents: Essays in Honour of John S. Kloppenborg (eds. W. E. Arnal, R. S. Ascough, R. A. Derrenbacker, Jr., and P. A. Harland, Leuven, 2016). Martin Ebner, Dr. Theology in 1991 from the University of Würzburg, studied Theology and Philosophy and is currently Professor of New Testament Studies in the Faculty of Catholic Theology at the University of Bonn. He has widely published in the field of historical Jesus research, the Gospel of Mark, Pauline studies and the Roman environment of the Early Christianity. Recent publications include Der Brief an Philemon (Göttingen, 2017); Inkarnation der Botschaft. Kultureller Horizont und theologischer Anspruch neutestamentlicher Texte (Stuttgart, 2015); Die Stadt als Lebensraum der ersten Christen (Göttingen, 2012); Das Markusevangelium. Neu übersetzt und kommentiert (Stuttgart, 42015); Jesus von Nazaret. Was wir von ihm wissen können (Stuttgart, 52016).

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Laura Feldt, Ph.D. Study of Religion in 2009 from Aarhus University, studied Assyriology, anthropology, and theology, and is now associate professor of the study of religion at the University of Southern Denmark. She has published on religion in ancient Mesopotamia, the Hebrew Bible, ancient Christianity, and contemporary popular culture, esp. within the areas of myth, narrativity, monstrosity, the fantastic, ritual and memory, and religion and nature. She has published The Fantastic in Religious Narrative from Exodus to Elisha (London, 2012), and edited Wilderness in Mythology and Religion – Approaching Religious Spatialities, Cosmologies, and Ideas of Wild Nature (Berlin, 2012). She recently co-edited the volume Reframing Authority – the Role of Materiality and Media (London, 2018) with Christian Høgel, and is currently managing editor, with G. D.  Alles, of Numen – International Review of the History of Religions (Leiden). Santiago Guijarro, Dr. Theology (STD) in 1997 from the Pontifical University of Salamanca, studied Theology, Classical and Semitic Philology, and Biblical Exegesis, and is currently Professor of New Testament Studies in the Faculty of Theology at the Pontifical University of Salamanca (Spain). He has published in the field of gospel studies, Christian origins, and social scientific approach to the New Testament. His recent publications include: El camino del discípulo. Seguir a Jesús según el Evangelio de Marcos (Salamanca, 2015); I detti di Gesù. Introduzzione allo studio del documento Q (Roma, 2016); La primera evangelización en los orígenes del cristianismo (Salamanca, 2016); I vangeli. Memoria, Biografia, Scrittura (Brescia, 2017). He has edited recently: La interpretación de la Biblia. XLVII Jornadas de la Facultad de Teología de la UPSA (Salamanca – Madrid, 2017). John S. Kloppenborg, Ph.D. in 1984 from the University of St. Michael’s College, is a Professor and Chair of the Department and Centre for the Study of Religion at the University of Toronto. He has published widely in the field of synoptic studies, social history of Mediterranean antiquity, and the letter of James. His most recent publications are Luke on Jesus, Paul, and Earliest Christianity: What Did He Really Know? (with J. Verheyden; Leuven, 2017), James, 1 & 2 Peter and the Early Jesus Tradition. (with A. Batten; London and New York, 2014); Associations in the Greco-Roman World: A Sourcebook (with P. Harland and R. Ascough; Waco, TX, 2012), Attica, Central Greece, Macedonia, Thrace. Vol. I of Greco-Roman Associations: Texts, Translations, and Commentary (with R. Ascough; Berlin and New York, 2011) and The Tenants in the Vineyard: Ideology, Economics, and Agrarian Conflict in Jewish Palestine (Tübingen, 2006). Halvor Moxnes, Dr. Theol. in 1978 from the University of Oslo, with Ph.D. studies at Oslo, Yale and Cambridge, professor of New Testament studies at the Faculty of Theology, University of Oslo, 1984–2017, now professor emeritus. My main interests have been to study the New Testament and Early Christianity with

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the use of social anthropology and other social science methods. The main thematic focus over the last years has been the historical Jesus and gender studies, especially masculinity. Another area of interest  is reception history and the cultural presuppositions for our interpretations. Main recent publications: A Short History of the New Testament (London, 2014); Jesus and the Rise of Nationalism. A New Quest for the Nineteenth Century Historical Jesus (London, 2012); Putting Jesus in his Place. A Radical Vision of Household and Kingdom (Louisville, 2003); Jesus Beyond Nationalism: Constructing the Historical Jesus in a Period of Cultural Complexity (ed. with Ward Blanton and James Crossley, London, 2009). Sarah E. Rollensreceived her Ph.D. in the Study of Religion in 2013 from the University of Toronto, and is currently a Visiting Assistant Professor of Religious Studies at Rhodes College. Her research focuses on the social context of early Christianity in the first century, the synoptic gospels, identity formation in early Christian texts, violence in the Bible, and intellectual activity in the early Jesus movement. Her first monograph was Framing Social Criticism in the Jesus Movement: The Ideological Project of the Sayings Gospel Q (Tübingen, 2014). She has also published (or has forthcoming) articles on early Christianity in Biblical Theology Bulletin, Early Christianity, Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses, Studies in Religion /Sciences Religieuses, Method & Theory in the Study of Religion; Harvard Theological Review and Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus. Daniel A. Smith, Ph.D. (Theology) in 2001 at University of St Michael’s College, University of Toronto, studied Synoptic Gospels, Paul, Apocalyptic Literature, and Patristic Literature; he is currently Clark and Mary Wright Chair of New Testament Theology at Huron University College, London, Canada. He has published widely in the area of gospel studies (especially Q) and on the topic of resurrection. He is the author of Revisiting the Empty Tomb: The Early History of Easter (Minneapolis, 2010); in French, Nouvelle visite au tombeau vide: Les premiers récits de Pâques (Paris, 2013), and co-editor of Built on Rock or Sand? Q Studies: Retrospects, Introspects, and Prospects (with C. Heil and G. Harb, Leuven, 2018). Joseph Verheyden, Dr. Theology (STD) in 1987 at the KU Leuven, studied Oriental Languages and Culture, Philosophy, Religious Studies, and Theology and is currently Professor of New Testament Studies in the Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies at the KU Leuven. He has published widely in the field of synoptic studies, apocryphal literature, and reception studies. He recently co-edited the following volumes: Goldene Anfänge und Aufbrüche. Johann Jakob Wettstein und die Apostelgeschichte (with M. Lang, Leipzig, 2016); “If Christ has not been raised …”. Studies on the Reception of the Resurrection Stories and the Belief in the Resurrection in the Early Church (with A. Merkt and T. Nicklas, Göt-

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tingen, 2016); Epigraphik und Neues Testament (with M. Oehler and Th. Corsten, Tübingen, 2016); Digital Humanities in Ancient Jewish, Christian and Arabic Traditions (with Cl. Clivaz et al, Journal of Religion, Media and Digital Culture, 2016); Luke on Jesus, Paul and Christianity: What Did He Really Know? (with J. S. Kloppenborg, Leuven, 2017); and The Other Side: Apocryphal Perspectives on Ancient Christian “Orthodoxies” (with T. Nicklas, C. R. Moss, C. M. Tuckett, Göttingen, 2017).

Index of Biblical References Old Testament Genesis 15:1 223 15:12 223

Psalms 13:4 238 110 208

Exodus 8 26 8:15 (8:19 lxx) 26 14–5 43 14:9 228 19 45 21:30 59 24 45, 223, 228 24:1 228 24:6 228 24:12–8 227 24:16–8 228

Wisdom 17:14 237

Leviticus 289 Numbers 12:6 223 Deuteronomy 32:8 42 1 Samuel 1–2 195 15:16 223 1 Kings 57 19 45 19:9–18 227 2 Kings 57 1 10, 12 Job 4:13 223

Sirach 38:24–34 147 49:8 223 Isaiah 2 198 6:9–10 184, 187 14:14 42 25:6 lxx 197 26 238 27:11 198 29:7 223 63:19 225 Ezekiel 57 1–3 222, 224 Daniel 222 2:27–8 185 3:26 42 7 207 7:13–4 lxx 194 7:14 lxx 207 12 273 12:1–3 238 Hosea 6:11 198 Joel 3:13–4 198 Zechariah 1–6 222

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Index of Biblical References

New Testament Q 1:14–5 202 1:21–8 202 1:38–9 202 3:9 198 3:14–5 202 3:17 198, 200 4:1–13 12, 26 6:47–9 211 7:1–9 197–8 7:22 202 7:25 200 7:26 171 7:28 171 7:34 170 9:57–8 168 10 198, 201–2, 204, 206 10:2 192, 198–200 10:2–16 206 10:2–12 202 10:3 198, 200, 206 10:4 201 10:5–9 192, 200 10:5 191 10:7–8 201 10:8–9 201 10:9 192, 198 10:10–5 200 10:10–2 200 10:13–5 202 11:14–23 110 11:17–8 193 11:17 9 11:19–20 10, 24–7 11:20 25, 111, 192 11:21–2 15 11:24–6 26, 193 11:25–7 181 11:31–2 197, 200 11:39–44 22 12:22–31 205 13–4 197 13:18–9 202 13:20–1 202 13:24–7 197–8, 200

13:28 192, 197, 200 13:29 192, 197–8, 200 13:34–5 197, 202 13:35 197 14:16–23 197–8 17:26–30 200 17:34–5 200 22:28 200 22:30 200 Matthew 71, 85 1:20 37 2:1 97 2:13 37 3–11 206 4 50 4:1 57 4:13 164 4:23 162 5 179 5–7 162 5:1–12 187 5:1–2 163 5:1 164 5:9 191 6 180, 184, 188 6:1–18 2, 178–81 6:6 188 7 71 7:12 170 7:15 2, 69, 73 7:16–20 74 7:21 85 7:28 162 8:16 237 8:31 37 9:35 162 9:37–43 95 10 162, 206 10:1 186, 237 10:5–15 184 10:5–6 198, 206, 209, 211 10:16–23 206 10:18 206, 209 10:24–5 163 10:25 163

Index of Biblical References

10:27 186 11 184, 188 11:1 186 11:25–30 178 11:25–7 2, 181–3 11:25 188 12:24 15, 22 12:25–6 15 12:27–8 15, 24 12:29 15, 193 12:33–5 74 12:43 237 12:45 237 12:46–50 185 12:47 186 12:49–50 185 13 2, 162, 178, 184–8 13:52 162 14:21 186 14:26 236 14:36 112 15:15 163 16:19 163 17:9 274 17:24–7 163 18 162 18:1–14 183 18:6 183 18:8–9 56 18:10–4 183 18:21–2 163 20:28 58 21:22 144 23:1 162 23:2–7 161 23:4 163 23:7 161 23:8 161–2 23:9 162 23:10 162 23:13–36 180 23:13 163 23:27 180 24–5 162, 207 24:11 85 24:14 194, 206, 209 24:24 69 24:27–31 207

24:30 208 25:31–46 183 25:40 183 25:45 183 26:1 162 26:28 170 26:36–46 274 27:52–3 276 27:64 266 28 194 28:2 275 28:13 266 28:16–20 194, 207 28:16 276 28:18 207 28:19–20 211 28:19 163, 191, 206, 211 28:20 163, 186 Mark 1 38 1:4 171 1:7–8 21 1:7 16 1:8 21, 39 1:10–2 114 1:10–1 217, 225 1:10 39, 45, 225 1:11 118, 227 1:12–3 38, 203 1:12 39, 57 1:13 12 1:15 192 1:16–20 41, 164, 168 1:21–8 158–9, 203–4 1:21–6 61 1:21 114 1:22 114, 119, 160 1:23–8 39 1:23–6 51, 119 1:23–4 39 1:23 19, 39, 237 1:24 61 1:25 114 1:26–7 39, 237 1:26 114 1:27 39, 119, 158 1:29–31 39

311

312

Index of Biblical References

1:31 114 1:34 39, 204 1:38 191–2 1:39 39, 114 1:40–5 39 1:41 114–5 1:42 114 1:44 115, 120 2–3 160 2:1–12 39, 119 2:1 114 2:10 114 2:11 114 2:12 114 2:13–4 160 2:14 41, 168 2:15 160, 170 3 22, 205 3:1–6 39 3:1 114 3:6 57–8, 120, 160 3:10 114 3:11–2 39 3:11 39, 114, 237 3:13–9 41 3:13–5 204 3:14–5 193 3:15 39, 193 3:19 110 3:20–30 40 3:20–1 193 3:21 22, 45, 226 3:22–30 110, 193, 204 3:22 22, 45, 114 3:23 9 3:27 10, 15–6, 193 3:29–30 39 3:30 237 3:31–5 22, 193, 205–6 3:31–4 193 4:10–2 184 4:35–41 40, 43, 158–9 4:38 158 4:40–1 44 4:41 39 5:1–20 40–4, 204, 233 5:1–13 61 5:1–4 40

5:2 19, 39, 237 5:5 41 5:6 42 5:7 39, 41 5:8–10 41 5:8 39, 237 5:11–3 205 5:11–2 43 5:13 237 5:15 39 5:17 169 5:18–20 168 5:21 204 5:26 20 5:27–9 112 5:34 47 5:36 44 5:38 114 5:40 115 5:41 114 5:42 114 5:43 115 6 206 6:1–6 205 6:3 147 6:6–13 204 6:7–13 206 6:7 39, 159, 193, 237 6:10 205 6:13 39, 204 6:14–29 60 6:17–29 56 6:17–8 60 6:21–5 60 6:27–8 60 6:30 159, 204 6:31–44 205 6:31–2 205 6:35 205 6:41 114 6:42–3 114 6:45–52 40 6:45–51 249 6:49 236 6:56 112 7 160 7:1–15 119 7:24–6 39

Index of Biblical References

7:25 19, 22, 237 7:31–7 39 7:31 114 7:32–6 2, 113–4, 114, 118 8:22 114 8:23–6 113 8:23 114–5 8:24–5 114 8:25 114 8:27–10:52 158 8:31 59 8:32–3 40 8:33 12 8:34 68 8:38 39 9 65, 67, 237 9:1–2 45 9:2–13 45 9:2 227 9:4–8 227 9:4–7 217, 225 9:6 46, 118 9:7 227 9:14–29 39 9:17 22, 39 9:18 61 9:20 39 9:22 61 9:25 39 9:31 59 9:32 44 9:33–4 59 9:36 63 9:42–50 56 9:42–8 62, 67 9:42 63 9:43–8 56 9:43–7 63 9:44 58 10 160 10:13–6 159 10:28–31 205 10:32 44 10:38–40 159 10:42–5 160 10:42–4 158 10:42–3 159 10:42 160

10:43–4 159 10:45 58, 159–60 10:47 114 10:52 114, 159 11:15–9 120 11:15–6 203 11:18 57 11:27–33 203 11:27–30 119 12 160 12:1–12 61 12:9 59 12:29–31 170 12:38–40 160 12:41–4 160 13 65–7 13:9–27 56 13:9–13 193 13:9–12 206 13:9–11 205 13:9 56 13:10 193, 205–6 13:12 56 13:14–6 66 13:19 66 13:24–7 203 13:26–7 66 13:26 217, 230 14:1–2 120 14:1 58 14:10–1 120 14:21 66 14:43 58 14:58 170 14:65 59 15:16–20 60 15:39 160 15:46 45 16 67 16:8 44, 47 16:9–20 66 16:9–11 45 16:9 47, 275 16:11 47 16:12 47, 275–6 16:14 47, 275, 278 16:15 194 16:17–8 47

313

314 16:17 67 16:18 113 Luke 1–2 37 1:5 171 2:1 209 2:11 208 2:41–51 164 3:16 16 4:1 57 4:14–5 164 4:15 166 4:29 164 4:31 164 4:33 237 4:36 237 4:38–9 21 4:43–4 164 4:43 164 4:44 164, 166 5:1–11 164 5:1–3 165–6 5:12 164 5:17 164 5:21–4 164 5:29–39 164 6:6 166 6:11 57 6:17 166 6:18 237 6:20–49 166 6:27–36 164 6:40 163 6:43–4 74 7 234 7:2 234 7:10 234 7:12 234 7:14 234 7:15 235 7:21 237 7:36–50 164 8:2 237 8:4 165 8:23–7 166 8:29 237 8:40 165

Index of Biblical References

8:41–56 235 8:53 235, 238 8:54–5 235 9:42 237 10:7 201 10:18 217, 225–6 10:20 237 10:30–5 170 11:14 23 11:15 15, 23 11:17–8 15 11:19–20 15, 24–6 11:21–2 15–6, 193 11:22 16 11:26 237 11:29 165 11:37–52 164 12:1 165 12:13 165 13:10–21 166 13:23 165 14:1–24 164 14:25 165 15:1–32 165 15:1 165 16:1–13 165 16:9 164 16:14–31 165 17:20–1 165 18:15 165 18:18 165 19:1–27 165 19:48 58 20:1 165–6 20:19 165 20:20–6 165 20:27–44 165 20:45 165 21:12–9 206 21:23 66 21:24 209 21:26 209 21:37–8 165–6 22:1 165 22:4 165 22:14–38 165 22:21–3 66 22:43–4 225

Index of Biblical References

22:49 21 22:66 165 23:1 165 23:4 165 23:6–12 165 23:13 165 23:14 165 23:22 165 23:28–31 56 23:34 56 23:43 56 23:46 56 23:55 236 24 207, 236 24:1–12 241 24:4 275 24:11 238, 241 24:12 236 24:13–53 48 24:13–35 276, 279 24:16 48 24:22–4 49 24:23 275 24:25–7 48–9 24:30–1 49 24:32 48 24:36–49 276 24:36–43 236, 279 24:37 236 24:39 237 24:44–9 212 24:47 194, 206–8 John 1:18 167–8 1:33–4 225 1:35–9 168 1:51 217, 230 1:52 226 3:1–21 166 3:1–2 168 3:13 166 4:7–26 166 4:14 167 4:28–9 167 5:16–47 166 6:15–21 237 6:46 225

6:66 167 7:16–7 167 7:38 167 7:40–4 167 8:6 147 8:8 147 8:12 167 8:28 167 8:30 167 8:31–2 167 8:38 225 8:59 167 9:4 167 9:39 167 10:19–21 167 11:43 236 11:44 236 13–7 167 13:23 168 15:9–10 167 15:12–3 168 15:14–5 168 19:26–7 168 20:1–10 241–2 20:11 275 20:13 266 20:19–23 276 21:1 276 Acts 1:3 238 1:8 191, 194, 208 2:9–11 209 2:32–5 208 2:36 58, 208 4:27 209 5:1–11 112 5:31 208 8:9 111 8:11 122 8:13 111 9:3–9 112 9:36–42 238 9:40 238 10:11 226 10:45 209 12:20–3 112 13:1 148

315

316

Index of Biblical References

13:6–12 111 13:6–11 112 13:6 111 13:23 208 13:50 240 14:11–2 241 15 212 15:2 212 15:22–35 212 16:4 212 16:16–9 2, 111 16:23 58 17 212 17:6–7 212 17:31 194, 208–9, 212 19 2, 111 19:11–2 112 19:13–6 112 19:13 42 19:19–20 111 19:19 122 19:24–7 112 19:27 212 20:7–12 238 28:23–6 113 Romans 2:28–9 180 2:29 181 6:17 147 8:15 230 12:7 148 1 Corinthians 71–2 1 182 1:26–9 183 3:1 182 9:1 276 10 43 12:13 73 12:28–9 148 13:11 182 14 71

14:26 95 15 275–6 15:3 267 15:11 267 2 Corinthians 4:7 17 12:16 58 Galatians 1:12 276 4:1 182 4:6 230 Ephesians 4:11 148 1 Thessalonians 2:3 58 4:4 17 5:3 65 1 Timothy 2:7 148 2 Timothy 1:11 148 James 3:1 148 2 Peter 1:17–8 227 1 John 71 3 John 15 168 Revelation 4–5 222 4:1 226

Index of Inscriptions, Papyri, and Other References Inscriptions and Papyri IG II2, 9481

244

I. Priene 104.9–12,  108.366.70,   113.I, 14–116 240 P.Oxy. 7.1021 209 44.1065 142 90.4760–1 242 148 58 P.Petr 2:11 20 P.Tebt 41 21 P.Turner 19 58 PDM (Demotic Spells) 12.21–49 116 14.554–1109 passim 116 PGM (Papyri Graecae Magicae) 1.40, 130, 146–7,   193 ff. 103 1.42–5 104 1.56, 70 102 1.83, 84 102 1.96–103 102 1.193 104 1.247–62 101 2.1–182 102 2.147–52 106 2.148 102 3.193 102

3.199–200, 204 103 4.62 102 4.75 ff., 84–5 103 4.86–7, 1227–64 116 4.171 102 4.922 103 4.2188 102 4.2469, 2711 102 4.2518–9 103–4 5.96–172 104 7.193–6 103, 116 7.199–271 passim 116 7.197–8 104, 116 7.320–3 103 7.490–685 passim 102 8.59 102 12.14–95 103 12.104 102 13.214 105 13.343 105 13.719 105 13.755 104 56.6 102 63.24–5, 26–8 116 65.1–4, 4–7 116 85.1–6 116 89.1–27 116 90.14–8 116 91.1–14 116 94.4–60 passim 116 94.17–21 116 95.14–8 116 97.1–6, 15–7 116 104.1–8 116 106.1–10 116 113.1–4 116 114.1–14 116 115.1–7 116 119b.4–5 116

318

Index of Inscriptions, Papyri, and Other References

120.1–13 116 122.51–5 116 123a.48–68 116 128.1–12 116 130.1–13 116 SEG 31.1316 240

33.1039 240 41.1343, 1345–6,  1353 240 42.1215 240 46.1524 240 51.1811 240 55.1492 240 60.1115 240

Other References Achilles Tatius 243–4 3,9.13 243 4,7–18 243 5,18,1 243 Acts of Peter 234 Aelius Aristides Oration 45

141

Aeschylus Orestes (Libation Bearers) 255ff 142 Seven against Thebe 710 237 Apocalypse of Peter 65, 252 23 65 27 65 Ammonius 234 De adfin. voc. dif. 216 235 Antonius Diogenes Incredible Things beyond Thule 242 Aphrodisias 251 Apollonius of Tyana 99

Epistulae 16 and 17

247

Apuleius

99, 152, 244, 251

Apology 92 25–6 99 54,7 245 Florida 19 247 20,2 150–1 Metamorphoses 92, 101, 244 2 245 2,28–30 245 2,28 247 3 92 3,17 102 9,29 247 10,11–12 247 11 92 Aristides Roman Oration 93 211 Aristophanes Knights 591–4

141

Aristoteles

163, 167

Nicomachean Ethics 4,3,10 137 9,8 168

Index of Inscriptions, Papyri, and Other References

Artemidorus Oneirocritica 5,18 154 Arulenus Rusticus 157 Augustinus Confessiones 1,13,22 150 Doctrina christiana 20,9 150 Barnabas 20:1 110 Book of the Dead 65 Cato 155 Catullus 138 Carmina 63,91–3 82 Celsus 2,6,15 247 Chariton

234, 242–4, 250–1

Callirhoe 239–40 1,1 239 1,6,4 240 1,7,2 240 1,9,4 240 1,9,9 241 1,134 240 2,5,4 240 3,3,1 241 3,3,3 241 3,6,5 240 4,3,1 240 4,4,3 240 6,7,10 240 Cicero

138, 167

De republica 5,4 137 Pro Flaccio 31

240

Tusculae 2,24,58 137

Dead Sea Scrolls 11Q15 11 Didache 69–86 2:2 110 5:1 110 11:5–12 84 11:5 84 11:6 84 11:7 84, 111 11:8 2, 69, 83 11:9 84 11:10 70, 84 11:12 84 Dio Chrysostomus 157 Orations 46 139 70,7 154 71,2 154 71 152 Diogenes Laertios 154–5 2,47.105.109 154 2,48 168 2,105.134 154 2,108.111.113.126 154 2,109 154 2,125–6 154 2,126 154 2,205 155 2,603.738 154 3,5–6 154 4,16 154 4,19 149, 168 4,21–2 168 4,29 168 4,46 154 4,59 154 5,52–3 168 5,52 168 5,53.71 162 5,58.65 154 5,70 168 6,103–5 155 6,103 154 6,87 154 9,112 168

319

320 Empedocles B 111.9 DK

Index of Inscriptions, Papyri, and Other References

251

1 Enoch 16, 222 71 207 10:4–8 16 103:1–4 185 Epictetus

152, 157

Dissertationes 1,11,39 153 4,13,5 157

143

Hecuba 237 Hercules Furens 346 143 Orestes 407

248

Homer

144, 249

Iliad 1,39 141 8,236–44 142 8,242 135 Odyssey 57 Iamblichus 251 Babyloniaka 248 Life of Pythagoras 248

Euripides Cyclops 354 ff.

Probus 2

237

4 Ezra 182 14:5–6 185

Josephus

106, 120

Jewish Antiquities 9,19 11 18,11–22.23–25 166 Jewish War 2,14 166 2,119–66 166 4,487–9 204

De vita sua 751–4 237

Jubilees 11 10:11 12 23:29 12 40:9 12 46:2 12 50:5 12

Heliodorus of Emesa 112

Justin Martyr 1 Apology 30

98 98

Juvenal

138, 140

Gospel of Thomas 14 180 Gregory of Nazianze

Aethiopica 3,16

113

Herennius Senecio 157 De vita Helvidi libros 157

Satires 6,511–6 82 Libanius Oration 1

139

Hippocrates 97–8

Livy 138

Historia Augusta

Lucian

Aurelianus 247–8 1,5–10; 8,1 248 24,7 248

Alexander the False Prophet 249 3–4 82

82–3, 86, 234, 244, 251

Index of Inscriptions, Papyri, and Other References

4 82, 85 5 249 10 82 13 82 Apologia 4

154

Hermotimus 5

151, 153

Lovers of Lies 99, 249 14 247–8 Onos 244 Marcion

236, 251

Marcus Aurelius 1,16,4 153 Martial

140, 242

Epigram 8,24,5–6 142 Musaeus Fragm. 16

154

Philostratus

99, 234, 246–9, 251

Heroicus 33,41

245

Life of Apollonius of Tyana 2, 245 1,3,1–2 247 1,7 150 4,45,1 245 7,39 99 Photius

Bibliotheca 74b42 249 94 248 110b11 243 Plato

Symposion 166 179B 168 Plautus Mostellaria 275

Contra Celsum 1,71 98 6,41 247

Pliny

Legatio 21,147

210

De migratione Abrahami 46 182

99, 167

Epistulae 7 (347E) 168

Origen

Philo of Alexandria 112, 182

242, 248

236

Epistulae 7,19,5 f. 157 Natural History 7,124; 26,15

247

Panegyricus 34,3 140 Plutarch 199 Lives 157

De posteritate Caini 15 180

Life of Romulus 28,1–3 207

Quod omnis probus 160 182

Life of Sulla 35,4 102, 112

De specialibus legibus 2,32 182 3,100 97 3,101 112

Life of Theseus 1,1 199 Moralia 455C

127

On the Pythagoreans 397a–b 81, 83

Philodemus

Polybius

Epigram 26 82

Histories 13,5,7

17

321

322

Index of Inscriptions, Papyri, and Other References

Vespasian 7,2–3 100

Pseudo-Quintilian D. Mai. 10

236

Quintilian 156 Rabbinica m. Pe’ah 8,7

201

M.Chr. 362

58

Seneca

138, 152, 156

De ira 2,24,1

137

Epistulae 108,23 153 Naturales quaestiones IV A Praef 7–8 152 Sextus Empiricus 153 Adv. Mathematicos 7,16–9 153 Sextus Pompeius Festus 30 Shepherd of Hermas 71–2 Straton 163 Suetonius 100 Domitian 10,2–4 157 10,3 157

Tacitus Agricolae 2,1 157 45,1 157 Annales 15,44,3 169 Tertullianus Adv. Marcionem 4,43 236 Theognis 6,373 142 Tosefta 201 Vergil Aeneis 7,810

249

Verrius Flaccus De verborum significatu 30 Xenophon Memorabilia 4,2 168 Xenophon of Ephesus 243, 251 Ephesiaka 3,6,4–9,1 243

Index of Authors Abu-Lughod, L. ​137 Achtemeier, P.  J. ​116 Ackerman, R. ​287 Adak, M. ​240 Ady, T. ​101 Aguirre Castro, M. ​237 Aland, K. ​60 Albinus, L. ​37 Alderink, L.  J. ​145 Alessandri, S. ​246 Alföldy, G. ​149 Alkier, S. ​252 Allison, D.  C. ​267–8 Alston, R. ​243 Andreassi, M. ​246 Appel, B. ​156 Arbel, D.  V. ​224 Armstrong, D. ​251 Arnal, W. E. ​2, 87, 96, 120, 123, 132, 192, 200–1, 297, 303 Artz-Grabner, P. ​202 Asad, T. ​294 Asgeirsson, J.  M. ​27 Aslan, R. ​66 Aubriot-Sévin, D. ​133 Aune, D. E. ​70–1, 73, 75, 84, 91, 105–6, 110, 114, 117, 129, 133–4, 207, 250 Austin, J.  L. ​76 Aycock, A. ​290 Bachrach, B. ​274, 278 Baert, B. ​235 Baker, C.  A. ​250 Baker, J. R. ​253–6, 259, 263, 265, 272, 277 Balch, D. L. ​186, 189 Bald, H. ​163 Balot, R.  K. ​139 Balzat, J.  S. ​239 Barbero, M. ​248–9 Bardel, R. ​237 Barnard, L.  W. ​98

Barnes, J. ​163 Barrett, S. R. ​254, 257–8, 260–3 Barth, G. ​74 Bartholomew, C. ​233 Barton, C.  A. ​136–40 Bastianini, G. ​244 Bauckham, R. ​192 Bauer, W. ​179 Baumgarten, A. ​242 Bazzana, G. B. ​1, 7, 13, 25–6, 123, 192, 201, 291, 294, 297, 303 Beekes, R. ​97 Behr, C.  A. ​141 Beilby, J.  K. ​53 Bell, B. ​2, 69, 293–4, 301, 303 Benavides, G. ​143 Bergeron, J.  W. ​278 Bergman, J. ​26 Bernsdorff, H. ​242 Betz, H. D. ​74, 101–4, 106, 246 Beutler, J. ​147 Bialecki, J. ​300 Bickerman, E. ​242 Bielo, J. ​292 Bienert, D.  C. ​164 Billerbeck, M. ​152 Blenkinsopp, J. ​75 Bloch, M. ​299 Blom, J.  D. ​269 Bloom, M. ​290 Blouin, K. ​243 Blount, B.  K. ​158 Boas, F. ​257, 259 Bockmuehl, M. ​189 Boddy, J. ​8, 14 Boer, R. ​195 Bösen, W. ​147 Bohak, G. ​97, 110, 112, 114 Bond, G.  D. ​289 Bonte, P. ​141 Booth, A.  D. ​149

324

Index of Authors

Borg, M.  J. ​268 Boring, M. E. ​57, 63, 65–6, 71–2, 75 Bornkamm, G. ​74 Boschung, D. ​30, 95, 97 Bourdieu, P. ​79, 137 Bovon, F. ​233, 251 Bowden, J. ​267 Bowersock, G. ​239, 242–3, 250–2 Bowie, E. L. ​240, 242, 247 Brandenburg, H. ​238 Braun, W. ​67, 120, 132 Bremmer, J. N. ​2, 30, 37, 41, 45, 94–5, 97, 104, 127, 233, 243–4, 247, 252, 296, 303 Brenner, N. ​196 Breytenbach, C. ​11 Brittnacher, H.  R. ​31 Brown, I. ​124 Bruce, L.  D. ​248 Buckley, J.  J. ​132 Burkert, W. ​91–2, 97, 135 Burrus, V. ​96 Buyandelgeriyn, M. ​23 Byrskog, S. ​148, 161–2 Calhoun, R.  M. ​168 Cameron, A. ​248 Camia, F. ​240 Campbell, J.  K. ​137 Cannell, F. ​288, 292 Caplan, J.  P. ​269 Cardeña, E. ​220, 270, 275 Carmignani, M. ​249 Carroll, N. ​31 Carter, W. ​41–3, 204–5 Casanova, A. ​244 Chaniotis, A. ​234 Charland-Verville, V. ​275 Chase, A.  H. ​144 Christes, J. ​151–3 Cioffi, R. ​244 Clark Wire, A. ​186 Cohen, J.  J. ​31 Cohen, S.  J. ​161 Cohn, D. ​33 Cohn, Y. ​131 Coleman, K.  M. ​56, 243 Coleman, S. ​3, 285, 292, 296, 304 Collard, C. ​237

Collerton, D. ​269 Collins, D. ​100, 129 Collins, R.  F. ​167 Colson, F.  H. ​210 Comaroff, Jean ​7–8 Comaroff, John ​7–8 Conklin, H. C. ​254, 257 Conrad, E.  W. ​195 Conway, C. ​41 Cook, J. G. ​235, 252 Cotter, W. ​87, 114, 117, 207 Cousland, J. R. C. ​186 Craffert, P. F. ​3, 9, 218, 253, 266–7, 270, 273, 276, 294–5, 304 Craig, W.  L. ​267 Crook, Z. A. ​2, 127, 137, 291, 296–7, 304 Crossan, J. D. ​53, 59, 90, 95, 115, 122–3 Croy, N.  C. ​128 Csordas, T. J. ​79, 294 Curran, A. ​31 Cwikla, A. ​124 Czachesz, I. ​46, 65, 90, 94, 102, 105 Dalman, G. ​162 Dana, D. ​243 Danker, F.  W. ​237 d’Aquili, E.  G. ​270 Darnell, R. ​286 Davies, O. ​101 Davies, S. L. ​9 Davies, W. D. ​73, 161 Davis, S.  T. ​268 Day, P. L. ​11 de Certeau, M. ​32 DeConick, A.  D. ​223 de Halleux, A. ​70 De Hemmer Gudme, A. K. ​131 Deissmann, A. ​20 de Jonge, H. J. ​26 Delobel, J. ​198 Delorme, J. ​42, 50 DeMaris, R.  E. ​200 Demoen, K. ​242, 246 Dendle, P.  J. ​30 Dennett, D.  C. ​286 De Troyer, K. ​27 Deutsch, C. ​182–3 Devisch, R. ​258

Index of Authors

Dewey, J. ​33 de Zwaan, J. ​233 Dieleman, J. ​104 Diethard Römheld, K. F. ​34 Dignas, B. ​243 Dihle, A. ​153, 155, 170 Dix, T.  K. ​248 Dixon, E. P. ​38, 51 Dobbeler, A. von ​168 Dodds, E.  R. ​222 Dolansky, S. ​131 Donneau, A.-F. ​275 Doudna, J. C. ​21 Douglas, M. ​54–5, 89, 93, 117, 289–90, 294 Dowden, K. ​248 Draper, J.  A. ​70 Driver, H.  E. ​254 Dudley, R. ​269 Dunn, J. D. G. ​71–2, 76, 230, 268 Dupertuis, R. ​233 Durkheim, É. ​88–90, 92–4, 123 Eade, J. ​292, 298 Ebner, M. ​2, 147, 152–3, 156–8, 163–6, 169–70, 295–7, 304 Eddy, P.  R. ​53 Edmonds, R., III ​146 Ego, B. ​162 Ekman, P. ​33 Elden, S. ​196 Eliade, M. ​32, 97 Elsner, J. ​246 Engelke, M. ​292 Engels, F. ​287 Eperjesi, F. ​269 Erlemann, K. ​168 Erler, M. ​163 Espinosa, U. ​151 Espirito Santo, D. ​17 Evans, C.  A. ​128 Evans-Pritchard, E. ​255, 288 Falwell, J. ​292 Faraone, C. A. ​16, 132 Farquhar, J. ​54 Feldt, L. ​1, 29–33, 35, 41, 45–6, 50, 296–7, 305

325

Felton, D. ​30, 233 Ferguson, E. ​132 Ferguson, J. ​130 Fessler, D. M. T. ​274 Ffytche, D. ​269 Fisher, N. R. E. ​137 Flashar, H. ​153, 163 Flinterman, J.  J. ​242 Foakes-Jackson, F.  J. ​233 Focant, C. ​218, 228 Ford, S. ​269 Foster, G.  M. ​138 Foucault, M. ​54–5, 64 France, R.  T. ​180 Franchi de’ Cavalieri, P. ​240 Frankfurter, D. ​34–5, 42, 51, 88, 96, 98, 103–5, 107–9, 122–3 Frazer, J. G. ​89–91, 93, 127, 129, 286–7, 289–90, 293–4, 296 Freedman, D.  N. ​37 Fridman, E. J. N. ​256 Fullmer, P. ​240 Furley, W. D. ​133–4, 136 Fusillo, M. ​242 Futre Pinheiro, M. P. ​244 Galaty, J.  G. ​141 Garnsey, P. ​140 Geertz, A.  W. ​35 Geertz, C. ​253–4, 256, 259–61 Georg-Zöller, C. ​164 Giesler, P.  V. ​256 Gigon, O. ​153–4 Gilbert, G. ​210, 213 Gill, C. ​135 Gilmore, D.  G. ​137 Girard, R. ​54 Glare, P. G. W. ​30 Glass-Coffin, B. ​258, 260, 272–3 Gleach, F.  W. ​286 Gnilka, J. ​158, 228 Görgemanns, H. ​166–7 Good, B. ​256 Goold, G.  P. ​240 Goulet, J.-G. A. ​253, 257–8, 260–1, 264, 271–2, 277, 279 Goulet-Cazé, M.  O. ​156 Graf, F. ​97–8, 129, 132

326

Index of Authors

Green, W. S. ​89, 132, 224 Grieser, A. ​33 Griffin, M. ​163 Grindal, B. T. ​261, 271–4, 276–8, 281 Grossardt ​245 Grundmann, W. ​87, 115 Guijarro, S. ​2, 204, 217, 226, 295, 305 Guillaume, P. ​131 Gyselinck, W. ​246 Habermas, G. R. ​266, 278 Habermas, J. ​175 Hachlili, R. ​234, 236 Hackett, R. ​292, 296 Hägg, T. ​241 Hahn, J. ​150–5 Hahn, R.  A. ​261 Halperin, D. ​265 Hanson, F.  A. ​255 Harder, R. ​150 Harding, S. ​292 Harmon, A.  M. ​82 Harnack, A. von ​75, 236 Harrison, S.  J. ​244 Harvey, D. ​196 Hauser, L. ​164 Hayes, R.  B. ​252 Hays, C.  M. ​193 Heiligenthal, R. ​168 Held, H.  J. ​74 Hendel, R. ​289 Henderson, I. ​41–2, 44, 47–8 Hengel, M. ​26 Henrichs, A. ​240, 243 Herder, J.  G. ​289 Herdt, G. ​176–8, 181, 184–7, 189–90, 293, 299 Herrmann, W. ​10 Herzfeld, M. ​137 Herzog, R. ​156 Herzog, W.  R. ​59 Hieke, T. ​27 Hill, D. ​74–5 Hingley, R. ​210–2 Hock, R.  F. ​250 Hoenes del Pinal, E. ​300 Hoffmann, P. ​16, 192 Hofius, O. ​236

Hofmann, H. ​243, 250 Holbraad, M. ​104 Holmén, T. ​148 Holzberg, N. ​250 Hopwood, K. ​243 Horbury, W. ​161 Horn, F.  W. ​161 Hornblower, S. ​128 Horsfall, N. ​249 Horsley, R. A. ​93, 96–7, 105, 109–10, 116, 123 Horton, R. ​93 Houston, G. ​248 Hubert, H. ​91 Hufford, D.  J. ​271–2 Hull, J.  M. ​115 Hunink, V. ​238 Hvidt, N.  C. ​70 Jacobus, H.  R. ​131 James, W. ​270 Jardri, R. ​269 Jensen, J.  S. ​35 Jerryson, M. ​66–7 Jeska, J. ​164 Johnson-DeBaufre, M. ​23, 25 Johnston, J. ​33 Johnston, S. I. ​91, 95, 97, 101, 103–4, 131, 237 Jones, C. P. ​234, 244–7, 249 Jordan, D. R. ​89, 97, 131 Joseph, S. ​53, 268 Jourdan, J.-P. ​275 Juergensmeyer, M. ​66–7 Juschka, D. ​124 Kalleres, D. S. ​37, 51 Kankaanniemi, M. ​148 Kany, R. ​241 Keane, W. ​261–2, 264 Kee, H.  C. ​64, 115–7 Keen, S. ​33 Keith, C. ​147 Kelhoffer, J.  A. ​65–7, 194 Kendall, D. ​268 Kenney, E. J. ​92 Keulen, W. ​249 Kieffer, R. ​26

Index of Authors

Kiley, M. C. ​133, 145 Kippenberg, H.  G. ​175 Kirk, A. ​200 Kirsch, T.  G. ​292 Kitts, M. ​66–7 Klagge, J. ​91 Klass, M. ​255 Klauck, H.  J. ​128 Klein, R. ​151, 153 Klinghardt, M. ​132 Kloppenborg, J. S. ​49, 52–3, 59, 65, 104, 120, 123, 192, 197–8, 200, 210, 305 Klostergaard Petersen, A. ​131 Knopf, R. ​73 Koch, G. ​235 Kok, J. ​193, 198 Koskenniemi, E. ​246 Kotansky, R. ​132, 237 Kreinecker, C. ​202 Krippner, S. ​275 Kroll, J. ​274, 278 Kroskrity, P.  V. ​300 Kunin, S. ​290 Kuper, A. ​254, 257, 262–3, 286–8, 290–1 Labahn, M. ​26, 53, 195 Lacore, M. ​235 Lahood, G. ​258, 272 Lake, K. ​233 Lalleman, P.  J. ​250 Lambek, M. ​8, 19 Lange, A. ​34 Larøi, F. ​269 Larsen, T. ​287 Latour, B. ​18, 23 Lattimore, R. ​238 Lau, M. ​160 Laughlin, C. D. ​260–4, 270–1 Laureys, S. ​275 Leach, E. ​289–90 Leander, H. ​40 Ledoux, D. ​275 Lefebvre, H. ​191, 193–6, 200, 211, 213–4 Légasse, S. ​15 Lehrich, C.  I. ​93 Lendon, J. E. ​135–9, 141 Lévi-Strauss, C. ​93, 290 Lewis, I. M. ​7, 24

327

Lichtenberger, H. ​34 Licona, M. R. ​268, 278 Liddell, H.  G. ​43 Lieb, M. ​222–4, 226 Lincicum, D. ​189 Lindemann, A. ​26 Linos, N. ​55, 64, 67 Littlewood, R. ​274 Lloyd, G. E. R. ​218, 264–5 Lock, M.  M. ​54 Löning, K. ​164 Lörincz, B. ​248 Lohmann, I. ​153 Longenecker, R.  N. ​134 Lopez, D.  C. ​209–10 Lucarelli, R. ​35 Lüdemann, G. ​217 Lüth, C. ​151, 153 Luhrmann, T. M. ​77–81, 84, 262, 264, 269, 294 Luz, U. ​73, 75, 162, 181–3, 211 Maccubbin, R.  P. ​31 MacDonald, D.  R. ​57, 250 Mack, B. L. ​65, 67, 120 Macknik, S. L. ​219 MacMullen, R. ​95, 122, 127, 156–7, 240 März, C.-P. ​164 Maier, B. ​157 Malbon, E.  S. ​118 Malina, B. J. ​133, 136, 138, 141, 143 Malinowski, B. ​89, 93, 257, 262, 293 Malitz, J. ​156 Marcus, J. ​10, 14, 16, 20, 43, 228, 229 Marett, R.  R. ​291 Marin, L. ​30 Marks, J. ​254, 257, 262–3 Marrou, H.  I. ​150 Martin, D. ​58 Martin, J. ​166 Martin, L. H. ​145, 17–7 Martin, R. ​255 Martínez-Conde, S. ​219 Marx, H. ​124 Marx, K. ​123, 195, 287 Marx-Wolf, H. ​87, 89, 95, 100, 109 Mason, H.  J. ​244 Masquelier, A. ​8, 18–9

328

Index of Authors

Matthews, S. ​212 Mattingly, D.  J. ​210 Mauss, M. ​54, 88, 91, 93–4, 107, 296 McCutcheon, R. T. ​67, 120, 132 McHardy, F. ​237 McLaren, J.  S. ​197 McLennan, J. ​287 McManus, J. ​270 Meier, J. P. ​12, 91, 116 Merkel, H. ​162 Merkur, D. ​224 Merleau-Ponty, M. ​79 Merz, A. ​147 Messing, G.  M. ​144 Metzger, B.  M. ​21 Meyer, M. W. ​27, 88, 130, 132, 143 Michel, O. ​209 Milavec, A. ​70, 84 Millar, F. ​248 Miller, B. G. ​253, 258, 260, 271 Milligan, G. ​20 Mintsi, E. ​238 Miquel Pericás, E. ​224 Miquel, E. ​219 Mirecki, P. ​88, 132 Mittman, A.  S. ​30–1 Möllendorff, P. von ​252 Montgomery, H. ​89, 97, 131 Moore, S. D. ​42 Moreland, J.  P. ​267 Moretti, F. ​32 Morgan, D. ​295 Morgan, J.  R. ​248 Morgan, L.  H. ​286 Morrill, D.  F. ​31 Moscadi, L. ​246 Mosimann, U.  P. ​269 Moss, C. ​46 Moulton, J.  H. ​20 Mounce, W.  D. ​144 Moxnes, H. ​2, 7, 14, 175, 193, 205–6, 293, 299, 305 Mülke, M. ​248 Müller, U.  B. ​217 Naiweld, R. ​161 Nasrallah, L. ​211–2 Nauta, R. ​242

Nel, M. ​185 Neufeld, D. ​178, 200, 224 Newman, J.  H. ​246 Neyrey, J. H. ​135–6, 178, 210 Nickau, K. ​235 Nicklas, T. ​46, 73, 193, 252 Nineham, D. ​267 Nordmann, A. ​91 Nusbaum, H. ​264 Nyamnjoh, F.  B. ​258 Obbink, D. ​16, 132, 240 O’Collins, G. ​268 O’Connell, J. ​278 O’Donnell, M.  B. ​235 Oepke, A. ​180 Ogden, D. ​134, 233 Ogle, M.  B. ​238 Orlin, E. ​134, 146 Orlov, A.  A. ​224 Otten, W. ​10 Otto, B. C. ​89–90, 128, 130, 132, 145 Pagels, E. ​13 Palmié, S. ​18 Panciera, S. ​149 Parker, R. ​135–6 Paschalis, M. ​242 Peacock, J. L. ​253, 255, 260 Pecere, O. ​244 Pedersen, M.  A. ​23 Pellegrini, S. ​148, 168 Penner, T. ​233 Penney, D. L. ​11 Peristiany, J. G. ​137, 291 Perkins, J. ​251 Perrin, B. ​199 Pervo, R. ​233, 250 Petersen, A. K. ​34, 37 Petersen, W.  L. ​26 Petzke, G. ​246 Phillips, C.  R. ​145 Phillips, H. ​144 Pietzner, K. ​150, 152, 154 Pilch, J. J. ​178, 204, 220–2, 227, 276 Pins, D. ​269 Piper, R.  A. ​53 Pirner, M.  L. ​163

Index of Authors

Pitt-Rivers, J. ​137 Pokorny, P. ​250 Ponczoch, J.  A. ​251 Porter, S. E. ​128, 235 Postlethwaite, N. ​135 Powers, S. M. ​275 Praet, D. ​242, 246 Preisendanz, K. ​102–4, 106 Prickard, A.  O. ​81 Prostmeier, F.  R. ​164 Puech, É. ​11 Pulleyn, S. ​131–6, 141–4 Quass, F. ​240 Quertemont, E. ​275 Rabinow, P. ​54 Radt, S. ​237 Rajak, T. ​235 Ramelli, I. ​239 Raynor, D.  H. ​247 Reardon, B. P. ​113, 244 Rebillard, E. ​238 Reese, D.  G. ​37 Reiling, J. ​38, 73, 75 Reiser, M. ​161 Remus, H. ​91, 98–100, 102, 110, 112, 114, 117, 124, 145 Rengstorf, K.  H. ​149 Richards, W. ​108, 124 Richardson, J.  S. ​207 Riches, J. ​103, 207 Riesner, R. ​153, 162 Riess, W. ​149, 151, 155–6 Riggs, C. ​104 Riley, G.  J. ​37 Rives, J.  B. ​130 Rizakis, A.  D. ​240 Robert, L. ​240 Robertson Smith, W. ​287, 291 Robiano, P. ​249 Robinson, J. M. ​192, 197, 206 Rohde, E. ​242 Rohrbaugh, R.  L. ​133 Rollens, S. E. ​2, 53, 55, 123–4, 192, 200, 293–4, 297, 306 Romberg, R. ​14 Rose, V. ​97

Rosenfeld, B.  Z. ​161 Roth, D. T. ​53, 193, 195, 198 Rousseau, J.  J. ​13 Rowland, C. ​223, 226 Rubel, G. ​167 Runesson, A. ​179 Rupke, J. ​41 Rupp, H.  F. ​163 Rusam, D. ​166 Ruse, M. ​286 Rutherford, I. ​243 Rutherford, R. ​240 Rutter, K. ​237 Ryba, T. ​289 Sack, R. D. ​194, 199, 208 Sacks, O. ​220, 271 Sahin, S. ​240 Saldarini, A. J. ​22, 189 Saler, B. ​259 Saller, R.  P. ​140 Sallnow, M. ​292, 298 Salzmann, J.  C. ​148 Schade, G. ​153 Scheer, M. ​33–4 Schenke, L. ​167 Schieffelin, B.  B. ​300 Schiering, M.  J. ​250 Schiering, S.  P. ​250 Schindler, F. ​240 Schirren, Th. ​246 Schleiermacher, F. D. E. ​176–7 Schmeling, G. ​244 Schmeller, T. ​162 Schmidt, H.  W. ​156 Schmidt, V. ​244 Schmitz, Th. ​240 Schneider, C. ​233, 246 Schreiber, S. ​160, 166, 169 Schröter, J. ​168 Schwartz, J. ​244 Schwartz, R. ​54 Schweizer, E. ​72–3 Scott, B.  B. ​269 Scott, R. ​43 Seaford, R. ​135 Sedley, D. ​163 Segal, A. F. ​91, 96, 99, 103, 273

329

330

Index of Authors

Segal, R. A. ​35, 143 Sekunda, N.  V. ​244 Sellew, P. ​13 Shanafelt, R.  A. ​258–61 Shantz, C. ​55 Shiner, W.  T. ​168 Shweder, R.  A. ​256 Siegel, R.  K. ​269 Sim, D. C. ​197, 207 Simecek, K. ​34 Sleeman, M. ​191, 194, 202–3, 298 Sluhovsky, M. ​73 Smedley, E. ​246 Smith, D. A. ​2, 191, 195, 197, 200, 210, 233, 293, 298–9, 306 Smith, J. Z. ​89, 91, 93, 100, 102–4, 107–9, 123, 130, 132 Smith, M. ​117 Smith, R. ​130, 143 Smyth, H.  W. ​144 Söding, T. ​170 Sohm, R. ​75 Soja, E. W. ​191, 194, 196, 203, 214 Sonik, K. ​34 Sørensen, J. ​90, 93 Soverini, L. ​246 Sparkes, B. ​237 Spawforth, A. ​128 Spinoza, B. ​289 Spiro, M. ​261 Spittler, J. ​46, 252 Spong, J.  S. ​268 Stanton, G.  N. ​189 Stark, R. ​129 Stausberg, M. ​89–90, 128, 130, 132, 145 Stavrianopoulou, E. ​234 Stephens, S. A. ​242, 244, 249 Stern, T.  A. ​269 Stewart, E. C. ​191, 193, 197, 202–5, 209, 298 Stewart, R.  B. ​267 Stirratt, R.  L. ​298 Stocking, G. ​285 Stone, J.  V. ​219 Stowers, S. ​109 Stramaglia, A. ​236, 244 Stratton, K. B. ​87, 89, 95, 97, 130 Stroumsa, G.  G. ​175

Struthers Malbon, E. ​203 Stuckenbruck, L. T. ​11, 27 Sturdevant, J.  S. ​167 Sturdy, J. ​161 Styers, R. ​95, 130 Swain, S. ​248 Syreeni, K. ​179, 181 Tambiah, S. J. ​91, 93, 256 Tart, C. T. ​220–1, 226 Taves, A. ​265 Taylor, W.  F. ​128 Tedlock, B. ​257–8 Teeple, R.  C. ​269 Theissen, G. ​103, 113, 115–6, 147, 166, 170, 192 Thiede, C.  P. ​239 Thisted, R. ​264 Thomas, C. ​239 Thomassen, E. ​89, 93–4, 97, 101, 105, 131 Thompson, E.  P. ​138 Thonnard, M. ​275 Tiemeyer, L.  S. ​223 Tilg, S. ​240–2 Tiwald, M. ​25, 53, 197 Todorov, T.  Z. ​31 Trnka-Amrhein, Y. ​244 Tropper, V. ​147, 150, 153 Tuan, Y. F. ​196, 200 Tucker, G.  M. ​75 Tuckett, C. M. ​26, 197–8 Tull, H. ​289 Tulli, M. ​244 Turner, E. ​257, 260–1, 265, 271–2, 281, 291, 298 Turner, R. ​260 Turner, V. ​32, 257, 291, 298 Tylor, E. B. ​89–90, 93, 286 Tyson, J. ​233 Uebel, M. ​31 Uro, R. ​87, 90, 93–5, 111, 113–4 Vaage, L. E. ​55, 61, 66, 123 Valette-Cagnac, E. ​246 Van Belle, G. ​26 Van Binsbergen, W. M. J. ​258, 261 van der Horst, P. W. ​26, 246

Index of Authors

VanderKam, J. C. ​12 van Eck, E. ​193 van Gennep, A. ​32, 299 van Henten, J. W. ​37 van Mal-Maeder, D. K. ​244, 246 van Nijf, O. ​138, 140–1 Van Oyen, G. ​9, 14 Van Segbroeck, F. ​26 Van Uytfanghe, M. ​246 Veenstra, J. R. ​94, 247 Vegge, T. ​150, 154, 163, 168, 170 Velji, J. ​66 Verheyden, J. ​26, 73, 167, 210, 306 Versnel, H. S. ​97, 99, 103–4, 109, 124, 127–9, 136, 142, 241 Veyne, P. ​140–1 Vinzent, M. ​233, 239, 251 Vössing, K. ​149–152 Volp, U. ​161 Vos, J.  S. ​26 Vos, N. ​10 Wahlen, C. ​39, 41–2 Walter, M.  N. ​256 Waterhouse, R. ​31 Waters, F. ​269 Wax, M. ​256, 261 Wax, R. ​256, 261 Weeden, T. J. ​229 Wehrli, F. ​242 Wendt, H. ​88, 109, 118 Wenell, K.  J. ​191 Wengst, K. ​169 Werline, R. A. ​55, 134 Wesch-Klein, G. ​245 Whitehead, C. ​254, 262–3 Whitmarsh, T. ​82–3, 233

331

Whittaker, C.  R. ​210 Wikan, U. ​137 Wilkins, M.  J. ​267 Willerslev, R. ​288 Wilson, B.  R. ​123 Wilson, L. ​67 Winkelman, M. J. ​220, 253–6, 259, 263–4, 269–70, 272, 277 Winkler, J. J. ​242, 244, 249 Wise, M. O. ​11 Witmer, A. ​10, 61 Wittgenstein, L. ​91 Witulski, T. ​164 Wörrle, M. ​240 Wolter, M. ​147 Woods, R. ​124 Woolard, K.  A. ​300 Wright, N.  T. ​268 Wülfing, P. ​156 Wunderlich, R. ​163 Yarbro Collins, A. ​12, 16, 38–40, 42–4, 46, 57, 63, 65–7, 102, 112–3, 203, 206 Yieh, J. Y. H. ​161 Yoder Neufeld, T. ​53 Young, D. E. ​260–1, 264, 271–2, 277, 278 Zamfir, K. ​73 Zangenberg, J. ​234 Zeller, D. ​198, 200 Ziebarth, E. ​153 Zimmerman, M. ​243, 250 Zimmermann, A.  F. ​162 Zimmermann, R. ​53, 161, 195 Zoumbaki, S. ​240 Zuiderhoek, A.  J. ​139 Zwiep, A. ​235