The Monastic Origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices 9783161541728, 3161541723, 9783161541735

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Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity Herausgeber / Editor: Christoph Markschies (Berlin) Martin Wallraff (Basel) Christian Wildberg (Princeton) Beirat / Advisory Board Peter Brown (Princeton) · Susanna Elm (Berkeley) Johannes Hahn (Münster) · Emanuela Prinzivalli (Rom) Jörg Rüpke (Erfurt)

97

Hugo Lundhaug and Lance Jenott

The Monastic Origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices

Mohr Siebeck

Hugo Lundhaug, born 1970; Cand. philol. in the History of Religions from the University of Oslo, 2000; Dr. art. in the History of Religions from the University of Bergen, 2007; currently Professor of Theology (Biblical Reception and Early Christian Literature) at the University of Oslo, Faculty of Theology. Lance Jenott, born 1980, studied History, Classics, and Religion at the University of Washington (Seattle) and Princeton University, and holds a PhD in the Religions of Late Antiquity from Princeton University. He is currently a postdoctoral research fellow at the University of Oslo, Faculty of Theology.

ISBN 978-3-16-154172-8 / eISBN 978-3-16-154173-5 ISSN 1436-3003 (Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum) Die Deutsche Bibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.ddb.de.

© 2015 by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by Martin Fischer in Tübingen using Stempel Garamond typeface, printed by Laupp & Göbel in Nehren on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Nädele in Nehren. Printed in Germany.

Preface The monastic provenance of the Nag Hammadi Codices is a topic that has been at the back of our minds for a number of years while researching the Nag Hammadi texts. In light of an increasing tendency in scholarship to dismiss the monastic Sitz im Leben for this fascinating collection of early Christian codices, we both felt the need to examine the evidence more closely from as many angles as possible, and to assess the various alternatives. Research for this book thus began in early 2013 as an attempt to co-write an article on the topic, but the work quickly grew well beyond the boundaries of an article, and it became clear to us that it would require the kind of detailed treatment that only a book allows. The composition of this book has taken place within the research project New Contexts for Old Texts: Unorthodox Texts and Monastic Manuscript Culture in Fourth- and Fifth-Century Egypt (NEWCONT), a five-year endeavor funded by a Starting Grant from the European Research Council (ERC) awarded to Hugo Lundhaug in 2011, and hosted at the University of Oslo’s Faculty of Theology for the period of 2012–2016.1 It is this generous ERC funding that has facilitated the close collaboration that resulted in this book, and for that we are deeply grateful. There are indeed many colleagues and institutions that deserve thanks for their help and support. We would first of all like to thank the other members of the NEWCONT project, postdoctoral research fellow Christian Bull and PhDstudents Kristine Toft Rosland and Paula Tutty, for their inspiring collaboration and conversations. The Faculty of Theology with its former and current deans Trygve Wyller and Aud Tønnesen, as well as its head librarian, Svein-Helge Birkeflet, also deserve gratitude for wholeheartedly supporting the project. Special recognition is due to René Falkenberg, Michael Williams, Ingvild Sælid Gilhus, Christian Bull, Paula Tutty, and Christian Askeland for proof-reading, commenting upon, and improving drafts of the chapters. Each of them has significantly enhanced the quality of the book. Thanks also to Paula Tutty for putting together the index of modern authors. We would also like to thank the chief theology editor at Mohr Siebeck, Henning Ziebritzki, the series editors, Christoph Markschies, Christian Wildberg, and Martin Walraff, and the production team, Susanne Mang and Martin Fischer, for their careful, patient, and detailed efforts. 1 The NEWCONT project is funded by the ERC under the European Community’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007–2013) / ERC Grant agreement no 283741.

VI

Preface

We have also profited a great deal from our collaboration and conversation with our friends and colleagues who participated in the NEWCONT conferences and workshops between 2012 and 2014, especially René Falkenberg, Stephen Emmel, Ingvild Sælid Gilhus, Christian Askeland, Alin Suciu, Dylan Burns, Christoph Markschies, Lillian Larsen, Samuel Rubenson, Louis Painchaud, Philip Sellew, Blossom Stefaniw, Richard Layton, Ulla Tervahauta, Julio Cesar Dias Chaves, Tilde Bak Halvgaard, David Tibet, Katrine Brix, Liv Ingeborg Lied, Alexandros Tsakos, Brent Nongbri, Eric Crégheur, Jesper Hyldahl, and (in absentia) James E. Goehring. Research for this book has also benefited from our tour of archaeological sites and Coptic monasteries throughout Egypt in May 2014, in both the Eastern Desert and the Nile valley, from Luxor to Alexandria. The visit proved to be highly illuminating for our understanding of the region’s geography and terrain, especially with regard to the Dishna plain and the area around the Jabal al-Tarif where the Nag Hammadi Codices were discovered. We would like to thank our traveling companions in Egypt, first and foremost Samuel Rubenson, who organized and led the trip in connection with his research project Early Monasticism and Classical Paideia (MOPAI) at Lund University, along with members of his research team, Lillian Larsen, Jesper Blid Kullberg, Bo Holmberg, Britt Dahlman, Jason Zaborowski, and Johan Åhlfeldt, as well as NEWCONT’s Kristine Toft Rosland. Our guide in Egypt, Beshoy Amir, deserves special praise for his tireless efforts and endless humor. The book has also been enhanced by the generosity of a number of individuals. We would like to thank in particular Stephen Emmel for sharing with us his excellent set of maps of the Jabal al-Tarif and its environs, as well as photographs and transcriptions of White Monastery manuscripts of texts by Shenoute; James Goehring, for his wonderful images of monastic graffiti at the Wadi Sheikh Ali; and Martin Schøyen, who provided images of papyri from his invaluable collection of manuscripts and antiquities, and generously donated samples of the leather cover and cartonnage papyri from Nag Hammadi Codex I for radiocarbon analysis. A number of institutions have also been helpful in making their materials available to us, including the Fondation Martin Bodmer, the Scheide Library, the Claremont Colleges Digital Archives, the British Library, and Google. Thanks are also due to the Beinecke Library and Brendan Haug for facilitating our research there. Finally, we owe an indelible debt to our wives, Linn Lundhaug and Virginia Clark, for their love, support, encouragement, and toleration, not only through the process of writing this book, but throughout our lives. Oslo, July 2015

Hugo Lundhaug Lance Jenott

Table of Contents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V Maps and Images . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XI Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XIII Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics? . . . . . . . . . . .

1

A Brief History of the Question . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Present Study . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dating the Codices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Discovery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

4 8 9 11

Chapter 2: Monastic Diversity in Upper Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

22

Literary Evidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Travelogues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hagiographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Shenoute of Atripe and Archbishop Dioscorus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Archaeological Evidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Documentary Evidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Monastic Archives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Monastic Documents from the Nag Hammadi Covers . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

23 23 28 35 39 43 44 46 54

Chapter 3: Gnostics? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

56

Sethian Gnostics? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gnostics in Fourth- and Fifth-Century Egypt? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gnostics in Egyptian Monasteries? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

56 64 69 73

Chapter 4: Contrasting Mentalities? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

74

Anti-Biblical Books? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Hatred of the World and its Creator? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 Urban Literati? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102

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Chapter 5: The Cartonnage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104 Commercial Documents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Official Accounts and Large Quantities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Imperial Ordinances? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Recycled Scripture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Coptic Homily or Epistle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Monks’ Letters and the Pachomian Connection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Acquisition of Cartonnage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cover-Makers and Scribes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

111 117 123 126 128 129 139 142 144

Chapter 6: Apocryphal Books in Egyptian Monasteries . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 Censors and Sympathizers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Book Lists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Manuscript Discoveries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Pachomian Federation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Shenoute and the White Monastery Federation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dioscorus of Alexandria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

146 152 155 165 170 175 177

Chapter 7: The Colophons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178 The Scribe and His Superior: Codex VII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Scribe and His Community: Codex II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Scribe and His Spiritual Name: Codex III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Scribe and His Codes: Cryptography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Scribe and His Network: Codex VI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

178 183 189 194 197 206

Chapter 8: The Codices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207 Sub-Groups among the Nag Hammadi Codices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Traveling Texts and Migrating People . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Nag Hammadi Codices and Biblical Manuscripts . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Dishna Papers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

208 214 217 223 231

Chapter 9: The Monks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 234 Melitian Monks? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Origenist Monks? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pachomian Monks? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Implications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

235 238 246 256

Table of Contents

IX

Chapter 10: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Monastics . . . . . . . . . . 263 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269 Index of Ancient Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301 Index of Modern Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 316 Index of Subjects . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 322

Maps and Images 1. Map of Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XVII 2. The Nag Hammadi Codices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XVIII 3. Jabal al-Tarif . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XVIII 4. The site of the discovery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 5. Cross-sections of the Jabal al-Tarif cliff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 6. The site of the discovery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 7. Map of Jabal al-Tarif . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 8. Map of Dishna Plain with modern settlements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 9. Map of Jabal al-Tarif and environs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 10. Abu Hinnis, near Antinoë . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 11. Map of Pachomian Monasteries by 347 CE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 12. Inscription at the Wadi Sheikh Ali . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 13. Drawing of Apa John at the Wadi Sheikh Ali . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 14. Ruins of the Pachomian basilica at Faw Qibli . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 15. Cartonnage fragment G1 from NHC I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 16. Cartonnage fragment C6 from NHC VII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 17. NHC VII.127 with colophon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179 18. NHC II.145 with colophon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184 19. NHC I.B with colophon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 20. NHC III.69 with colophon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190 21. NHC VII.118 with colophon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195 22. NHC VI.65 with scribal note . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198 23. Codex Scheide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218 24. NHC IV.49 and Schøyen MS 2650 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219 25. Deuteronomy and Jonah with colophon (BL Or. 7594) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221 26. Genesis (P. Nag Hamm. C2 from NHC VII) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222 27. Nag Hammadi Codex II and P. Bodmer XIV–XV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226 28. NHC III and P. Bodmer II, XV, and XVI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227 29. P. Bodmer III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229 30. NHC III and P. Bodmer XXI and XXIII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 230 31. Fragment of Zostrianos (P. Bodmer XLIII) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232

Abbreviations ACW ADAI.K AMG AnBoll AnOr Ap. Patr. APF Apol. ad Anast. Apol. adv. Hier. ASP ASR Av BA BASP BBod BCNH BCNH.É BCNH.T BEHE BETL BIFAO BL Or. BMus Bo BRHE BSAC BZNW C1, C2, etc. C. Gent. CBET CCSL CMCL COr CQ CS CSCO CSML CSQ

Ancient Christian Writers Abhandlungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts Kairo, Koptische Reihe Annales du Musée Guimet Analecta Bollandiana Analecta Orientalia Apophthegmata Patrum Archiv für Papyrusforschung Apologia ad Anastasium Apologia contra Hieronymum American Studies in Papyrology American Sociological Review Arabic Life of Pachomius in Vatican Ms. 172 Biblical Archaeologist Bulletin of the American Society of Papyrologists Bibliotheca Bodmeriana Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi: Section “Études” Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi: Section “Textes” Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes Études Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium Bulletin de l’institut français d’archéologie orientale British Library Oriental Ms. Bibliothèque du Muséon Bohairic Life of Pachomius Bibliothèque de la Revue d’histoire ecclésiastique Bulletin de la Société d’archéologie copte Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft P. Nag Hamm. Coptic 1, Coptic 2, etc. Contra gentes Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology Corpus Christianorum: Series Latina Corpus dei Manoscritti Copti Letterari Cahiers d’orientalisme Classical Quarterly Cistercian Studies Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium Cambridge Studies in Medieval Literature Cistercian Studies Quarterly

XIV CStS DÖAW.PH ECCA Ep. Ep. Am. Ep. fest. Ep. Sin. EuA FC G1, G2, etc G1, G2, etc. GCS GOF.H GöMisz GRBS Hist. eccl. Hist. Laus. Hist. mon. Hist. mon. U. HTR Inst. Instr. JAC JAOS JBL JCH JCoptS JEA JFA JJP JJPSup JRS JSNT JSNTSup JTS Kêmi LCL Leg. LSJ MCPL MDAI MFC MH MLST MONB MonS Mus

Abbreviations

Variorum Collected Studies Series Denkschriften. Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften: Philosophisch-historische Klasse Early Christianity in the Context of Antiquity Epistulae Epistula Ammonis Epistulae festales Epistula ad Sinuthium Erbe und Auftrag Fathers of the Church First Greek Life of Pachomius, Second Greek Life of Pachomius, etc. P. Nag Hamm. Greek 1, Greek 2, etc. Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte Göttinger Orientforschung, Reihe 6, Hellenistica Göttinger Miszellen Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies Historia ecclesiastica Historia Lausiaca Historia monachorum in Aegypto Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt Harvard Theological Review Institutes Instructions Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum Journal of the American Oriental Society Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Cognitive Historiography Journal of Coptic Studies Journal of Egyptian Archaeology Journal of Field Archaeology Journal of Juristic Papyrology Journal of Juristic Papyrology Supplements Journal of Roman Studies Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series Journal of Theological Studies Kêmi: Revue de philologie et d’archéologie égyptiennes et coptes Loeb Classical Library Praecepta ac Leges Liddell, Scott, and Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon, 9th ed. Meddelanden från Collegium Patristicum Lundense Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts Message of the Fathers of the Church Museum Helveticum Mittellateinische Studien und Texte White Monastery manuscript Monastic Studies Le Muséon: Revue d’études orientales

Abbreviations

MüSt NAPSPatMS NewDocs NHC NHMS NHS NovT NPNF NTOA NTS NTTSD OECS OECT OLA OLP Or OrChr OSHT PatSor Pan. PapyVind Paral. PG PGL PIOL PL PLB PLO PO Pr. PTS R&T RdE Ref. REg RGRW RThom S1, S2, etc. SA SAC SBLDS SBLMS SBLSP SBo

SEAug SHG

XV

Münsterschwarzacher Studien North American Patristic Society Patristic Monograph Series New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity Nag Hammadi Codex Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies Nag Hammadi Studies Novum Testamentum The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus New Testament Studies New Testament Tools, Studies and Documents Oxford Early Christian Studies Oxford Early Christian Texts Orientalia lovaniensia analecta Orientalia Lovaniensia Periodica Orientalia Oriens christianus Oxford Studies in Historical Theology Patristica Sorbonensia Panarion Papyrologica Vindobonensia Paralipomena Patrologia graeca Patristic Greek Lexicon. Edited by G. W. H. Lampe. Publications de l’Institut Orientaliste de Louvain Patrologia latina Papyrologica Lugduno-Batava Porta Linguarum Orientalium, Neue Serie Patrologia orientalis Praecepta Patristische Texte und Studien Religion and Theology Revue d’égyptologie Refutatio omnium haeresium Revue égyptologique Religions in the Graeco-Roman World Revue Thomiste First Sahidic Life of Pachomius, Second Sahidic Life, etc. Studia Anselmiana Studies in Antiquity and Christianity Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Literature Monograph Series Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers Recension of the Life of Pachomius represented by the Bo, Av, S4, S5, S6, S7, etc. (compiled and translated by Armand Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1) Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum Subsidia hagiographica

XVI SHR SKCO ST STAC SusEr TCH TMCB TPL TSAJ TUGAL VC Vit. Ant. WdV WSt WUNT ZÄS ZNW ZPE ZTK

Abbreviations

Studies in the History of Religions Sprachen und Kulturen des christlichen Orients Studia Theologica Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum Sussidi Eruditi Transformation of the Classical Heritage Travaux et mémoires Textus Patristici et Liturgici Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur Vigiliae Christianae Vita Antonii Weisungen der Väter Wiener Studien Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

Fig. 1. Egypt.

Fig. 2. The Nag Hammadi Codices. Photograph by Jean Doresse, courtesy of Claremont Colleges Digital Archives.

Fig. 3. The cliffs of the Jabal al-Tarif. Photograph by Hugo Lundhaug, 2014.

Chapter 1

The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics? … whoever may have possessed them, they cannot have been monks. – Jean Doresse1

In 1892, when the eminent Coptologist Walter Ewing Crum surveyed papyri recently acquired from the Fayum, he was able to comment that “As with all Coptic Literature, their monastic origin is evident.”2 Following the discoveries of Coptic Manichaean texts in the 1920s and the Nag Hammadi Codices in 1945, many researchers would undoubtedly not share Crum’s confidence in the monastic origin of all Coptic literature. Nevertheless, the purpose of this study is to demonstrate that Crum’s observation applies quite well to the Nag Hammadi Codices, and that the available evidence concerning their provenance is best explained by a Christian monastic setting in Upper Egypt. This theory is not new, but has enjoyed popularity for decades in one form or another. After all, monasteries were important centers of book production in late antiquity,3 and the region from which the codices come is famous for being the birthplace of Christian cenobitic monasticism. Many scholars have in fact suggested that the codices originated in the Pachomian monastic federation, whose network of monasteries included multiple establishments close to where the codices were discovered, just outside the modern-day village of Hamra Dûm.4 1 Jean Doresse, The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics: An Introduction to the Gnostic Coptic Manuscripts Discovered at Chenoboskion (trans. Leonard Johnston; London: Hollis & Carter, 1960), 135. 2 Walter Ewing Crum, “The Coptic Papyri,” in W. M. Flinders Petrie, Medum (London: David Nutt, 1892), 48. 3 Herwig Maehler, “Byzantine Egypt: Urban Élites and Book Production,” Dialogos 4 (1997): 130; Chrysi Kotsifou, “Books and Book Production in the Monastic Communities of Byzantine Egypt,” in The Early Christian Book (ed. William E. Klingshirn and Linda Safran; CUA Studies in Early Christianity; Washington D. C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2007), 50. 4 Notable proponents of the Pachomian hypothesis include Torgny Säve-Söderbergh, “Gnostic and Canonical Gospel Traditions (with special reference to the Gospel of Thomas),” in Le Origini dello Gnosticismo: Colloquio di Messina, 13–18 Aprile 1966 (ed. Ugo Bianchi; SHR 12; Leiden: Brill, 1970), 552–62; Säve-Söderberg, “Holy Scriptures or Apologetic Documentations? The «Sitz im Leben» of the Nag Hammadi Library,” in Les textes de Nag Hammadi: Colloque du Centre d’Histoire des Religions (Strasbourg, 23–25 octobre 1974) (ed. Jacques-É. Ménard; NHS 7; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 3–14; John W. B. Barns, “Greek and Coptic Papyri from the Covers of the Nag Hammadi Codices: A Preliminary Report,” in Essays on the Nag Hammadi Texts: In Honour of Pahor Labib (ed. Martin Krause; NHS 6; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 9–18; James M. Robin-

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Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics?

However, while the theory of the codices’ monastic origins has never been without its critics, it has fallen under particularly heavy criticism in recent years.5 The most extensive critique came in Alexandr Khosroyev’s 1995 study, Die Bibliothek von Nag Hammadi, which has subsequently been cited with approval by several prominent scholars of Coptology and Egyptian Christianity.6 Khosroyev argues that Pachomian monks are not likely to have produced and read the Nag Hammadi Codices because, in his view, they would not have been able to reconcile such texts, which contain so many “anti-biblical concepts,” with their commitment to the Bible and the tradition of the fathers.7 While Khosroyev argues against a Pachomian setting in particular, his broader conclusions about the likely owners of the Nag Hammadi Codices distances them from Christian monasticism generally. In his view, the eclectic variety of literature found in these codices, and what he characterizes as their “bizarre” and “philosophizing” teachings, suggest that they were owned by persons who possessed a “syncretistic mentality” and enough education in Greek philosophy to be able to read and understand them. He concludes that the persons who best fit this profile were not monks, but literati of the Greco-Egyptian cities. If these urban, semi-educated people identified themselves as Christians, he maintains, they must have been entirely “untraditional” and did not belong to the institutional Church.8 Subsequent endorsements of Khosroyev’s conclusions have contributed to turning the tide against the theory of the codices’ monastic provenance. Ewa son, “Introduction,” in The Nag Hammadi Library in English (3rd rev. ed.; ed. James M. Robinson; San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1990), 1–26; Frederik Wisse, “Gnosticism and Early Monasticism in Egypt,” in Gnosis: Festschrift für Hans Jonas (ed. Barbara Aland; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1978), 431–40; Henry Chadwick, “The Domestication of Gnosis,” in The School of Valentinus (ed. Bentley Layton; vol. 1 of The Rediscovery of Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, New Haven, Connecticut, March 28–31, 1978; SHR 41; Leiden: Brill, 1980), 3–16; Charles W. Hedrick, “Gnostic Proclivities in the Greek Life of Pachomius and the Sitz im Leben of the Nag Hammadi Library,” NovT 22 (1980): 78–94; James E. Goehring, “New Frontiers in Pachomian Studies,” in The Roots of Egyptian Christianity (ed. Birger A. Pearson and James E. Goehring; SAC; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 236–57; Clemens Scholten, “Die Nag-Hammadi-Texte als Buchbesitz der Pachomianer,” JAC 31 (1988): 144–72. 5 Notable critics of the monastic and Pachomian hypotheses before the 1990s include Doresse, Secret Books, 135; John C. Shelton, “Introduction,” in Nag Hammadi Codices: Greek and Coptic Papyri from the Cartonnage of the Covers (ed. John W. B. Barns, Gerald M. Browne, and John C. Shelton; NHS 16; Leiden: Brill, 1981), 1–11; Armand Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis in Egypt,” in The Roots of Egyptian Christianity (ed. Birger A. Pearson and James E. Goehring; SAC; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 271–306. 6 Alexandr Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek von Nag Hammadi: Einige Probleme des Christentums in Ägypten während der ersten Jahrhunderte (Arbeiten zum spätantiken und koptischen Ägypten 7; Altenberge: Oros Verlag, 1995). According to Robert McL. Wilson’s review of Khosroyev’s book, “This book should be required reading for students starting out on research into the Nag Hammadi texts” (JTS 47 [1996]: 268). 7 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 82–83. 8 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 62, 85, 98–102.

Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics?

3

Wipszycka, a leading papyrologist and historian of Egyptian monasticism, cites Khosroyev’s study in support of her argument that the monastic hypothesis “is a path of research with no source basis.”9 Mark Sheridan likewise concludes “that there is no clear evidence” for an association between the Nag Hammadi texts and Pachomian monasticism and, with reference to both Khosroyev and Wipszycka, maintains that “there are better hypotheses available to account for the provenance of this very heterogeneous collection of writings.”10 Alastair Logan too has been convinced by Khosroyev “to rule out the monastic hypothesis in its various forms.” Instead, he posits that the codices were produced by members of a Gnostic cult community thriving in late fourth-century Egypt, perhaps one that began in an urban milieu, as Khosroyev proposes, but fled to the desert of Upper Egypt to escape persecution from the Catholic church.11 More recently, Stephen Emmel, an eminent authority on Coptic manuscripts, has stated that he believes Khosroyev has “effectively demolished the edifice of the ‘Pachomian monastic hypothesis,’” and that he remains unconvinced that the codices “are the direct products of a monastic milieu.”12 Emmel agrees with Khosroyev that given their “esoteric” and “philosophical” contents the codices probably stem from an urban setting. Indeed, the view that the Nag Hammadi Codices have no relationship with Christian monasticism can now be found in a recent book designed as a students’ introduction to the Nag Hammadi texts. Its author, Nicola Denzey Lewis, claims that “Those who specialize in Pachomian monasticism doubt the hypothesis” of a monastic provenance, and echoes Khosroyev’s theory when she concludes that “the covers of the books, if not the whole books themselves, were produced in an urban environment.”13 9 Ewa Wipszycka, “The Nag Hammadi Library and the Monks: A Papyrologist’s Point of View,” JJP 30 (2000): 183. 10 Mark Sheridan, “The Modern Historiography of Early Egyptian Monasticism,” in Il monachesimo tra eredità e aperture: Atti del simposio “Testi e temi nella tradizione del monachesimo cristiano” per il 50° anniversario dell’Instituto Monastico di Sant’Anselmo, Roma, 28 maggio – 1° giugno 2002 (ed. Maciej Bielawski and Daniël Hombergen; SA 140, Analecta Monastica 8; Rome: Pontificio Ateneo S. Anselmo, 2004), 211. 11 Alastair H. B. Logan, The Gnostics: Identifying an Early Christian Cult (London: T & T Clark, 2006), 28. 12 Stephen Emmel, “The Coptic Gnostic Texts as Witnesses to the Production and Transmission of Gnostic (and Other) Traditions,” in Das Thomasevangelium: Entstehung – Rezeption – Theologie (ed. Jörg Frey, Enno Edzard Popkes, and Jens Schröter; BZNW 157; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 36. 13 Nicola Denzey Lewis, Introduction to “Gnosticism”: Ancient Voices, Christian Worlds (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 8–9. We would point out, however, that prominent specialists of Pachomian monasticism have continued to support the theory of the codices’ Pachomian provenance after the publication of Khosroyev’s study. James Goehring, a leading authority on Pachomian monasticism, finds many of Khosroyev’s arguments unpersuasive, and maintains that the Pachomian hypothesis remains viable. See Goehring, “The Provenance of the Nag Hammadi Codices Once More,” Studia Patristica XXXV: Papers Presented at the Thirteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 1999: Ascetica, Gnostica, Liturgica, Orientalia (ed. Maurice F. Wiles and Edward Y. Yarnold; Leuven: Peeters, 2001), 234–

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Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics?

The purpose of the present study is to critically examine the arguments against the theory of the Nag Hammadi Codices’ monastic origins, as set forth by Khosroyev and others, and to demonstrate by a thorough examination of all the available evidence, the plausibility that they were produced and read by Egyptian monks.

A Brief History of the Question Since the first wave of publications on the Nag Hammadi Codices began to appear in the 1950s, many different theories have been proposed as to where they came from and who might have owned them in antiquity. In addition to Khosroyev’s theory of urban literati, the various explanations include 1) a Gnostic community; 2) a wealthy individual; and 3) Christian monks. The first scholar to address the question of the codices’ ancient owners was Jean Doresse, who captured both public and scholarly imagination with his 1958 study Les livres secrets des Gnostiques d’Égypte (The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics).14 As the title suggests, Doresse believed that the codices were owned by a Gnostic church in fourth-century Egypt, which he identified specifically as Sethian Gnostics based on the importance of Seth in some of the texts and titles (e. g., the Three Steles of Seth and the Second Treatise of the Great Seth). Yet many researchers have found Doresse’s theory of a specifically Sethian Gnostic community unconvincing, especially since the codices contain many texts in which Seth has little or no significance and whose theologies differ considerably from ancient reports of Sethian thought. The theory has nevertheless been revived in recent years by Alastair Logan, a prominent scholar of Gnosticism, who in his 2006 book The Gnostics: Identifying an Early Christian Cult writes that I find much in agreement with the original judgements of Doresse about the relative reliability of the heresiologists and about the codices as the library of an ascetic Sethian Gnostic community, assembled from several smaller collections, either exchanged with other related groups from elsewhere in Egypt or acquired because of their content. That community, wherever it originated – perhaps in an urban milieu, as Khosroyev has suggested – became active in the area of Chenoboskia in the mid to late fourth century.15

53; Goehring, “Some Reflections on the Nag Hammadi Codices and the Study of Early Egyptian Monasticism,” MCPL 25 (2010): 61–70. See similarly Philip Rousseau, “The Successors of Pachomius and the Nag Hammadi Codices: Exegetical Themes and Literary Structures,” in The World of Early Egyptian Christianity: Language, Literature, and Social Context (ed. James E. Goehring and Janet A. Timbie; CUA Studies in Early Christianity; Washington, D. C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 2007), 140–57, esp. 157. 14 Jean Doresse, Les livres secrets des Gnostiques d’Égypte (Paris: Plon, 1958); English translation: Doresse, Secret Books. 15 Logan, The Gnostics, 29.

A Brief History of the Question

5

Although Logan acknowledges that the area around Chenoboskion (Sheneset) was the center of Pachomian monasticism, with several monasteries active already by the 330s, he finds it unlikely that Pachomians would have produced and read books with such unorthodox contents. Instead, he envisions that the codices stemmed from a community which he describes as “Gnostic”: Although it operated in the vicinity of Pachomian monasteries, it was itself not monastic, but in all likelihood comprised both women and men.16 Its library, which contained a collection that may have had some connection with monastic circles, was in kernel and bulk essentially Gnostic, and was apparently buried in the grave of its last leader in the late fourth or early fifth century, probably because the cult was dying out.17

Logan raises a number of questions that will be dealt with in the present book, from the characterization of the Nag Hammadi texts as being “in kernel and bulk essentially Gnostic,” to theories concerning their production in an urban cultic setting. As one can see, a cornerstone of Logan’s analysis is the category of “Gnosticism,” which has greatly influenced, and in our view unnecessarily burdened, most discussions of the codices’ ancient owners. The second theory of ownership ennumerated above posits that the codices belonged to the personal library of a wealthy individual who was not necessarily a member of a specific Gnostic sect.18 This theory has appeared in various forms. One scholar has suggested that the owner might have been a civil bureaucrat or military officer stationed in the Thebaid, who was interested in a variety of Gnostic speculation.19 More recently, it has been proposed that all twelve codices might have been buried with their owner as grave goods following an ancient Egyptian “book of the dead” tradition, and that Codex II in particular might have been designed specifically for such a funerary purpose.20 It is, however, difficult to reconcile the theory of an individual owner with the colophons and 16 Logan’s point that gender inclusivity somehow points away from a monastic group is suprising, since early monastic organizations in Egypt, including the Pachomians, included both men and women. 17 Logan, The Gnostics, 29. 18 Martin Krause, “Die Texte von Nag Hammadi,” in Gnosis: Festschrift für Hans Jonas (ed. Barbara Aland; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1978), 241–43. As Krause notes, the idea that a wealthy fourth-century Gnostic owned the codices was already suggested by Hans Jonas, The Gnostic Religion (2nd ed.; Boston: Beacon Press, 1963), 293 n. 9. 19 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 282. The idea of a government official was based on the accounting documents discovered among the cartonnage of Codex V, which might be related to a government chancery. See chapter five for further discussion of the cartonnage. 20 Nicola Denzey Lewis and Justine Ariel Blount, “Rethinking the Origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices,” JBL 133:2 (2014): 399–419. On Codex II, see Nicola Denzey Lewis, “Death on the Nile: Egyptian Codices, Gnosticism, and Early Christian Books of the Dead,” in Practicing Gnosis: Ritual, Magic, Theurgy and Liturgy in Nag Hammadi, Manichaean and Other Ancient Literature: Essays in Honor of Birger A. Pearson (ed. April D. DeConick, Gregory Shaw and John D. Turner; NHMS 85; Leiden: Brill, 2013), 161–80. This theory builds upon a suggestion made by Krause, “Die Texte,” 243. For a critical appraisal of the idea that the Nag Hammadi Codices were interred as Christian “books of the dead,” see Paula Tutty, “Books of the Dead

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Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics?

notes left by the scribes, which in each case imply a community setting, as for example in Codex II, where the copyist wrote “Remember me also, my brothers, in your prayers” at the end of the codex.21 While the theory of a wealthy individual owner is of course not impossible, we shall see that it does not effectively explain the breadth of the available evidence. The third theory noted above, that the Nag Hammadi Codices belonged to Christian monks, has enjoyed a great deal of popularity among scholars, though it has been proposed in many different ways, including Pachomian monks, Melitian monks, Origenist monks, or other monks in Upper Egypt of whom we have little or no knowledge. Although Armand Veilleux once suggested that the codices could have belonged to Melitian monks, Pachomian monks have generally been regarded as the most attractive alternative given that the codices were discovered close to several of their monasteries, including the headquarters of their monastic federation.22 This theory has led to much debate, however, over what the presence of such heterodox books would imply regarding the theology of the early Pachomians and their relationship to Alexandrian orthodoxy. One position maintains that the Pachomians, who are depicted as rather orthodox in the hagiographic literature, would have owned books like these only in order to study and refute heresy.23 However, due to the pious language of the colophons and the way the codices were eventually buried in a sealed jar, this explanation has not attracted many supporters. The owners do not seem to have regarded these books with contempt. Another version of the Pachomian hypothesis proposes that the Nag Hammadi Codices were brought to the monasteries by Gnostics who joined the Christian ascetic movement in the early fourth century. According to this view, the monks would have found the codices’ teachings on the ascetic life edifying,24 and they may perhaps have found them valuable in the pursuit of visions and secret knowledge.25 Thus before the consolidation of Alexandrian orthodoxy and its enforcement in Upper Egypt from the second half of the fourth century or Books with the Dead?” in The Nag Hammadi Codices and Late Antique Egypt (ed. Hugo Lundhaug and Lance Jenott; STAC; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, forthcoming). 21 NHC II 145. See chapter seven for further discussion of the colophons. Other sholars have doubted the theory of an individual owner based on the presence of duplicate tracates in the collection (e. g., three copies of Ap. John); see Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 65. 22 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 284. See chapter nine for further discussion. 23 Säve-Söderbergh, “Gnostic and Canonical”; Säve-Söderbergh, “Holy Scriptures”; Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 16. 24 Wisse, “Gnosticism and Early Monasticism,” 438. Elsewhere Wisse proposes that the codices would have appealed to monks who had a “fascination with everything esoteric” (“Language Mysticism in the Nag Hammadi Texts and in Early Coptic Monasticism I: Cryptography,” Enchoria 9 [1979]: 103). 25 Hedrick, “Gnostic Proclivities.”

A Brief History of the Question

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on, the Pachomians would have been characterized by less theological rigorism than later in the movement’s history. We will argue that while this theory moves in the right direction, it complicates the picture unnecessarily by presupposing that “Gnosticism” is a factor that needs to be taken into account. A few scholars, however, have promoted versions of the Pachomian hypothesis that do not assume the conventional dichotomy between “Gnostic” and “orthodox” readers. In a seminal article, Clemens Scholten has presented an impressively comprehensive overview of the evidence for the codices’ monastic origins, many details of which we elaborate upon in the present study. After surveying what is known about book culture in Pachomian monasteries, Scholten concludes that the Pachomians probably owned and read a diverse range of literature, and that the presence of the Nag Hammadi Codices in their monasteries would not necessarily imply that some of the monks were Gnostics.26 James Goehring has similarly suggested that if Pachomian monks read the Nag Hammadi Codices, they need not have been completely at odds with Alexandrian orthodoxy.27 Instead, they could be understood as people who, in their theological inquiries, were open to reading books with a diversity of theological perspectives (even if their openness to extra-canonical literature would not have been approved by the patriarch). In what follows, we build upon the approaches set forth by Goehring and Scholten, taking seriously the possibility that whoever read these texts could have reconciled them with Egyptian Christianity in the fourth and fifth centuries, including monasticism and Alexandrian orthodoxy. We avoid the category of Gnosticism altogether, because we do not find it helpful in clarifying the origins of the codices. In fact, as we reviewed the scholarly literature on the question, it struck us time and again how the very idea of Gnosticism continues to breed confusion. The traditional assumption among scholars has been that gnostic books imply gnostic readers: Since the books have been classified as “gnostic” according to modern taxonomies, whoever owned them in antiquity must have been gnostic people who believed in gnostic theology. And once this sleight of hand has been performed, it then becomes necessary to explain how and where gnostic people fit into the picture. The focus of the question thus shifts away from explaining the place of the codices to explaining the place of the alleged Gnostics who read them. Following the insightful work of Scholten, Goehring, and Michael Williams,28 we maintain that the monks who owned the Nag Hammadi Codices need not be regarded as Gnostics.

26

Scholten, “Buchbesitz,” esp. 145–49, 172. Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 246–47. 28 Michael A. Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996). 27

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Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics?

The Present Study Although Josep Montserrat-Torrents once concluded that all hypotheses regarding the owner(s) of the Nag Hammadi Codices are “equally plausible,”29 we intend to demonstrate that a monastic setting provides the most compelling explanation of the available evidence, including the location of their discovery, the scrap papyri used to stiffen their leather covers, and the terminology used by the scribes in the colophons (which cannot be dismissed as merely circumstantial evidence). Along the way, we critically examine alternative hypotheses which have been set forth in recent years, and highlight why, in our view, they remain problematic. We set the stage for our discussion of the codices’ monastic origins in chapter two with a survey of what is known about Christian monasticism in the Thebaid during the fourth and fifth centuries, drawing on literary, documentary, and archaeological evidence. In chapters three and four we turn to a critical examination of previous theories regarding the owners of the Nag Hammadi Codices which are directly related to the category of “Gnosticism.” Chapter three treats the pitfalls involved in those theories that concern a Gnostic church or “cult movement” in late antique Egypt, as set forth by Doresse and Logan, as well as explanations which posit the presence of Gnostics among Egyptian monks. Chapter four then offers an evaluation of Khosroyev’s influential argument that the codices belonged to “syncretistic” literati from the Greco-Egyptian cities. After dispensing with the gnostic hypotheses, we turn in chapter five to a detailed examination of the cartonnage papyri from the covers of the Nag Hammadi Codices. These fragments offer a body of evidence from within the codices themselves that provides tantalizing glimpses into the specific social context in which the codices may have been produced. We discuss how these papyri have been used to support arguments both for and against the monastic hypothesis, and argue how, in our view, this evidence supports the codices’ monastic origins. In chapter six we discuss the issue of divergent attitudes toward extra-canonical books in Egyptian Christianity as an important part of the context in which the circulation of the Nag Hammadi Codices must be understood. While some Christians were interested in reading apocryphal books, especially as interpretive supplements to Scripture, others sought to censor apocrypha and have them removed from Egyptian monasteries. Nevertheless, such books continued to be copied and read in Egyptian monasteries well into the medieval period, as indicated by literary sources which speak to ongoing controversy over them, as well as actual manuscript discoveries from monastic libraries containing such texts. 29 Josep Montserrat-Torrents, “The Social and Cultural Setting of the Coptic Gnostic Library,” Studia Patristica XXXI: Papers Presented at the Twelfth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 1995: Preaching, Second Century, Tertullian to Arnobius, Egypt Before Nicaea (ed. Elizabeth A. Livingstone; Leuven: Peeters, 1997), 481.

Dating the Codices

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Chapters seven and eight deal with codicological evidence, the scribes, and methods of book production and circulation. In chapter seven we focus on the colophons and scribal notes recorded in the Nag Hammadi Codices, and offer a detailed analysis of how their terminology reflects one or more monastic communities. We also address the question of how such books might have been transmitted between monasteries through informal book-exchange networks. In chapter eight we discuss the likelihood that those who copied the Nag Hammadi Codices also copied biblical texts, by comparing scribal habits and codicological features shared among both groups of manuscripts. Here we also discuss the delineation of sub-groups within the larger Nag Hammadi collection, and what they might (and might not) tell us about the origins of the codices. Although it has been argued that the sub-groups indicate smaller, originally independent sub-collections, for which a monastery setting is not likely, we maintain that the similarities among them are arguably more pronounced than the differences, and show that theories of independent sub-collections are consistent with a setting of production and distribution in a monastery or network of monasteries. Chapter nine then addresses different kinds of monasticism in Upper Egypt, including Melitians, Origenists, and Pachomians, and how the Nag Hammadi Codices might have fit into this monastic landscape. In order to encourage future studies of these texts in a monastic setting, we also offer a brief sketch of some of the ways in which the Nag Hammadi texts might have appealed to monks in the fourth and fifth centuries, based on what we know about monastic interests and culture of the time. Finally, chapter ten provides a brief conclusion and recapitulation of the book’s main arguments. At this point, before we move on to our discussion of monasticism in the Thebaid during the fourth and fifth centuries, the region and time period from which the Nag Hammadi Codices come, it is necessary to discuss briefly what we know about their dates of production and the location of their discovery.

Dating the Codices The production of the Nag Hammadi Codices has traditionally been assigned to the middle of the fourth century based on three papyrus contracts from the cover of Codex VII, which are explicitly dated to November 341, November 346, and October 348.30 While this evidence provides us with a terminus post quem of 348 for Codex VII’s cover, nothing precludes the possibility that many years may have passed before the papyri were reused as cartonnage material. Eric Turner’s study of dates recorded on the recto and verso of reused papyri indicates that as many as a hundred years, if not more, could have elapsed before 30

Shelton, “Introduction,” 4–5.

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Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics?

papyri with writing on one side were reused to write on the other.31 Similarly long spans of time could also pass between the writing of a document and the time it was recycled as cartonnage for a book cover.32 For example, the leather cover of Codex Papyrus Berolinensis 8502, dated to the sixth century, yielded a letter of recommendation dated to the late third or early fourth century.33 In this case the document may have sat in an archive or scrap heap for nearly two hundred years before it was reused. While there is little evidence to go on for determining approximate dates for each Nag Hammadi Codex, there are a few clues in individual cases. Since the scribes who copied Codices I and XI appear to have been co-workers of the scribe who copied Codex VII34 (sometime after October 348), those three codices were probably produced within the same generation. The question whether Codices I and XI, respectively, were produced before or after Codex VII is nearly impossible to determine, but a recent radiocarbon analysis of Codex I’s leather cover suggests that it was probably made earlier than Codex VII, though the ex31 Eric G. Turner, “Recto and Verso,” JEA 40 (1954): 102–6. Although Turner’s study focuses on timespans that elapsed between the inscription of papyri’s rectos and versos, his findings apply in principle to the reuse of papyri as cartonnage. Cf. Emmel, “Coptic Gnostic Texts,” 38–39; Hugo Lundhaug, “Shenoute of Atripe and Nag Hammadi Codex II,” in Zugänge zur Gnosis: Akten zur Tagung der Patristischen Arbeitsgemeinschaft vom 02.–05. 01. 2011 in Berlin-Spandau (ed. Christoph Markschies and Johannes van Oort; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 208–10. 32 On the reuse of literary parchment manuscripts as cartonnage, see Leo Depuydt, Catalogue of Coptic Manuscripts in the Pierpont Morgan Library (2 vols.; Corpus of Illuminated Manuscripts 4–5, Oriental Series 1–2; Leuven: Peeters, 1993), 1:1 n. 30, with reference to fragments from ninth-century codices which were recycled as cartonnage in a tenth-century codex. There is also the interesting case of Chester Beatty papyrus 2554, an unbound quire constructed from a reused scroll which had been cut and pasted together into sheets. Dates of 298 and 300 are found on the original side of the papyrus, while on the other side one finds dates as late as 345. See Roger S. Bagnall, “Public Administration and the Documentation of Roman Panopolis,” in Perspectives on Panopolis: An Egyptian Town from Alexander the Great to the Arab Conquest: Acts from an International Symposium Held in Leiden on 16, 17 and 18 December 1998 (ed. A. Egberts, B. P. Muhs, and J. van der Vliet; PLB 31; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 1–12; James M. Robinson, The Story of the Bodmer Papyri: From the First Monastery’s Library in Upper Egypt to Geneva and Dublin (Eugene, Or.: Cascade, 2011), 74. 33 The cover has been dated by Myriam Krutzsch and Günter Poethke on stylistic grounds, while the letter of recommendation has been dated by Kurt Treu on the basis of its genre; see Krutzsch and Poethke, “Der Einband des koptisch-gnostischen Kodex Papyrus Berolinensis 8502,” Forschungen und Berichte  24 (1984): 40; Treu, “P. Berol. 8508: Christliches Empfehlungsschreiben aus dem Einband des kopitsch-gnostischen Kodex P. 8502,” APF 28 (1982): 53–54. On the construction of the codex, see Krutzsch, “Beobachtungen zur Herstellungstechnik früher gnostischer Kodizes,” in Zugänge zur Gnosis: Akten zur Tagung der Patristischen Arbeitsgemeinschaft vom 02.–05. 01. 2011 in Berlin-Spandau (ed. Christoph Markschies and Johannes van Oort; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 285–93, 347–52. For an edition of the codex, which contains Gos. Mary, Ap. John, Soph. Jes. Chr., and Act. Peter, see Walter C. Till and Hans-Martin Schenke, eds., Die gnostischen Schriften des koptischen Papyrus Berolinensis 8502: Herausgegeben, übersetzt und bearbeitet (2nd ed.; TUGAL 602; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1972). 34 See, e. g., M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 242–43.

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act time of production remains unknown.35 The cartonnage papyri from Codex V present another unique clue. In this case, the large sums of money recorded in its papyrus accounts point to a date no earlier than the second half of the fourth century, based on what we know about rising inflation in Egypt in that period.36 And here too, one has to allow for at least some time to elapse between the original inscription of the papyri and their reuse as cartonnage. One can only guess at dates for the other codices based on their general codicological and palaeographical similarities with Codex VII, though some of the tractates may contain allusions to fourth and fifth-century controversies which could provide termini post quem for some of the codices.37 When it comes to determining approximate dates of production for all the Nag Hammadi Codices, we must therefore reckon with a likely chronological window spanning from the fourth century well into the fifth, and possibly even beyond. This conclusion concurs with a recent estimation by Stephen Emmel, that the codices probably date “from the fifth century, or perhaps from the late fourth.”38

The Discovery There is some uncertainty regarding the exact location where the Nag Hammadi Codices were discovered, but all accounts agree that it was close to the cliff of the Jabal al-Tarif near the village of Hamra Dûm.39 Jean Doresse was the first 35 The test was arranged in 2014 by the NEWCONT project at the University of Oslo in collaboration with the DFG-ANR project Coranica of the Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften, and was conducted at the 14C laboratory of the ETH Zürich. Publication of the full results are in progress. We thank Martin Schøyen for generously donating a sample of the cover and a piece of the cartonnage papyri from Codex I. 36 Roger S. Bagnall and Petra J. Sijpesteijn, “Currency in the Fourth Century and the Date of CPR V 26,” ZPE 24 (1977): 111–24, who observe that “it is very unlikely that a papyrus in which amounts in the thousands and tens of thousands of talents appear as tax payments, and in which the solidus appears as worth 28,000 talents, can antedate the inflation which began in the 350’s” (p. 120). See chapter five for further discussion. 37 E. g., NHC VI,4 (Great Pow. 40.5–9) refers to “the Anomoeans,” a fourth-century neoArian heresy active in Alexandria in the 350s (see Robinson, “Introduction,” 16; Thomas A. Kopecek, A History of Neo-Arianism [2 vols.; Patristic Monograph Series 8; Cambridge, Mass.: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1979], 1:61–297, esp. 111–12). Furthermore, Codices II and VII arguably betray an awareness of theological controversies in the late fourth and early fifth centuries. See Hugo Lundhaug, “Begotten, Not Made, to Arise in This Flesh: The Post-Nicene Soteriology of the Gospel of Philip,” in Beyond the Gnostic Gospels: Studies Building on the Work of Elaine Pagels (ed. Eduard Iricinschi et al.; STAC 82; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 235–71. 38 Stephen Emmel, “The ‘Coptic Gnostic Library of Nag Hammadi’ and the Faw Qibli Excavations,” in Nag Hammadi-Esna (ed. Gawdat Gabra and Hany N. Takla; vol. 2 of Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt; Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2010), 37. 39 James M. Robinson has discussed the discovery of the codices in multiple publications. The most detailed account appears in his recent work, The Nag Hammadi Story (2 vols.; NHMS 86; Leiden: Brill, 2014), but see also his earlier accounts in “The Discovery of the Nag Hammadi Co-

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Fig. 4. The site of the discovery at the Jabal al-Tarif. Photo Jean Doresse, 1950. Courtesy of Claremont Colleges Digital Archives.

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Fig. 5. Cross-sections of the Jabal al-Tarif cliff. Surveyed and drafted by Stephen Emmel and Hans-Åke Nordström, 1975, final drawings by Elizabeth Emmel. Courtesy of Stephen Emmel.

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Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics?

Fig. 6. The site of the discovery according to Doresse and Robinson. Photograph courtesy of Claremont Colleges Digital Archives.

scholar to investigate the discovery of the codices on site, though he concealed his real purpose from the peasants who guided him, feigning interest only in the pharaonic-era tombs.40 In 1950 locals gave him a tour of the tombs at the Jabal al-Tarif and showed him a place he describes as a “cemetery” where, he was told, a collection of papyrus codices had been discovered in a jar some years earlier.41 According to Doresse, the cemetery extended from numerous caves carved into the side of the cliff to “sepulchres … scattered about to as far as a hundred yards from the base of the cliff.”42 He was led to “a row of shapeless cavities” where, they claimed, the jar had been discovered. “As to the exact location of the find,” dices,” JCoptS 11 (2009): 1–21; “The Discovery of the Nag Hammadi Codices,” BA 42:4 (1979): 206–24; “From the Cliff to Cairo: The Story of the Discoverers and the Middlemen of the Nag Hammadi Codices,” in Colloque International sur les textes de Nag Hammadi (Québec, 22–25 août 1978) (ed. Bernard Barc; BCNH.É 1; Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 1981), 21–58; The Facsimile Edition of the Nag Hammadi Codices: Introduction (Leiden: Brill, 1984), 3–5; “The Discovering and Marketing of Coptic Manuscripts: The Nag Hammadi Codices and the Bodmer Papyri,” in The Roots of Egyptian Christianity (ed. Birger A. Pearson and James E. Goehring; SAC; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 2–25; “Introduction,”; The Nag Hammadi Codices: A General Introduction to the Nature and Significance of the Coptic Gnostic Library from Nag Hammadi (2nd rev. ed.; Claremont: Institute for Antiquity and Christianity, 1977), 2–3. 40 Doresse, Secret Books, 133. Louis Théophile Lefort, the great scholar of Pachomian monasticism, had visited the region in the late 1930s just years before the codices were discovered. See Lefort, “Les premiers monastères Pachômiens: Exploration topographique,” Mus 52 (1939): 379–407. 41 Doresse, Secret Books, 128, 133. 42 Doresse, Secret Books, 133.

Fig. 7. Jabal al-Tarif. Discovery site beneath the boulder marked D:5. Excerpt of map surveyed and drafted by Stephen Emmel and Hans-Åke Nordström, 1975, final drawings by Elizabeth Emmel. Courtesy of Stephen Emmel. See also Fig. 9.

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Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics?

he reports, “opinion differed by some few dozen yards; but everyone was sure that it was just about there.”43 After hearing further reports of the discovery from others in the nearby towns, monasteries, and “even among the Bedouins” who settled at the foot of the cliffs, Doresse concluded that we are now assured that it was not in the ruins of a building, either monastic or other, that the famous library was found, but that it was well buried in a tomb very far away from all the monasteries of the locality, in a cemetery which seems to have been no longer in use by the Christians … Already the contents of these Gnostic collections had led us to suppose that, whoever may have possessed them, they cannot have been monks. The spot where they were disinterred, moreover, would seem to prove that they were buried in pagan ground.44

Doresse’s description of the discovery site and the purported “cemetery” remains rather vague however. There were undoubtedly caves in the face of the cliff, which had been carved out in earlier periods to serve as tombs, and also “shapeless cavities” in the talus which extends from the cliff to the plain. But it remains questionable whether Doresse saw “sepulchers” (i. e., graves sites)45 on the plain itself. In the 1970s, a team of scholars under the direction of James Robinson conducted archaeological excavations and surveys in the area indicated by Doresse, and found evidence of burials only in the caves and the talus, but not on the plain.46 Indeed, before the construction of the High Dam in the 1960s, burials on the plain would have been improbable since rising water levels could reach as far as the talus during the inundation of the Nile.47 Robinson therefore suspects that what Doresse identified as grave sites on the flatland were in fact pittings created by illegal excavations (which Doresse himself also observed) and/or diggings for sabakh conducted by locals.48 In any event, aside from minor details concerning the extent of the “cemetery,” the investigations conducted by Robinson and his team agree with and further confirm the site of the discovery identified by Doresse at the cliffs of the Jabal al-Tarif (recent criticism of Robinson’s work notwithstanding).49 Doresse, Secret Books, 133. Doresse, Secret Books, 134–35. 45 Doresse’s term sépultures in the original French publication probably means a mere “burial site,” and does not necessarily connote the kind of small structure implied in the English cognate “sepulcher.” See Doresse, Les livres secrets, 150. 46 Robinson, Nag Hammadi Story, 1:32; Philip C. Hammond, “Proton-Magnetometer / Resistivity Survey: Gebel et-Tarif, Egypt,” JFA 3:2 (1976): 229–30. 47 Robinson, “Discovery” (1979), 213; Robinson, “Discovery” (2009), 12; Robinson, Nag Hammadi Story 1:32. The Life of Pachomius also refers to concerns over flooding on the plain in connection with the burial of monks (SBo 180; G1 139). On the basis of the archaeological excavations of the basilica at Faw Qibli, Bastiaan Van Elderen notes evidence of water damage that suggests flooding of the plain around the monastery of Pbow to the extent that “the site of the basilica would have had to have been an island during the flood season at the time of its use” (Van Elderen, “The Nag Hammadi Excavation,” BA 42:4 [1979]: 231). 48 Robinson, “Discovery” (1979), 211–13; Robinson, Nag Hammadi Story, 1:32. 49 Robinson’s investigations have never been without critics (see, e. g., comments by Rodolphe Kasser and Martin Krause in Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Introduction, 3 n. 1). Yet 43 44

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Doresse’s conclusion that the cemetery sat on distinctly “pagan ground” must be revised in light of more recent discoveries which show that the location was frequented by Christian monks as early as the fourth and fifth centuries. He based that conclusion on the rather tenuous observation that scraps of cloth strewn about the site “seem” to come from the Greek and Roman periods, and on his assumption that in the Christian era Copts would have been buried close to the churches, and not in the cliffside tombs.50 Yet the caves evidently continued to be used for burials well into the Christian period, as demonstrated by pieces of a burial cloth radiocarbon-dated to the fifth century CE that were discovered despite the fact that some details he reported are not entirely trustworthy (as Robinson himself cautions [Nag Hammadi Story, 1:116–19; “From the Cliff,” 56–58]), the fact remains that only he and his team conducted extensive interviews in the surrounding villages and had access to the sources closest to the discovery. As another leading member of the team observed, “Although no hard evidence regarding the find-spot was obtained, there is sufficient indication that the discovery was made in the general area of Jebel et-Tarif” (Bastiaan Van Elderen, “Early Christian Libraries,” in The Bible as Book: The Manuscript Tradition [ed. John L. Sharpe and Kimberly van Kampen; London: The British Library, 1998], 50). More recent criticism of Robinson’s investigations has been voiced by Mark Goodacre, “How Reliable is the Story of the Nag Hammadi Discovery?” JSNT 35:4 (2013): 303–22, as well as Denzey Lewis and Blount, “Rethinking the Origins.” Both articles give the impression that Robinson’s conclusions are substantially different from those of Doresse, and emphasize the latter’s report of a “cemetery,” evidently in order to revive Krause’s theory that the codices might have been buried as grave goods (cf. Denzey Lewis, “Death on the Nile”; Krause, “Die Texte,” 243). But much of their criticism focuses on issues which are trivial to the question of where the codices were discovered (esp. charges of orientalizing tendencies in the way Robinson reported stories about local blood feuds and belief in jinn among the region’s inhabitants). However, the accounts of Robinson and Doresse are in full agreement that the codices were discovered at the base of the Jabal alTarif, and even Kasser and Krause admitted “the general location and approximate date of the discovery” (Facsimile Edition: Introduction, 3 n. 1). Indeed, Robinson and his team were building on Doresse’s report, not attempting to undermine it, and their findings of burial sites in the area concur with Doresse (Doresse’s full, originally unpublished account of his visit to the site has now been published by Robinson, Nag Hammadi Story, 1:78–92). As Robinson observes, “the many local reports agree on the identity of the discoverer and of the site of the find at the Jabal al-Tarif, specifically the same southern part of the foot of the cliff that had been pointed out to Doresse in 1950” (Nag Hammadi Story, 2:1118; cf. 1:11). There seems little reason, then, to doubt that Muhammad Ali and his companions found the codices in a jar somewhere by the Jabal al-Tarif. Whether the codices were discovered in a tomb, or buried under a rock, and whether they were interred with a corpse as grave goods, are entirely different questions which cannot be answered on the basis of the available evidence. As we pointed out above, however, the evidence from the colophons does not suggest that they were produced for an individual, nor that they were produced in order to be taken to the grave. The latter theory has no supporting evidence (see Tutty, “Books of the Dead”). 50 Doresse, Secret Books, 133. Doresse also speculated that this cemetery served the city of Diospolis Parva (a suggestion later followed by Krause, “Die Texte,” 242–43), though he provides no evidence. That does not appear to have been the case, however, since Diospolis Parva is located on the other side of the Nile and had its cemeteries there, which were excavated by W. M. Flinders Petrie at the end of the nineteenth century; see Petrie, Diospolis Parva: The Cemeteries of Abadiyeh and Hu: 1898–9 (London: Egypt Exploration Fund, 1901), 54–57 on the Ptolemaic and Roman period; cf. Robinson, Nag Hammadi Story, 2:1112–13.

Fig. 5. Dishna Plain with modern settlements. Jabal al-Tarif located to the west of Hamra Dûm. Google Earth map. Image © 2015 DigitalGlobe. Image © 2015 CNES/Astrium. © 2015 Google. © ORION-ME.

18 Chapter 1: The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics?

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in one of the caves (T117) during the 1975 excavations.51 Pachomian monks used the caves as burial sites too, and their sources frequently mention the monks burying their deceased in the nearby cliffs.52 As we shall see in chapter two, there is ample evidence that monks also used these tomb-caves as hermitages for prayer and ascesis. It appears, then, that the codices were discovered in a location used for burying the deceased, starting already in the pharaonic period, but the burials were evidently limited to the caves and the talus, as Robinson’s team concluded. In the Christian period, monks continued to use these caves, both for burying their dead and for secluded retreats. Thus it is not hard to see why a monk would have chosen this area to hide away the Nag Hammadi Codices as well. Finally, an important point in Doresse’s presentation which needs to be qualified is his assertion that the codices were found “very far away from all the monasteries of the locality.”53 This is a surprising statement, not least in light of his own discussion of the region’s vibrant monastic life. Indeed, in his description of the region he observes that “its celebrity is linked with the most ancient traditions of Coptic monasticism,”54 especially the anchoritic and cenobitic movements that arose around Palamon and Pachomius. Doresse highlights the fact that Pachomius oversaw several monastic establishments in the area, and mentions two other monasteries in the vicinity (one dedicated to Abba Palamon and the other to “the Angel,” Deir al-Malak), as well as a nearby cave where “some Coptic monk” had written the incipits of numerous Psalms in red paint on the walls. As Doresse points out, this cave (T8) was located close to where the codices were discovered.55 Indeed, the distance from the site to the closest Pachomian monasteries of Sheneset and Pbow is only about 6 and 8 kilometers respectively. We therefore find it difficult to accept Doresse’s claim that the codices were discovered “very far away” from the region’s monasteries. In the next chapter, we look closer at the monastic presence in the area before going on to discuss who might have produced, owned, read, and ultimately buried the Nag Hammadi Codices.

51 Robinson, “Discovery” (1979), 213; Robinson, “Discovery” (2009), 12; Robinson, Nag Hammadi Story, 1:32; Van Elderen, “Nag Hammadi Excavation,” 226. 52 SBo 27, 82, 123, 130, 181, 198, 205, 207; G1 32, 103, 116, 117, 139, 146, 149; Paral. 6; Pr. 127, 128; cf. Robinson, “Discovery” (2009), 13. 53 Doresse, Secret Books, 134. 54 Doresse, Secret Books, 129. 55 Doresse, Secret Books, 129–32; Robinson, “Discovery,” (1979), 213; Robinson, “Discovery” (2009), 13–14. See further discussion in chapter two.

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Fig. 9. Jabal al-Tarif and environs. Excerpt from map surveyed and drafted by Stephen Emmel and Hans-Åke Nordström, 1975, final drawings by Elizabeth Emmel. Courtesy of Stephen Emmel.

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Chapter 2

Monastic Diversity in Upper Egypt Many have come but have not persevered. – Apa Palamon1

As we saw in the previous chapter, Jean Doresse rightly noted that the region where the Nag Hammadi Codices were discovered is well-known for its connections with “the most ancient traditions of Coptic monasticism.” In this chapter we survey the diversity of monasticism in the Thebaid,2 and specifically the Dishna plain, between the river Nile and the cliffs of the Jabal al-Tarif and the Jabal Abu Mana. Through a diverse range of sources including literary accounts, archaeological evidence, and documentary papyri, we examine what we know about the monastic life in the time period and region in which the Nag Hammadi Codices were manufactured and read.3 What emerges is a picture of male and female ascetics who devoted themselves to the monastic life in both anchoritic and cenobitic communities, not isolated from the world, as some idealized portraits of the monks suggest, but rather living nearby or even within the villages and cities of Upper Egypt, and representing all levels of the educational spectrum.

1

G1 6. In late antiquity, “Thebaid” could refer to a rather large area, spanning from the cities of Middle Egypt to Egypt’s southernmost border with Nubia, i. e., to the entire region of Egypt south of the Fayum (see Tito Orlandi, “Coptic Monastic Literature: The Forgotten Names,” in Il monachesimo tra eredità e aperture: Atti del simposio “Testi e temi nella tradizione del monachesimo cristiano” per il 50o anniversario dell’Istituto Monastico di Sant’ Anselmo, Roma, 28 maggio – 1o giugno 2002 [ed. Maciej Bielawski and Daniël Hombergen; SA 140, Analecta Monastica 8; Rome: Pontificio Ateneo S. Anselmo, 2004], 176). Both Palladius (Hist. Laus.) and Hist. mon., for example, considered cities as far north as Antinoë and Lycopolis to be in the Thebaid. According to Roger Bagnall, the Thebaid extended as far north as Hermopolis and Antinoë (Egypt in Late Antiquity [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993], 63–64). A few of the cartonnage documents from the Nag Hammadi Codices also refer to the “Lower Thebaid” (θηβαίδοϛ κάτω) and “Upper Thebaid” (θηβαίδοϛ ἄν̣[ω]), though what those areas included is not clear. See Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 25, and fragments G22c, h; G23c. 3 As noted recently by Malcolm Choat, literary and documentary evidence “are the products of the same world, even if they present us with different perspectives” (“The Epistolary Culture of Monasticism between Literature and Papyri,” CSQ 48:2 [2013]: 228). 2

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Literary Evidence We begin our survey with references to monastic activity in the Thebaid as reported in literary sources, starting with various travelogues and hagiographical accounts, and then continuing with more direct evidence from the writings of and to monastics in the area.4 Travelogues In the late fourth century, the anonymous author of the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto traveled from Jerusalem to Egypt and recorded fantastic rumors he had heard about the holy men of Upper Egypt. There are “an infinite number of monks,” he reported, and one “would not believe their ascetic practices, which surpass human capabilities. To this day they raise the dead and walk on water just like Peter.”5 Unfortunately, brigands threatening the safe-passage of travelers prevented him from going farther south than the city of Lycopolis. There he visited the famous hermit John, as well as a cenobitic monastery of “the Tabennesiots” (i. e., the Pachomians), in which lived some 3000 monks, or so he claims, and was supervised by an abbot named Ammon.6 This monastery is probably to be identified with Kaior or Noui, the two monasteries established by Pachomius’ successor Theodore near Hermopolis Magna and Antinoë in the 350–360s.7 Another late fourth-century traveler, the pilgrim Egeria, well-known for her descriptions of the Easter celebrations in Jerusalem, also wrote a detailed account of her travels to Egypt, though unfortunately the section detailing her visit to

4 In this survey we have chosen to omit one of the literary sources that have been most commonly used in reconstructions of early monasticism in Egypt, namely Ap. Patr. As Columba Stewart puts it, the Apophtegmata “are not time capsules from fourth-century Egypt, but carefully curated selections chosen in Palestine at least a century after they were supposedly uttered” (“Rethinking the History of Monasticism East and West: A Modest tour d’horizon,” in Prayer and Thought in Monastic Tradition: Essays in Honor of Benedicta Ward S. L. G. [ed. Santha Bhatacharji, Rowan Williams, and Dominic Mattos; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014], 6). Moreover, not only the late redaction, but also the high degree of textual fluidity of the literature known under this moniker renders it a questionable source for monasticism in Egypt in our period. On this point, see Samuel Rubenson, “Textual Fluidity in Early Monasticism: Sayings, Sermons and Stories,” in Snapshots of Evolving Traditions: Jewish and Christian Manuscript Culture, Textual Fluidity, and New Philology (ed. Liv Ingeborg Lied and Hugo Lundhaug; TUGAL; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, forthcoming). 5 Hist. mon. Epilogue (trans. Norman Russell, The Lives of the Desert Fathers [CS 34; Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian Publications, 1981], 118). 6 Hist. mon. 3. 7 G1 134; SBo 202. Cf. Cuthbert Butler, The Lausiac History of Palladius: A Critical Discussion together with Notes on Early Christian Monasticism (2 vols.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1898; repr. Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1967), 2:200–1.

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the Thebaid has been lost.8 In the surviving parts of the narrative, however, she underscores the notable fact that one could receive a good Christian education in the Scriptures from a monastery in Upper Egypt. A certain bishop whom she says she had come to know “quite well from the time I visited the Thebaid” had been “brought up in a cell since boyhood, and this is how he came to know so much about the Bible.”9 Much more information about the variety of monasticism in the Thebaid is furnished by Palladius in his Historia Lausiaca.10 Among the many ascetic heroes described in this important work we find John of Lycopolis, whom Palladius had been inspired to visit after having spent some time with the famous teacher Evagrius Ponticus in the cells of Nitria in Lower Egypt. Having heard stories about John, the great ascetic of the south, he traveled on land and river for nineteen days to visit him at his cell.11 John, he says, had been trained as a builder, but “left the world” when he was about twenty-five years old and lived in “various monasteries.” After five years, he left the communal life and lived as an anchorite on mount Lyco, yet his departure from the community did not lead him into total seclusion from the world. He became famous for exercising the gift of prophecy, was consulted by the local governor, and even sent predictions about military campaigns to Emperor Theodosius. Like other anchorites, John did not live entirely alone, but had a small circle of brothers gathered around him. There was an attendant who would provide him with the “necessities of life” through his cell window, where he would appear twice a week, on Saturdays and Sundays, to comfort those who came to visit him. The rest of the week he kept his cell closed, and visitors who arrived too early, like Palladius, would have to wait to see him. Later on, Palladius says, the brothers expanded John’s cell to accommodate nearly a hundred people (although it is not clear if these renovations took place during John’s life or afterward). The fact that he used an interpreter to speak with Palladius suggests that he spoke Egyptian and could not converse in Greek. Palladius tells us that in addition to his audience with John, he spent some four years in the city of Antinoë in the Thebaid where he had the opportunity to visit a number of male and female ascetics, both cave-dwelling anchorites and cenobitic organizations.12 One gets the impression that some ascetics were connected more closely to life in the city, and participated in the local economy by selling 8 John Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels to the Holy Land (London: SPCK, 1971; repr. Jerusalem: Ariel Publishing, 1981), 7, 27–29. 9 Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels, 102–3 (§§ 9.1, 9.6). 10 We follow the Greek edition of Butler, Lausiac History, vol. 2, and the translation of Robert T. Meyer, Palladius: The Lausiac History (ACW; Westminster, MD: Newman Press, 1965), modified on the basis of the Greek text. 11 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 35. 12 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 58–60.

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their handicrafts, while others sought a higher degree of seclusion by withdrawing to nearby caves. According to Palladius, some 1200 monks “dwell around the city living by the toil of their hands and practicing asceticism,” among whom were anchorites who confined themselves to caves on the outskirts of town.13 Like John of Lycopolis, these cave-bound anchorites did not seclude themselves entirely, but maintained an informal relationship with one another, including meeting for the Eucharist. One of them, Dorotheus, was a priest, and would perform the liturgy for other brothers in the caves. Many of these anchorites probably maintained associations with people in the city as well, coming down from their cliff-side dwellings from time to time. Palladius highlights, almost as an exception, that one of them, named Capiton, did not mingle with the “the crowds” whatsoever, although he lived only four miles from Antinoë. At least some of the anchorites Palladius met, or heard of, were educated to varying degrees. A certain Solomon, who had lived in the caves for nearly fifty years, “learned all the holy Scriptures.” Another ascetic, Diocles, whom Palladius describes as a presbyter and “most knowledgeable man” (ἀνδρὶ γνωστικωτάτῳ), had received an education in grammar and “the liberal arts” (τῶν ἐγκυκλίων μαθημάτων), and then advanced to the study of philosophy.14 Of course Diocles’ education can hardly be understood as the norm among anchorites of the Thebaid, but his example reminds us that not all monks were illiterate troglodytes. Indeed, someone with Diocles’ education would naturally be sought out by the less educated for his wisdom, as seems to have been the case with Palladius’ own visit to him where they discussed the human mind’s relationship to God. Palladius says very little concerning male ascetics living within Antinoë itself, but he does take a special interest in the city’s female monastics. According to Palladius, there were twelve nunneries in the city, one of which, he claims, housed as many as sixty virgins, and was supervised by an eighty year old woman named Amma Talis.15 The presence of the nunnery directly in the city of Antinoë provided the sisters with opportunities for interaction with the outside world. Palladius himself, a sojourner in the city, was allowed to visit the nunnery, where he met with Amma Talis in person, and was impressed by her high degree of selfcontrol when she laid her hands on his shoulders “in an act of boldness.” The sisters would also leave the nunnery every Sunday to receive the Eucharist at a 13 Physical evidence of monastic settlement in these caves, by Deir Abu Hinnis, is ample. See, e. g., Gertrud J. M. van Loon, “Patterns of Monastic Habitation on the East Bank of the Nile in Middle Egypt: Dayr al-Dik, Dayr Abū Ḥinnis, and al-Shaykh Sa’īd: With an Appendix on Inscriptions by Alain Delattre,” JCoptS 16 (2014): 235–78; M. Jean Clédat, “Notes archéologiques et philologiques II: Deir Abou-Hennis,” BIFAO 2 (1902): 44–67. 14 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 58. On different levels of classical education see Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), esp. 160–244. 15 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 59.

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Fig. 10. Monastic hermitages at Abu Hinnis, near Antinoë. Photograph by Lance Jenott, 2014.

local church.16 Very little is known about the level of education of the nuns in Antinoë, but at least one of them, an ascetic woman whom Palladius refers to as his neighbor, who stayed secluded in a house with her mother, owned a book of Clement of Alexandria, “the Stromatist,” on the prophet Amos.17 In addition to the female monastics of Antinoë, Palladius knows of a nunnery founded by a certain ascetic named Elijah from Athribe, who gathered some 300 nuns into his fold. It is not entirely clear where Eljiah’s nunnery was located, but if, as some scholars suggest, his Athribe is to be identified with the village of Atripe on the west bank of the Nile opposite Panopolis,18 it would have been near the Pachomian nunneries in Panopolis, and close to Shenoute’s White Monastery federation, which included a nunnery in the village of Atripe. According to Palladius, Elijah was succeeded by a certain Dorotheus as the nunnery’s care-taker.19 Unlike the nunnery overseen by Amma Talis in Antinoë, in 16 It was, perhaps, through the local clergy at the church that Palladius made the acquaintance of Amma Talis in the first place. 17 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 60. R. T. Meyer suggests that this book may have been part of Clement’s now lost Hypotyposeis, which Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 6.14.1) describes as an exegetical work of all the canonical Scriptures (Palladius, 214 n. 521). 18 So Butler, Lausiac History, 2:204 n. 46. Butler also observes the oddity of the fact that Palladius never mentions Shenoute or the White Monastery, which would have been among the largest monasteries (if not the largest) in that region. 19 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 29–30.

Literary Evidence

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this organization, a man was the founder, and he and his male successor supervised the women directly. It is hard to know how common this arrangement was, though men are known to have supervised nunneries in the Pachomian and White Monastery federations too.20 Palladius is also famous for his description of the Pachomian federation in and around the city of Panopolis and farther south. There are “a number of these monasteries,” says Palladius, “amounting to 7000 men.” Palladius reckoned that the chief monastery (i. e., Pbow) housed 1300 monks, while others have 200 or 300.21 He tells us that he befriended a Pachomian brother named Aphthonius, the second in command at the chief monastery, who periodically traveled to Alexandria to sell and buy goods for the monastery. Palladius himself visited the Pachomian monastery at Panopolis, which he says housed some 300 monks, and a nearby Pachomian nunnery with even more monastics (about 400 women).22 Some critics have argued that Palladius merely reproduced an earlier written source as his own eye-witness account of the Pachomians.23 Whether or not this assessment is correct, it is worth quoting his detailed description of the monastery at Panopolis for an overall impression of the Pachomians’ everyday lives and occupations:

20 See, e. g., Bentley Layton, “Punishing the Nuns: A Reading of Shenoute’s Letters to the Nuns in Canons Book Four,” in Christianity in Egypt: Literary Production and Intellectual Trends: Studies in Honor of Tito Orlandi (ed. Paola Buzi and Alberto Camplani; SEAug 125; Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 2011), 325–45. 21 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 32. For a critical discussion of Palladius’ numbers, see Ewa Wipszycka, Moines et communautés monastiques en Égypte (IV e–VIII e siècles) (JJPSup 11; Warsaw: Taubenschlag, 2009), 422–23. In Hist. Laus. 18.12–16, Palladius tells the story of Macarius of Alexandria’s visit to the Pachomians and interactions with Pachomius himself. 22 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 32–33. 23 As Armand Veilleux summarizes, critics have questioned the reliability of Palladius’ description of the Pachomians in Hist. Laus. 32–34 by arguing that he drew his information from written sources into which he interpolated first-person references to give his narrative the authority of an eyewitness account. In our view, it is not necessary to conclude that Palladius was merely drawing on written sources, or that his account of the Pachomians is completely unreliable. Hist. Laus. is best understood as a combination of Palladius’ own travels, idealized for hagiographical reasons, stories he heard from others, and details drawn from other written accounts that he used to flesh out his narrative (cf. Palladius, Hist. Laus. prol. 5). Indeed, he openly cites Athanasius’ Vit. Ant. in chapter 8.6. When composing the chapters on the Pachomians in particular, Palladius undoubtedly drew on legends and written sources in part (e. g., the story of Pachomius receiving his monastic rules from an angel); yet we see no reason to discount the authenticity of Palladius’ visit to the Pachomian monastery at Panopolis or his claim to friendship with Aphthonius the steward. If Palladius had merely interpolated first-person references into written sources, as the critics maintain, then why would he limit the story of his visit to the smaller monastery at Panopolis, and not claim to have visited the chief monastery at Pbow? For a summary of the question, see Veilleux, La liturgie dans le cénobitisme pachômien au quatrième siècle (SA 57; Rome: Herder, 1968), 138–46; Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia: The Lives, Rules, and Other Writings of Saint Pachomius and His Disciples (3 vols.; CS 45–47; Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian Publications, 1980–82), 2:5–6; R. T. Meyer, Palladius, 7–8.

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I visited one of these (monasteries) when I went to Panopolis, a place of about three hundred monks. In this monastery I saw fifteen tailors, seven workers in metal, four carpenters, twelve camel drivers, and fifteen fullers. They work at every sort of handicraft and from their surplus they provide for the monasteries of women and the prison. … Now those appointed to serve for the day rise early and go to the kitchen or to the refectory. They are employed until mealtime in preparing and setting the tables, putting on each table loaves of bread, charlock, preserved olives, cheese made of cow’s milk, and small vegetables. Some come in and eat at the sixth hour, others at the seventh, others at the eighth, others at the ninth, others at the eleventh, still others at late evening, some every other day, so that each group knows its own proper hour. It is the same with regard to their work. One works the ground as husbandman, another works as gardener, another as smith, another as baker, another as fuller, another as weaver of large baskets, another as shoemaker, another as copyist, another as weaver of tender reeds. They all learn the Holy Scriptures by heart.24

Palladius here gives us a glimpse into the daily routine of the Pachomian monastery at Panopolis, and its various occupations, including the brother who works as a copyist. As we shall see in subsequent chapters, there is every reason to believe that the Pachomian federation assigned educated brothers to the task of copying books, given the great importance they placed upon the literacy of its members and the record keeping necessary for managing the organization. For more detailed information about the Pachomians and the diversity of monasticism in the region of the Dishna plain, we must rely on hagiographical accounts such as the Life of Pachomius. As we shall see in later chapters, Palladius’ description squares well with references in other sources to the daily life of the monks. Hagiographies The biographical traditions about the early Pachomians are products of a complex and ongoing process of composition and redaction, one that may have started in the late fourth century and then continued well into subsequent generations. As hagiographical legends, they do not give us direct access to the events and personalities of Pachomius and his followers in the fourth century. Rather they tell us first and foremost about the ideologies of their authors and redactors, in the fifth century and beyond, who shaped their hagiographies in response to the needs and issues of their own time.25 Nevertheless, these traditions contain

Palladius, Hist. Laus. 32 (trans. R. T. Meyer, Palladius, 94–95). For studies focused more on the ideological views of the redactors, see e. g. James E. Goehring, “Pachomius’ Vision of Heresy: The Development of a Pachomian Tradition,” Mus 95 (1982): 241–62; Lance Jenott, “Clergy, Clairvoyance, and Conflict: The Synod of Latopolis and the Problem with Pachomius’ Visions,” in Beyond the Gnostic Gospels: Studies Building on the Work of Elaine Pagels (ed. Eduard Iricinschi et al.; STAC 82; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 320–34. 24

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information that can also be used, cautiously,26 to get a picture of the fourthcentury environment in which Pachomius established his koinonia.27 After its modest beginnings with the foundation of its first monastery in the abandoned village of Tabennesi in 323/324,28 the Pachomian federation grew rapidly into a notable and widespread system of monasteries linked together by 26 Cf. James E. Goehring, Politics, Monasticism, and Miracles in Sixth Century Upper Egypt: A Critical Edition and Translation of the Coptic Texts on Abraham of Farshut (STAC 69; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 50–51. With reference to the hagiographical texts pertaining to Abraham of Farshut, the last Pachomian archimandrite, Goehring argues that “While the events have been dramatically shaped and reshaped by the authors to conform to and support the new discourse, the existence of actual events behind their current ideologically embedded form cannot be ignored” (ibid., 51). 27 Veilleux hypothesizes that biographical traditions about Pachomius were first written down in Coptic “shortly after the death of Pachomius,” and that these underlie the larger compositions that we now possess (Pachomian Koinonia, 1:1, 5). He further hypothesizes that G1 was not composed until sometime after the death of Horsiesios circa 387, though how long after cannot be known (Pachomian Koinonia, 1:1, 5; cf. La liturgie, 20–21). Philip Rousseau, Pachomius: The Making of a Community in Fourth-Century Egypt (rev. ed., TCH 6; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 47–48, conjectures that the author of G1 worked around the end of the fourth century, though there is no supporting evidence. Nothing suggests that Jerome knew a biography of Pachomius when he translated the latter’s rules and letters into Latin circa 404 (Amand Boon, Pachomiana Latina: Règle et épitres de S. Pachome, épitre de S. Théodore et “Liber” de S. Orsiesius: Texte latin de S. Jérôme [BRHE 7; Leuven: Bureaux de la Revue, 1932], xlviii). G1’s clear disdain for Origen (G1 31) suggests a fifth-century setting, after the eruption of the Origenist controversy in 399. Cf. James E. Goehring, “Monastic Diversity and Ideological Boundaries in Fourth-Century Christian Egypt,” JECS 5:1 (1997): 72–76. For a thorough discussion of the sources and redactional theories, see Veilleux, La liturgie, 16–158; Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:1–21; Rousseau, Pachomius, 37–55. Dating the composition of the Life of Pachomius with specificity is impossible due to the fact that what we have preserved are the products of multiple stages of redaction over centuries of transmission. All extant manuscripts of the Coptic and Greek versions of the Life of Pachomius come from the medieval period. The Bohairic Life (Bo) is known from only a single codex (Cod. Vat. Copt. LXIX), probably copied in the thirteenth century, and acquired from the monastery of St. Macarius at Scetis (Wadi Natrun) in 1715 (Louis Théophile Lefort, S. Pachomii Vita Bohairice Scripta [CSCO 89, Scriptores Coptici 7; Leuven: L. Durbecq, 1953], i–ii). In addition, a plethora of fragmentary Sahidic biographical traditions, the so-called “Sahidic Lives,” designated sequentially S1–S18 by Lefort, are preserved in several library collections throughout Europe and North America. Lefort conjectures that the earliest manuscripts among the Sahidic fragments, copied on papyrus (S10, S12, S13), date no earlier than the seventh to eighth century, while the rest, on parchment, date from the ninth to twelfth century (Lefort, S. Pachomii Vitae Sahidice Scriptae [CSCO 99–100, Scriptores Coptici 9–10; Leuven: L. Durbecq, 1952], i–xi); Lefort conjectures a sixth-century date, “ut videtur,” for two parchment manuscripts from the White Monastery (S1 and S2 = MONB.ZY and MONB.NB) (ibid., iii), but such an early date cannot be correct since all the manuscripts from that location were copied in the eighth to twelfth centuries (see chapter six on the library of the White Monastery). The earliest extant manuscript of the Greek Vita Prima (G1) was copied in 1021 (MS XI,9 in the Bibliothèque Laurentienne, Florence); see François Halkin, Sancti Pachomii Vitae Graecae (SHG 19; Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1932), 10. 28 SBo 17–26; G1 12–29. On the chronology of Pachomius and the founding of his monastic federation, see Christoph Joest, “Erneute Erwägungen zur Chronologie Pachoms (287–347),” JCoptS 13 (2011): 157–81, esp. 178.

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a common rule and leadership situated in the central monastery established in the deserted village of Pbow (present day Faw Qibli), a few kilometers downstream from Tabennesi.29 The growth of the Pachomian koinonia involved both the founding of new monasteries and the incorporation of existing independent monasteries that opted to join the federation.30 Already by 368 the Pachomian federation appears to have included at least twelve monasteries and three nunneries, stretching from Hermopolis Magna in the north to Latopolis in the south, and with the greatest concentrations of monasteries in the vicinity of Pbow and Panopolis (Shmin).31 Later, with the help of archbishop Theophilus of Alexandria, a monastery named Metanoia was established at Canopus, near Alexandria,32 and further monasteries were no doubt also established after that time, although we do not have any specific information about them.33 Unfortunately our information concerning the history of the Pachomian monastic organization is spotty. After the time of Pachomius and his first three successors, 29

SBo 49; G1 54. The monasteries of Sheneset (SBo 50; G1 54), Thmoushons (SBo 51; G1 54), and Shmin (Panopolis [SBo 54, G1 81, 83]) already existed independently of Pachomius’ federation, but decided to join it. 31 On the location of the early Pachomian monasteries, see Lefort, “Les premiers monastères,” 379–407. It is worth noting that with the exception of Sheneset and Pbow, the two monasteries closest to Jabal al-Tarif, we do not know the exact location of any of these monasteries. On the expansion of the Pachomian federation, see James E. Goehring, “The Ship of the Pachomian Federation: Metaphor and Meaning in a Late Account of Pachomian Monasticism,” in Christianity in Egypt: Literary Production and Intellectual Trends: Studies in Honor of Tito Orlandi (ed. Paola Buzi and Alberto Camplani; SEAug 125; Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 2011), 289–303, esp. 295–300; Christoph Joest, Theodoros von Tabennese und Horsiese von Šeneset: Katechesen, Briefe, und Fragmente der frühen Pachomianer (WdV 17; Beuron: Beuroner Kunstverlag, 2013), 20–22. When Pachomius died, the federation comprised the following monasteries: (a) In the vicinity of Latopolis: Phnoum; (b) in the vicinity of the Dishna plain (downstream along the Nile): Tabennesi, Pbow, Sheneset, and Thmoushons; (c) in the vicinity of Panopolis: Tse, Shmin, Tsmine, and Thbew; and an affiliated women’s community in the vicinity of Panopolis and one in the vicinity of Pbow. During the time of Theodore there seems to have been added a two monasteries in the vicinity of Hermopolis Magna (Kaior and Noui), one at Hermonthis, between Phnoum and Tabennesi, another women’s community close to Pbow, and perhaps a monastery at Ptolemais, close to Panopolis. On the possible additional monastery known from the Bohairic Life (SBo 51) as Pesterposen, see Goehring, “Ship of the Pachomian Federation,” 297; Lefort, “Les premiers monastères,” 397–99. 32 Canopus was situated about 15 km to the east of Alexandria (see Roger S. Bagnall and Dominic W. Rathbone, Egypt: From Alexander to the Early Christians: An Archaeological Guide [Los Angeles: Getty, 2004], 73) and was an important center of pagan worship in late antiquity. The Pachomian monastery was established there as part of Theophilus’ anti-pagan campaigns. See Zsolt Kiss, “Alexandria in the Fourth to Seventh Centuries,” in Egypt in the Byzantine World (ed. Roger S. Bagnall; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 195; Stephen J. Davis, The Early Coptic Papacy: The Egyptian Church and Its Leadership in Late Antiquity (The Popes of Egypt 1; Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2004), 65. 33 We do not know the exact number of monasteries in the federation in the fifth and sixth centuries, but it seems to have been somewhere between 13 and 24, not counting the affiliated women’s communities (see Goehring, “Ship of the Pachomian Federation,” esp. 298–303). 30

Literary Evidence

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Fig. 11. Pachomian Monasteries by 347 ce.

Petronius, Theodore, and Horsiesios, our sources for the history of the federation are scanty until the last Pachomian archimandrite, Abraham of Farshut, who became a saint for the non-Chalcedonian cause in the late sixth century, when the federation was taken over by the imperially-sanctioned Chalcedonians during the reign of emperor Justinian.34 34 On Abraham of Farshut and the final phase of the Pachomian koinonia, see James E. Goehring, “Chalcedonian Power Politics and the Demise of Pachomian Monasticism,” in Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early Egyptian Monasticism (SAC; Harrisburg, Penn.: Trinity Press, 1999), 241–61; Goehring, “Remembering Abraham of Farshut: History, Hagiography, and the Fate of the Pachomian Tradition (2005 NAPS Presidential Address),” JECS 14:1 (2006): 1–26; Goehring, Politics, Monasticism, and Miracles. Goehring explains the lack of sources recording the history of the federation after the first four fathers by the function of the texts pertaining to its earliest phases “as foundational documents, guides to the ascetic life for later generations. With the guides in place, however, little need was felt to record the federation’s subsequent history” (Politics, Monasticism, and Miracles, 42). Goehring notes that in

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Despite their considerable numbers, the Pachomians were not the only Christian ascetics living close to the Dishna plain. They were part of a larger network of monks that included both individual anchorites and other cenobitic organizations. A picture of this diversity emerges from the various versions of the Life of Pachomius. The anchoritic movement appears to have been flourishing in the area even before Pachomius arrived on the scene. Just as Antony the Great had studied with zealous ascetics on the outskirts of town, Pachomius himself learned from an old ascetic master, Apa Palamon, who resided near the village of Sheneset (Chenoboskion).35 For ascetics like Palamon, the ideal of renouncing the world did not lead them to sever their ties with civilization by relocating to the outer desert. Instead they lived in close proximity to the village where they could participate in society. Palamon built his cell only “a little way from the village,” and became “a model and father for many in his vicinity.”36 He involved himself in the local economy of Sheneset and donated his surplus to the poor, keeping only what he needed for his own sustenance.37 Palamon was not the only ascetic orbiting the village. When Pachomius came to live with Palamon, he joined an unorganized fellowship of local anchorites, refered to as “all the neighboring brothers” and “those on the entire mountain.”38 Although they lived independently from one another, with no established rule or supervisor, they formed a network of friends, occasionally visiting one another, and seeing to each other’s funeral arrangements. According to the Bohairic Life, these anchorites regarded the aged Palamon as a spiritual guide and often turned to him for advice.39 One gets further descriptions of the Thebaid’s anchoritic movement in the so-called Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt, attributed to the late fourthcentury monk Paphnutius.40 According to its narrative, Paphnutius traveled to the Thebaid and studied with ascetic masters before settling at Scetis in the addition to Abraham of Farshut we only know the names of four archimandrites of the Pachomian koinonia after Horsiesios, namely Victor, Paphnutius, Martyrius, and Pshintbahse (ibid.). 35 Athanasius, Vit. Ant. 3. On the village ascetic movement generally, see James E. Goehring, “The Origins of Monasticism,” in Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early Egyptian Monasticism (SAC; Harrisburg, Penn.: Trinity Press, 1999), 20–26. 36 SBo 10. 37 SBo 10; G1 6. 38 SBo 14. This “mountain” close to the village of Sheneset can only be the Jabal al-Tarif. 39 SBo 14, 16, 18. 40 Hist. mon. U. 56b. The title of the work is a modern invention; see Tim Vivian, Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt and the Life of Onnophrius by Paphnutius with a Discourse on Saint Onnophrius by Pisentius of Coptos (rev. ed.; CS 140; Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian Publications, 2000); Coptic text in E. A. Wallis Budge, Miscellaneous Texts in the Dialect of Upper Egypt (vol. 5 of Coptic Texts: Edited with Introductions and English Translations; London: British Museum, 1915), 432–95. We cite the folio numbers in Budge, which are also provided by Vivian. The one nearly complete manuscript of Hist. mon. U. (BL Or. 7026), dated by its colophon to 982/992, comes from the Mercurius Monastery in Edfu and was produced in Esna (Latopolis); see Bentley Layton, Catalogue of Coptic Manuscripts in the British Museum Acquired Since the Year 1906 (London: British Library, 1987), 195–99, no. 163.

Literary Evidence

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north. The Histories describe the lives of hermits in the Upper Thebaid around Elephantine, Aswan and Philae, about 160 km beyond the southern-most Pachomian settlement at Phnoum (near Latopolis). The culture of the anchorites in the southern Thebaid was similar to that of Palamon and his neighbors around Sheneset as described in the Life of Pachomius. They maintained ties to the cities and villages by selling their handicrafts,41 serving as intercessors in financial disputes and times of crisis,42 healing the sick, and performing other miracles for the townspeople.43 They lived mostly as individuals, but sometimes gathered small groups of disciples around them,44 and saw to each other’s funerary arrangements.45 They were “knowledgeable in the Scriptures,”46 and at least some of them had received education to read and write.47 Like Pachomius, these monks were remembered for their powers of clairvoyance, and frequently received guidance from the Holy Spirit and revelations regarding the future.48 They practiced rigorous asceticism through sexual renunciation, night vigils, fasting, and prayer, but kept some private property, including books.49 Monasticism evidently flourished around the Dishna plain too, and there seems to have been both anchorites and other cenbobitic organizations alongside the Pachomian federation. It is no surprise that such “outside monks” (ⲛⲓⲙⲟⲩⲛⲁⲭⲟⲥ ⲉⲧⲥⲁⲃⲟⲗ),50 as the Bohairic Life calls them, would have developed some relationship with the Pachomian federation, since by the time of its founder’s death in 347,51 it dominated the area with four monasteries and one affiliated Hist. mon. U. 7a (Serapamon), 49b (Apa Aaron, who made clothing and rope). Hist. mon. U. 45b–48b, 49a–50a, 54a–55b. 43 Hist. mon. U. 38b–39b, 42a–45b, 48b–52b, 56a. 44 Hist. mon. U. 7a (Apa Zaccheus), 11b, 39a (Apa Aaron). 45 Hist. mon. U. 25. 46 Hist. mon. U. 5, 16, 54a. 47 Hist. mon. U. 89. 48 Hist. mon. U. 7, 10, 27, 37, 38, 40, 48, 95, 106. 49 Hist. mon. U. 23; cf. 46 (Macedonius the monk-bishop had a lectionary with straps for tying it shut). Similar descriptions of anchorites in the Thebaid are found the Life of Apa Onnophrius. It describes monks who recite scripture from memory (2a), who give alms through their handiwork and manual labor (3a), and who see to each other’s burials (10b, 15a). See E. A. Wallis Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms etc. in the Dialect of Upper Egypt (vol. 4 of Coptic Texts: Edited with Introductions and English Translations; London: British Museum, 1914), 205–24; English translation in Vivian, Histories, 146–66. Multiple manuscripts of the Life Onnophrius are preserved in Coptic, Arabic and Latin (see Vivian, Histories, 70). The manuscript published by Budge (BL Or. 7027), dated by colophon to 1005, was produced in Esna (Latopolis) and donated to the Monastery of Mercurius in Edfu; see Layton, Catalogue, 192–94, no. 161. An earlier, unpublished manuscript in the J. Pierpont Morgan collection (M580), dated by colophon to 889/90, comes from the Monastery of St. Michael the Archangel in the Fayum; see Depuydt, Catalogue, 1:322–24, no. 163. 50 SBo 40 (Lefort, Vita Bohairice Scripta, 42–43; Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 220: ⲛⲕⲉⲙⲟⲛⲁⲭⲟⲥ ⲉⲧϩⲓⲃⲟⲗ). 51 For a recent summary of the scholarship concerning the year of Pachomius’ death (346 or 347) and a persuasive argument in favor of 347, see Joest, “Erneute Erwägungen”; cf. Joest, Die 41 42

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community of female monastics, and was subsequently expanded under Pachomius’ successors. While some anchorites evidently joined Pachomius’ collective,52 others remained independent, but maintained a friendly relationship with the Pachomians and sometimes visited their monasteries to pray and eat with them.53 The Pachomian Lives also mention other cenobitic monasteries nearby, some of which may have been established prior to Pachomius’ own settlements. At least three independent monasteries in the region chose to join the Pachomian federation, namely the monastery at Sheneset supervised by Apa Ebonh, another one at Thmoushons, and the one at Thbew founded by Petronius on land owned by his wealthy family.54 Other cenobitic monasteries evidently remained independent. Pachomius’ successor Theodore had belonged to a nearby monastery situated downriver in Sne before joining the Pachomians.55 And both the Bohairic and Greek versions of the Life of Pachomius refer to “a small monastery about two miles to the south of Tabennesi” whose abbot was a friend of Pachomius and visited him often.56 One has to wonder what kind of relationship those monks who appear in personal letters found in the cover of Nag Hammadi Codex VII (Apa Sansnos, Daniel, Aphrodisias, etc.) would have had with the Pachomians, if indeed they did not belong to the koinonia.57 Pachomius was remembered for having an ambivalent attitude toward such “outside monks.” At first he permitted them to socialize with the Pachomian brothers on the monastery grounds, but later changed his policy so that they were allowed only to join the brothers for prayer in the synaxis, and had to eat and sleep in separate quarters built adjacent to the gatehouse.58 The Praecepta also prescribe rules for how to deal with visiting monks, and its stipulation that such visitors should be of “the same faith” to join the brothers in prayer in the synaxis hints at the region’s theological diversity.59 This diversity continued after the death of Pachomius, as we can see in the polemical writings of Shenoute, abbot of the White Monastery near Panopolis, and of Dioscorus, Archbishop of Alexandria.

Pachom-Briefe: Übersetzung und Deutung (CSCO 655, Subsidia 133; Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 3–5, 23. 52 SBo 24 lists five such anchorites by name. In G1 20, the “ancient monk” Hieracapollon visits Pachomius and later joins the koinonia. 53 SBo 40. Another story relates that some monks, presumably not members of the koinonia, were sent to Pachomius by a local bishop to be judged by him (SBo 68; G1 76). 54 SBo 50–51, 56; G1 54, 80, 83. 55 SBo 29–31; G1 33, 68. 56 SBo 42; G1 42. 57 See the discussion of this material below, both in the present chapter and in chapter five. 58 SBo 40; G1 40; cf. Pr. 50–52. 59 Pr. 51.

Literary Evidence

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Shenoute of Atripe and Archbishop Dioscorus The most well-documented monastic organization in the area apart from the Pachomian koinonia is the White Monastery federation.60 This monastic organization comprised three monasteries, two for men and one for women, and was by all accounts a social, economic and theological force to be reckoned with from the late fourth century and beyond. The numerous writings of Shenoute, on which research is now gathering pace,61 give us important insights into the inner-Christian conflicts and the variety of monasticism in Upper Egypt. The White Monastery federation was established by a monk named Pcol around 360, a generation after Pachomius established his first monasteries on the Dishna plain. Pcol was then succeded sometime between 368–379 by Ebonh, and after him, around 385, by the famous archimandrite Shenoute, who led the community until the middle of the fifth century.62 The White Monastery was built 60 Shenoute’s monastic organization consisted of two monasteries for male monks, now conventionally referred to as the White and Red monasteries respectively, as well as a nunnery in the village of Atripe. The common designation “White” and “Red” Monastery, is a modern convention, but since it is the most common way to refer to these monasteries, we do so in this study, although it would be more correct to refer to them as the monastery of Shenoute and the monastery of Pshoi respectively. 61 The main obstacle to the study of Shenoute has been the fragmentary and scattered nature of the White Monastery codices that preserve his texts. It was not until Stephen Emmel’s monumental PhD dissertation, “Shenoute’s Literary Corpus” (Yale University, 1993), later published in revised and expanded form as Shenoute’s Literary Corpus (2 vols.; CSCO 599–600, Subsidia 111–112; Leuven: Peeters, 2004), that an overview of Shenoute’s writings was gained. Emmel’s study has laid the foundation for all subsequent studies of Shenoute. Despite the difficulties presented by the manuscript situation, a number of impressive studies on Shenoute and his corpus have been published. One notable study prior to Emmel’s work is Johannes Leipoldt, Schenute von Atripe und die Entstehung des national äegyptischen Christentums (TUGAL 25; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1903). Of the recent wave of studies, see esp. Rebecca Krawiec, Shenoute & the Women of the White Monastery: Egyptian Monasticism in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); Caroline T. Schroeder, Monastic Bodies: Discipline and Salvation in Shenoute of Atripe (Divinations: Rereading Late Ancient Religion; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007); Hans-Joachim Cristea, Schenute von Atripe: Contra Origenistas: Edition des koptischen Textes mit annotierter Übersetzung und Indizes einschließlich einer Übersetzung des 16. Osterfestbriefs des Theophilus in der Fassung des Hieronymus (ep. 96) (STAC 60; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). 62 The traditional estimation of Shenoute’s leadership of the White Monastery from 385 to 465 may be excessively long, but it is beyond doubt that he was the leader of the White Monastery federation for a very long time, and certainly for the entire first half of the fifth century. See Philippe Luisier, “Chénouté, Victor, Jean de Lycopolis et Nestorius: Quand l’archimandrite d’Atripé en Haute-Égypte est-il-mort?” Or 78:3 (2009): 258–81. For reconstructions of Shenoute’s life, see esp. Stephen Emmel, “From the Other Side of the Nile: Shenute and Panopolis,” in Perspectives on Panopolis: An Egyptian Town from Alexander the Great to the Arab Conquest: Acts from an International Symposium Held in Leiden on 16, 17 and 18 December 1998 (ed. A. Egberts, B. P. Muhs, and J. van der Vliet; PLB 31; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 95–113; Emmel, “Shenoute the Monk: The Early Monastic Career of Shenoute the Archimandrite,” in Il monachesimo tra eredità e aperture: Atti del simposio “Testi e temi nella tradizione del monachesimo cristiano” per il 50o anniversario dell’Istituto Monastico di Sant’ Anselmo, Roma, 28 maggio – 1o giugno

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close to the Pachomians at Panopolis, and it is evident that its rules were closely modeled on those of the Pachomians,63 which is to be expected considering the fact that Pcol seems to have been a Pachomian monk.64 Shenoute himself had a collection of Pachomius’ writings, which he quotes approvingly,65 and the library of the White Monastery, at least in later centuries, held a significant amount of literature written by and about the Pachomians. Indeed, most of the Sahidic manuscripts containing Pachomian writings come from this monastery.66 The diversity of monasticism in the Thebaid can also be glimpsed through several of the writings of and to Shenoute. In a letter written to him in the 440s by Dioscorus, archbishop of Alexandria, we hear that there were numerous monks and monasteries in the area apart from Shenoute’s own community.67 We know 2002 (ed. Maciej Bielawski and Daniël Hombergen; SA 140, Analecta Monastica 8; Rome: Pontificio Ateneo S. Anselmo, 2004), 151–74; Emmel, Shenoute’s Literary Corpus, 1:6–14. 63 On the monastic rules of Shenoute, see esp. Bentley Layton, The Canons of Our Fathers: Monastic Rules of Shenoute (OECS; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), cf. also Layton, “Rules, Patterns, and the Exercise of Power in Shenoute’s Monastery: The Problem of World Replacement and Identity Maintenance,” JECS 15:1 (2007): 45–73; Layton, “The Ancient Rules of Shenoute’s Monastic Federation,” in Akhmim and Sohag (ed. Gawdat Gabra and Hany N. Takla; vol. 1 of Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt; Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2008), 73–81; Layton, “The Monastic Rules of Shenoute,” in Monastic Estates in Late Antique and Early Islamic Egypt: Ostraca, Papyri, and Essays in Memory of Sarah Clackson (P. Clackson) (ed. Anne Boud’hors et al.; ASP 46; Cincinnati, Ohio: American Society of Papyrologists, 2009), 170–77; Layton, “Some Observations on Shenoute’s Sources: Who Are Our Fathers?” JCoptS 11 (2009): 45–59. Although these monastic rules have been preserved in the writings of Shenoute, many of them are likely to date back to the period of the monastery’s founder, Pcol (Layton, Canons of Our Fathers, 4). On the relationship between Shenoute’s rules and those of the Pachomians, see Layton, Canons of Our Fathers, 4, 6, 18–22, 42; James E. Goehring, “Pachomius and the White Monastery,” in Akhmim and Sohag (ed. Gawdat Gabra and Hany N. Takla; vol. 1 of Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt: Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2008), 48. 64 Layton, Canons of Our Fathers 3–4, 20. 65 See Goehring, “Pachomius and the White Monastery,” 50. Shenoute quotes from Pachomius’ Letter 1 in I Have Heard about Your Wisdom (XH 277–78) (cf. Hans Quecke, “Ein Pachomiuszitat bei Schenute,” in Probleme der koptischen Literatur [ed. Peter Nagel; WissBUnivHalle 1968.1, Byzantinistische Beiträge K.2; Halle: Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg, 1968], 155–71); and in So Listen (XO 35) he quotes from a rule he specifically attributes to Pachomius. Pachomian rules are also directly incorporated in the rules of the White Monastery without explicit attribution (cf. Layton, Canons of Our Fathers, 20 n. 44). 66 For an overview, see the CMCL database (http://cmcl.aai.uni-hamburg.de/). 67 This letter, which must have been written between 444 and 451, is partly preserved in four folios from White Monastery codex XZ, which have been published in Herbert Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” in Recueil d’études égyptologiques dédiées à la mémoire de JeanFrançois Champollion (BEHE 234; Paris: Librairie Ancienne Honoré Champion, 1922), 367–76 (the first three leaves, XZ 66–71), and Henri Munier, Manuscrits coptes (Catalogue général des antiquités égyptiennes du Musée du Caire 9201–9304; Cairo: Imprimerie de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1916), 147–49 (the last leaf, XZ 72–73). Dioscorus became archbishop of Alexandria in 444, after the death of Cyril, and there is no reason to believe that the letter was written after the Council of Chalcedon. For an extended discussion of the letter, see also Hugo Lundhaug, “Shenoute’s Heresiological Polemics and Its Context(s),” in Invention, Rewrit-

Literary Evidence

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from this letter that Dioscorus was seriously concerned about heresy and the circulation of illicit books among the monks of Upper Egypt. One of the monasteries he is most concerned about is called “the camp” (ⲡⲁⲣⲉⲙⲃⲟⲗⲏ), where Dioscorus believes that heresy is being propagated by a certain monk named Elijah.68 In addition to this trouble maker, Dioscorus mentions the problem of heresy in another monastery established in a former temple in Panopolis.69 Furthermore, he mentions other monks, “Psenthaesios the priest, and the monks who are with him,” whom he asks Shenoute to protect since they are helping to aid Alexandrian orthodoxy by rooting out heretics in the area around Panopolis.70 The fact that Dioscorus has to ask Shenoute to protect Psenthaesios and his monks against Elijah’s supporters clearly indicates the diversity of monks in the region, and the level of conflict among them, as well as the relative lack of central episcopal control over the monasteries in the Thebaid. The archbishop’s control over this hotbed of monasticism was challenged all the more by a number of ascetics who did not live in monasteries at all, but dwelt outside the walls, “in the caves in the mountain.”71 Since Dioscorus fears that Elijah “might pollute others” with his heresy, he forbids him to stay in any monastery, cave, or anywhere else in the Thebaid.72 Whether Shenoute or the local bishops were successful in enforcing this ban we do not know. ing, Usurpation: Discursive Fights Over Religious Traditions in Antiquity (ed. David Brakke, Jörg Ulrich, and Anders-Christian Jacobsen, ECCA 11; Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2012), 239–61; Lundhaug, “Shenoute of Atripe,” esp. 210–11; Aloys Grillmeier, “La ‘Peste d’Origène’: Soucis du patriarche d’Alexandrie dus à l’apparition d’origénistes en Haute Égypte (444–451),” in Alexandrina: Hellénisme, judaïsme et christianisme à Alexandrie: Mélanges offerts au P. Claude Mondésert (Paris: Cerf, 1987), 221–37. 68 See Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 71 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 373); Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 72 (Munier, Manuscrits coptes, 147). The “camp” in Dioscorus’ letter may be the same monastery referred to as the “camp of the Christians” in a documentary papyrus dated to 355; see Stefan Timm, Das christlich-koptische Ägypten in arabischer Zeit (6 vols.; Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1984–92), 1:82. The name may suggest that it was originally established as a military camp. 69 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 73 (Munier, Manuscrits coptes, 148). Jon F. Dechow has suggested that this “former temple” may be the Pachomian monastery that is mentioned in SBo 54 and G1 81, whose establishment was opposed by locals of Panopolis; this opposition would be likely if the monastery was established in a former temple. See Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism in Early Christianity: Epiphanius of Cyprus and the Legacy of Origen (NAPSPatMS 13; Macon, Ga.: Mercer University Press, 1988), 239. The temple may well have been abandoned before it was converted into a monastery; cf. Ariel G. López, Shenoute of Atripe and the Uses of Poverty: Rural Patronage, Religious Conflict, and Monasticism in Late Antique Egypt (TCH 50; Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013), 104, 191 n. 15; Roger S. Bagnall, “Models and Evidence in the Study of Religion in Late Roman Egypt,” in From Temple to Church: Destruction and Renewal of Local Cultic Topography in Late Antiquity (ed. Johannes Hahn, Stephen Emmel and Ulrich Gotter; RGRW 163; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 23–41. 70 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 66, 68 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 370–71). 71 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 67 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 371). 72 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 67 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 371).

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It is noteworthy that Dioscorus associates Elijah simultaneously with the teachings of Origen and the possession of illicit literature, and that Dioscorus strongly discourages any contact between Elijah and the monks and monasteries in the region. Similarly, we find in the writings of one of Dioscorus’ predecessors as archbishop in Alexandria, Theophilus, as well as in the writings of Shenoute himself, that the reading of apocryphal literature is associated with followers of the teachings of Origen, i. e., “Origenists.” We discuss this evidence in more detail in chapters six and nine. Evidently a variety of monastic groups and individuals in Shenoute’s area read different books and professed different theologies. The only specific theological affiliation mentioned by Dioscurus is that of Elijah, whom he describes as a follower of Origen.73 The rest of the monks he simply refers to as “the entire multitude of monks that are in that entire district,”74 by which he means the Thebaid in general. Shenoute himself attests to the same variety, but although he brands his opponents by associating them with infamous heretics like Arius, Mani, Nestorius, Origen, and the Melitians, it is difficult to get a clear view of how his opponents would have understood themselves.75 The location of Shenoute’s opponents is also often unclear, but he certainly polemicizes against monks both inside and outside his own community. Among the local monks who posed a challenge to Shenoute, as they had to Pachomius a generation earlier, there were evidently some who were affiliated with the Melitian church.76 In his anti-Melitian treatise There is Another Evil that has Come Forth,77 Shenoute speaks about “false brethren,” whom he also calls “new Jews” and “unbelieving heretics,” who, he claims, are “worse than the serpent” that deceived Adam and Eve.78 Shenoute is worried that these Melitians will lead good Christians astray, and refers to the problem of fellow monks being influenced by their teachings. As he puts it, they have “corrupted the minds of many brothers and especially many sisters and many ignorant wretches.”79 In another treatise, Shenoute specifies that many in his own congregation have been led astray by the Melitians.80 It seems evident from Shenoute’s concern that he suspected at least some contacts between Melitians and monks in his own federation. Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 71 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 373). Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 70 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 372). 75 See Lundhaug, “Shenoute’s Heresiological Polemics.” 76 On Melitians and Pachomians, see James E. Goehring, “Melitian Monastic Organization: A Challenge to Pachomian Originality,” in Studia Patristica XXV: Papers Presented at the Eleventh International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 1991: Biblica et Apocrypha, Orientalia, Ascetica (ed. Elizabeth A. Livingstone; Leuven: Peeters, 1993), 388–95. 77 The text has been published by H. Guérin, “Sermons inédits de Senouti (introduction, texte, traduction): Thèse soutenue à l’École du Louvre,” REg 11 (1904): 18. 78 Shenoute, There is Another Evil that has Come Forth GP 108–10 (Guérin, “Sermons,” 18). 79 Shenoute, There is Another Evil that has Come Forth GP 109 (Guérin, “Sermons,” 18). 80 Shenoute, We Will Speak in the Fear of God GP 106 (Guérin, “Sermons,” 17). 73 74

Archaeological Evidence

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Archaeological Evidence Jacques van der Vliet has observed that “Late antiquity saw the transformation of the valleys of the Theban Mountain from a city of the dead into a tomb for the living, serving as the dwelling place for large communities of ascetics.”81 As we have seen, literary sources for monasticism in Upper Egypt frequently speak of monks inhabiting caves in the cliffs flanking the Nile valley. In addition to Palladius’ famous description of the cave-dwelling monks near Antinoë,82 one recalls that Dioscorus, in his letter to Shenoute, forbade the heretic Elijah not only from staying in the cities or monasteries througout the Thebaid, but even in any of its caves.83 The caves in the area of the Dishna plain were no exception, as we know that the Pachomians used them for burial sites and hermitages. There are numerous references in Pachomian texts to deceased monks being interred at the cliffs, and we also hear about monks going there to pray. According to the Greek Life of Pachomius, for example, Theodore “would often go quietly by night to the mountain at a distance of about three miles to pray where the tombs of the brothers were.”84 Archaeological discoveries in the region confirm the fact that monks inhabited the caves and wadis bordering the Dishna plain close to where the Nag Hammadi Codices were found. Several sites at the Jabal al-Tarif were excavated during the archaeological expeditions to the Nag Hammadi area in the 1970s. In one cave, designated cave 65 (or T65), Christian crosses were discovered on the walls, painted in red, perhaps as apotropaic symbols to ward off demonic powers.85 The most notable site, however, is the so-called Psalms cave (T8). It was originally designed as a tomb in the pharaonic period, but in the Christian era was inhabited by one or more monks who chipped away the ancient inscriptions and drew, in red paint, the

81 Jacques van der Vliet, “Epigraphy and History in the Theban Region,” in Nag HammadiEsna (ed. Gawdat Gabra and Hany N. Takla; vol. 2 of Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt; Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2010), 151, referring specifically to the area around the monastery of Epiphanius. 82 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 58. 83 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 67 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 371). 84 G1 146 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:403). For references to monks buried in the cliffs, see SBo 27, 82, 123, 130, 181, 198, 205, 207; G1 32, 103, 116, 117, 139, 146, 149; Paral. 6; Pr. 127, 128. 85 James M. Robinson, “The First Season of the Nag Hammadi Excavation: 27 November–19 December 1975,” GöMisz 22 (1976): 76; Torgny Säve-Söderbergh, The Old Kingdom Cemetery at Hamra Dom (El-Qasr wa Es-Saiyad) (Stockholm: The Royal Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities, 1994), 74–76. During the first season of the Nag Hammadi excavation project, in 1975, Robinson numbered all the caves in the Jabal al-Tarif in ascending sequence from T1 to T158, from south to north. The numbers were painted in black on the entrances to the caves themselves. Robinson, “First Season,” 72–73; Robinson, “Discovery” (2009), 8 n. 16. On the apotropaic power of the cross, see Athanasius, C. Gent. 1; PGL, s. v. σφραγίζω (B); σταυρός (E3).

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incipits of Psalms 51–93 on the wall, listed sequentially by number.86 The inscription, written in Sahidic Coptic, and in what may be described as a practiced literary hand,87 has been provisionally dated on palaeographical grounds to the fifth or sixth century,88 and Byzantine coins from the late fifth to seventh century were also found at the site.89 Why the incipits were painted on the wall is not entirely clear, but Paul Bucher, who published the inscription in 1933, suggested that they may have served as an aide-memoire for monks enganged in prayer.90 This may well have been the case, and it is not inconceivable that in addition to helping them pray, the list on the cave wall may also have functioned as a memory aid for monks engaged in the composition of texts, an activity that could well have taken place in this and other caves, as well as within the walls of a monastery.91 Further evidence of monastic activity has been found in the Wadi Sheikh Ali, a narrow ravine situated between the cliffs of the Jabal al-Tarif and the Jabal Abu Mana to the north of the Dishna plain. Approximately three kilometers up the wadi from the plain there is a natural shelter created by a rocky outcropping, where a large number of Coptic monastic graffiti has been discovered, inscribed with red paint as in the Psalms cave and T65.92 These inscriptions include names of monks and petitions for prayer, such as “Pray for me in love, I am Pakim” (ϣⲗⲏⲗ ⲉϫⲟⲓ ⲛⲁⲅⲁⲡⲉ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲡⲁⲕⲓⲙ), and “I am Archeleos, remember me in love” (ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲁⲣⲭⲏⲗⲉⲟⲥ ⲁⲣⲓⲡⲁⲙⲉⲩⲉ ⲛⲁⲕⲁⲡⲉ). Another inscription features an incised 86 Robinson, “First Season,” 75. On the Sixth-Dynasty remains, see Labib Habachi, “SixthDynasty Discoveries in the Jabal al-Tarif,” BA 42:4 (1979): 237–38; Säve-Söderbergh, Old Kingdom Cemetery. 87 Robinson, “First Season,” 75. 88 Paul Bucher, “Les commencements des Psaumes LI à XCIII: Inscription d’une tombe de Ḳaṣr eṣ Ṣaijad,” Kêmi 4 (1931): 157. 89 Robinson, “First Season,” 76. 90 Bucher, “Les commencements,” 157. 91 Reflecting on later monastic sources featuring lists of Psalms by number, Mary Carruthers has highlighted the function of such lists as tools for composition and reference by monks who already knew the Psalms by heart. See Mary J. Carruthers, The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200 (CSML 34; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Carruthers, “The Art of Memory and the Art of Page Layout in the Middle Ages,” Diogenes 49:4 (2002): 20–30; Carruthers and Jan M. Ziolkowski, eds., The Medieval Craft of Memory: An Anthology of Texts and Pictures (Material Texts; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002). 92 See Marvin W. Meyer, “Archaeological Survey of the Wadi Sheikh Ali December 1980,” GöMisz 64 (1983): 77–78; cf. Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 256. Graffiti similar to those at the Wadi Sheikh Ali have been found at the tombs and cliffs in the vicinity of the Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes. See Walter Ewing Crum and Hugh G. Evelyn White, The Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes: Part 2 (Egyptian Expedition; New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1926), 141–43 (for the Coptic graffiti), 144–47 (for the Greek graffiti). See also the descriptions in H. E. Winlock and W. E. Crum, The Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes: Part 1 (Egyptian Expedition; New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1926), 6–7, 11, 15, 18–19, 21–22, 24; Włodzimierz Godlewski, Deir el-Bahari V: Le monastère de St Phoibammon (Warsaw: PWN, 1986), 141–52; cf. M. W. Meyer, “Archaeological Survey,” 78.

Archaeological Evidence

41

Fig. 12. Inscription at the Wadi Sheikh Ali: “Remember me in love. I am brother …” (ⲁⲣⲓⲡⲁⲙⲏⲩⲉ ⲛⲁⲕⲁⲡⲏ ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲡⲉⲥⲟⲛ …). Photograph courtesy of James E. Goehring.

picture of a monk with hands raised in prayer, accompanied by the caption “I am John, the shoemaker.”93 Here too were found pieces of pottery which resemble the bowl purportedly used to seal the jar containing the Nag Hammadi Codices.94 A site like this one is mentioned in the Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt, which describes an anchorite taking shelter under an overhang in the cliffs while practicing his ascesis. There, Apa Aaron recounts how he once stood “under a mountain ledge” for six days straight without eating, drinking or sitting (though he says nothing about leaving graffiti on it).95 The Nag Hammadi excavation project in the 1970s also excavated the remains of the basilica of the chief Pachomian monastery at Pbow, in the present-day 93

See Fig. 13. M. W. Meyer, “Archaeological Survey,” 80. The bowl that is said to have been used to seal the jar is now in the collection of Martin Schøyen (who also owns the cover and cartonnage fragments of NHC I), where we have examined it. For a comparison of this bowl with a similar one discovered during the excavation of the Pachomian basilica in Faw Qibli, see James E. Goehring, “An Early Roman Bowl from the Monastery of Pachomius at Pbow and the Milieu of the Nag Hammadi Codices,” in Coptica-Gnostica-Manichaica: Mélanges offerts à Wolf-Peter Funk (ed. Louis Painchaud and Paul-Hubert Poirier; BCNH.É 7; Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2006), 357–71. 95 Hist. mon. U. 41b (Budge, Miscellaneous Texts, 475; Vivian, Histories, 120). See similarly 53b, where Aaron passes the mornings “in the crevices of the cold rocks” (ⲉϩⲟⲩⲛ ϩⲁϩⲉⲛϩⲟⲕⲟⲟϩ ⲙⲡⲉⲧⲣⲁ ⲉⲩⲱϭⲃ̄ [Budge, Miscellaneous Texts, 491]). 94

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Fig. 13. Inscription at the Wadi Sheikh Ali: “I am John, the shoemaker” (ⲁⲛⲟⲕ ⲓⲱϩⲁⲛⲛⲏⲥ ⲡⲕⲏⲥⲉ). Photograph courtesy of James E. Goehring.

village of Faw Qibli.96 The archaeologists identified three different stages of the basilica, with the earliest building dated to 330–46, in the lifetime of Pachomius himself.97 The excavations at Faw Qibli also resulted in the discovery of a late antique bowl, stratigraphically datable to the late fourth or early fifth century, which resembles the one allegedly used to seal the jar in which the Nag Hammadi Codices were found.98 Finally, it should also be mentioned that the so-called Dishna Papers (more commonly known as the Bodmer Papyri),99 which include copies of several Pachomian letters preserved on tiny rolls, may well come from a nearby Pachomian monastery.100 Having been discovered close to Faw Qibli, by the Jabal Abu Mana, only a few kilometers east of the Jabal al Tarif,101 they thus constitute the closest analogy to the Nag Hammadi Codices in terms of their geographical and archaeological context. We will return to the Dishna Papers and their possible relationship with the Nag Hammadi Codices below (see chapter eight). 96 Peter Grossmann and Gary Lease, “Faw Qibli – 1989 Excavation Report,” GöMisz 114 (1989): 9–16. Cf. also Peter Grossmann, “The Basilica of Pachomius,” BA 42:4 (1979): 232–36; Emmel, “Faw Qibli Excavations.” 97 Grossmann and Lease, “Faw Qibli,” 11. 98 According to Goehring, the bowl found at the basilica must have been discarded “shortly before 459 C. E.” (“Early Roman Bowl,” 364). 99 Because not all the manuscripts of the find ended up in the Bodmer collection, the broader designation Dishna Papers is used to refer to the entire discovery. See Robinson, Bodmer Papyri. 100 This has been argued by Robinson (see esp. Bodmer Papyri). 101 Robinson, Bodmer Papryi, 108–9; Robinson, “Discovery” (2009), 13.

Documentary Evidence

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Fig. 14. Ruins of the Pachomian basilica at Faw Qibli (Pbow). Photograph by Hugo Lundhaug, 2014.

Documentary Evidence Documentary evidence of monasticism in Egypt, including personal letters and commercial documents of monks, complements the picture provided in the literary sources. Such material has gained increasing prominence in studies of early Egyptian monasticism.102 But what documentary sources are available from the fourth and fifth centuries, and in particular, for monasticism in Upper Egypt in this period?103 102 On documentary evidence for Egyptian monasticism generally, see the survey by Wipszycka, Moines, 69–99. On Coptic documentary papyri in particular, see Leslie S. B. MacCoull, “Coptic Documentary Papyri as a Historical Source for Egyptian Christianity,” in The Roots of Egyptian Christianity (ed. Birger A. Pearson and James E. Goehring; SAC; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 42–50, esp. the convenient list of publications of Coptic documentary sources at 42 n. 2. 103 On fourth- and fifth-century documentary sources for monasticism, see Roger S. Bagnall, Everyday Writing in the Greco-Roman East (Sather Classical Lectures 69; Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011), 80–87; Edwin A. Judge, “The Earliest Use of Monachos for ‘Monk’ (P. Coll. Youtie 77) and the Origins of Monasticism,” JAC 20 (1977): 72–89; Judge, “FourthCentury Monasticism in the Papyri,” in Proceedings of the Sixteenth International Congress of Papyrology, New York, 24–31 July 1980 (ed. Roger S. Bagnall et al.; ASP 23; Chico, Cal.: Scholars Press, 1981), 613–20; Judge and S. R. Pickering, “Papyrus Documentation of Church and Community in Egypt to the Mid-Fourth Century,” JAC 20 (1977): 47–71; Peter van Minnen, “The Roots of Egyptian Christianity,” APF 40 (1994): 71–85; Malcolm Choat, “Fourth-Century Mo-

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Monastic Archives Most prominently among our documentary sources for early Egyptian monasticism are several important groups of papyrus letters, often refered to as “archives,”104 in both Greek and Coptic, giving evidence of correspondence to, from, or between monks. This material can be divided into a relatively limited number of groups, and an even more limited number of provenances, possibly deriving from no more than three sites. In sectarian terms, some of the most important of these archives are of a non-orthodox provenance, while the others are of more uncertain doctrinal character, such as the many letters possibly related to a hermit named John, or the community of monks associated with the figure of Apa Sansnos. What kind of monastic organizations underlie these documentary sources are not always easy to determine. We have already seen that the Melitians feature relatively prominently in the heresiological literature, and it is noteworthy that they seem to feature even more prominently among the documentary papyri.105 The documents relating to the Melitians can be analyzed in four groups:106 1) the archive of Paieous, abbot of the monastery of Hathor in Middle Egypt;107 2) the archive of Nepheros, the successor of Paieous at Hathor;108 3) the archive of the monk Paphnutius, who might have been a member of the Hathor monastery;109 and 4) some fascinating papyri from the monastery of Labla in the Fayum.110 These collections come from the middle of the fourth century, with the exception of the Labla papyri, which date from the early sixth century.111 nasticism in the Papyri,” in Akten des 23. Internationalen Papyrologenkongresses: Wien, 22.–28. Juli 2001 (ed. Bernhard Palme; PapyVind 1; Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2007), 94–101. 104 For discussion of the term “archive” in this sense, see Katelijn Vandorpe, “Archives and Dossiers,” in The Oxford Handbook of Papyrology (ed. Roger S. Bagnall; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 216–55. 105 As Malcolm Choat has pointed out, this is the “non-orthodox” Christian group for which we have the most sources among the documentary papyri (Belief and Cult in Fourth-Century Papyri [Studia Antiqua Australiensia 1; Turnhout: Brepols, 2006], 128). 106 Cf. Peter Van Nuffelen, “Introduction: The Melitian Schism: Development, Sources and Interpretation,” in Hans Hauben, Studies on the Melitian Schism in Egypt (AD 306–335) (ed. Peter Van Nuffelen; CStS; Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), xviii. 107 On the Paieous archive, see H. Idris Bell, Jews and Christians in Egypt: The Jewish Troubles in Alexandria and the Athanasian Controversy (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1924); W. E. Crum, “Some Further Melitian Documents,” JEA 13:1/2 (1927): 19–26. 108 On the Nepheros archive, see Bärbel Kramer, John C. Shelton, and Gerald M. Browne, eds., Das Archiv des Nepheros und verwandte Texte: Teil I: Das Archiv des Nepheros: Papyri aus der trierer und der heidelberger Papyrussammlung (Aegyptiaca Treverensia 4; Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1987). 109 On the Paphnutius archive, see Bell, Jews and Christians; Crum, “Some Further Melitian Documents.” 110 On the documents pertaining to the Melitian monks at Labla, see Brian C. McGing, “Melitian Monks at Labla,” Tyche 5 (1990): 67–94; Goehring, “Monastic Diversity,” 68–69. 111 Van Nuffelen, “Melitian Schism,” xviii.

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While these papyri offer unique evidence of Melitian monasticism in Egypt, it is also important to note their limits for furnishing information about monasticism in the vicinity of the Nag Hammadi Codices. Firstly, they all derive from Middle, and not Upper, Egypt. The Hathor monastery was located somewhere in the eastern desert, perhaps across the river from Oxyrhynchus,112 and the Labla monastery was located in the Fayum. While the identification of Paphnutius as a member of the Hathor monastery may be less secure than commonly assumed, the archive associated with him also derives from somewhere in the same region.113 This means that we do not have any certain papyrological evidence of Melitian monks from Upper Egypt. Therefore, while the Melitian papyri give us insights into Melitian monasticism as such, we must rely on the literary sources for evidence of their actual presence in Upper Egypt in our period. This is of course not to say that these groups of letters are insignificant. They are certainly useful for understanding monasticism and its diversity in Egypt as a whole, and as supplements to the literary sources on Upper Egypt. Moving south from Paieous, Nepheros and Paphnutius, we come to the Thebaid and a collection of letters written to one or more anchorites named Apa John. Although it has been suggested that this anchorite was the famous John of Lycopolis visited by Palladius and featured prominently in the Historia Monachorum, the identification is by no means secure, especially since the name John was as common then as it is today.114 At any rate, we possess at least thirteen letters written to one or more persons named Apa John, nine in Coptic (P. Ryl. Copt. 268–276) and four in Greek (P. Herm. 7–10), all of which have been dated on paleographic grounds to the late fourth or early fifth century. The provenance of these papyri is not entirely certain, but it is believed that they came from the area around Hermopolis (modern el-Ashmunein).115 Although the Greek and 112 There is some confusion as to its actual location since the sources may be interpreted in different ways. It may either have been located in the Upper Cynopolite nome or in the Heracleopolite nome, or there may have been two monasteries with the same name not far from each other. See Kramer, Shelton, and Browne, Archiv des Nepheros, 12–13; Choat, “Fourth-Century Monasticism,” 96. For a useful map of this area, see Bärbel Kramer, “Neuere Papyri zum frühen Mönchtum in Ägypten,” in Philanthropia kai Eusebeia: Festschrift für Albrecht Dihle zum 70.Geburtstag (ed. Glenn W. Most, Hubert Petersmann, and Adolf Martin Ritter; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 233. 113 For arguments against such a connection and references to the main literature, see Choat, Belief and Cult, 130, esp. n. 600; Choat, “Fourth-Century Monasticism,” 97. 114 For the identification of Apa John with John of Lycopolis, see Constantine Zuckerman, “The Hapless Recruit Psois and the Mighty Anchorite, Apa John,” BASP 32 (1995): 183–94; Wipszycka, Moines, 83–85. For a critical view see Malcolm Choat, “The Archive of Apa Johannes: Notes on a Proposed New Edition,” Proceedings of the 24th International Congress of Papyrology, Helsinki, 1–7 August, 2004 (2 vols.; ed. Jaakko Frösén, Tiina Purola, and Erja Salmenkivi; Commentationes Humanarum Litterarum 122:1; Helsinki: Societas Scientiarum Fennica, 2007), 1:180–82. 115 The Coptic letters, from the John Rylands Library, were published in the early twentieth century by W. E. Crum, Catalogue of the Coptic Manuscripts in the Collection of the John

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Coptic papyri had been preserved and edited separately, Peter van Minnen suggested in 1994 that they relate to the same Apa John on the basis of their probable common date and provenance.116 Researchers have also suggested that various other documents from the John Rylands Library and elsewhere should be included in the dossier of Apa John.117 As the contents of these letters have been treated elsewhere in detail, we limit ourselves to the observation that Apa John, although an anchorite, does not appear to have been completely withdrawn from society, but continued to participate in the world, as indeed was the case with other Egyptian anchorites discussed above. As van Minnen observes, “the dozen or more letters directed to Apa John request his intercession with both divine and human powers in matters of everyday concern such as the forced assignment of land. They come from a variety of Greek and Coptic correspondents: other monks or ecclesiastics, officials, soldiers and ordinary family people.”118 Monastic Documents from the Nag Hammadi Covers Turning finally to the area near Chenoboskion (Sheneset), we come to an especially important group of papyri documenting early Egyptian monasticism, namely those documents found in the leather covers of the Nag Hammadi Codices themselves. These papyri are virtually the only documentary sources we possess for monasticism in the immediate environment in which these codices were produced. While in this section we limit the discussion to what these papyri reveal about monasticism in that region, we shall return in chapter five to questions concerning the potential relationship between the monks witnessed in these documents and the people who produced the Nag Hammadi Codices. Of all the Nag Hammadi Codices, the cover of Codex VII yielded the largest amount of cartonnage material – nearly thirty documents of significance – Rylands Library, Manchester (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1909), 127–30. The Greek letters, originally in the collections of the Egypt Exploration Society, were published by B. R. Rees, Papyri from Hermopolis and Other Documents of the Byzantine Period (London: Egypt Exploration Society, 1964), 12–20. On the proposed date of the letters, see Crum, Catalogue John Rylands Library, 241–43, with further comments by Bell, Jews and Christians, 91, and Rees, Papyri from Hermopolis, loc. cit. Zuckerman’s analysis of the military recruitment practices assumed in P. Herm. 7 would place John in the 380s (“Hapless Recruit,” 183–88). For a detailed discussion of the acquisition history and possible provenance of the papyri, see Choat, “Archive of Apa Johannes,” 175–83. 116 Minnen, “Roots of Egyptian Christianity,” esp. 81–82. 117 Already Crum noted that “Several more of our papyri, apparently of a like age, may also belong here [with the Apa John letters], although no John is named in them” (Catalogue John Rylands Library, 127). Cf. Choat, “Archive of Apa Johannes,” 179, with reference to P. Ryl. Copt. 292, 301, 310–14 and 396, all assigned paleographically by Crum to within the fourth to sixth centuries (Catalogue John Rylands Library, 241–43). See also Malcolm Choat and Iain Gardner, “P. Lond. Copt. I 1123: Another Letter to Apa Johannes?” ZPE 156 (2006): 157–64; Nikolaos Gonis, “Further Letters from the Archive of Apa Ioannes,” BASP 45 (2008): 69–85. 118 Minnen, “Roots of Egyptian Christianity,” 82.

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mostly personal letters between monks and/or other Christians, but also some accounts,119 a deed of sale,120 two contracts for loans of wheat dated to 341 and 346 CE respectively,121 a pledge of surety dated to 348,122 and fragments of a Sahidic translation of Genesis copied in a fine literary hand.123 Among all the documents from the cover of Codex VII, Ewa Wipszycka counts thirteen papyri, nine in Greek and four in Coptic, as unquestionably related to monks, that is, written to monks, by monks, or about monks.124 In papyrus G72, for example, a woman named Proteria writes to two monks (μοναχοῖς) named Sansnos and Psatos; the sender of C8 identifies himself as a ⲙⲟⲛⲟⲭⲟⲥ,125 refers repeatedly to Apa Sansnos, and greets “all the brothers” with him; and the sender of G67 writes about a shipment of grain to a monastery (τὸ μονάχιον) by boat and pack-animal. The farewell of G67, in which the sender “and those with me” greet the recipient “and those with you,” implies the existence of at least two communities related through a supply network but separated from each other by some distance. Although the cover of Codex VII yielded the most documents related to monks, some documents found in the covers of other codices (VI, VIII, IX and XI) likely stem from a Christian and/or monastic setting based on their references to several Christian names and “all the brothers.”126 No cartonnage mate119 G82, G100, probably from the same monastic community witnessed in the letters. For convenience, we follow the designations given by Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, who designate Greek papyri with G and Coptic papyri with C. These stand for the longer designations P. Nag Hamm. 1 etc. for Greek (= G1 etc.), and P. Nag Hamm. C1 etc. for Coptic (= C1 etc.). 120 G62. 121 G63, G64. 122 G65. 123 C2. On this fragment see the discussions in chapters five and eight. 124 G67, G68, G69, G71, G72, G75, G76, G77, G78, C4, C5, C6, C8. See the convenient table in Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 190–91. Oddly, Wipszycka makes no mention of the monastic papyri from the Nag Hammadi Codices in her otherwise rather comprehensive section on “Archives Monastiques” in Moines, 80–98. In addition to these thirteen papyri, one may also consider several other fragments from Codex VII as potentially related to monks: G74, a letter from Peteêsis “to my lord (τῷ κυρίῳ μο[υ]) […]” requesting grain and sheep, and using a Christian nomen sacrum in the farewell, “I pray to the Lord (τῷ κ͞ ῳ ͞ ) [for your safety]”; G79, a fragmentary letter to a “brother” with a nomen sacrum in the farewell, “I pray for [your] health in the Lord (ἐν ͞κῳ ͞ ) … my brother”; C3, with its reference to “brothers in the spirit,” Israel, and exhortation to “flee from evil”; G66, a letter from Patese to his “lord brother” Abaras, with the formulaic “greetings in the Lord (ἐν κ͞ υ͞ ),” concerning sheep sheering and the collection of money for a donkey Patese had sold. The fragments of Genesis (C2) presumably come from the same monastic community as the docmentary sources. 125 I.e., ⲙⲟⲛⲁⲭⲟⲥ. The spelling variant ⲙⲟⲛⲟⲭⲟⲥ is also found, e. g., in NHC III (120.26; 121.18). 126 In C15 from Codex VIII, Isaac, Psai, and Benjamin write to Mesouer and greet “all the brothers” with him. In G153 from Codex XI, the sender refers to the addressee as “my lord brother,” a title found elsewhere in the monastic papyri (see C4; cf. G66). The cover of Codex VI includes a name list (G44–45), probably an account book of some sort, which includes Christian names and at least ten references to people identified as “brother.” A fragment from the cover

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rial is extant from the covers of Codices II, III and X, and the covers of Codices XII and XIII do not survive. None of the monks’ letters found in the cover of Codex VII are dated internally, but the dated business contracts found in the same cover (341, 346, and 348 CE) suggest a mid-fourth century date. At least twenty-six named persons appear in these monastic papyri. There is Sansnos the priest and monk;127 another Sansnos, called “the shepherd”;128 Harpocration, Peter, Appianos, and Papnoutios;129 one or more men named Aphrodisios;130 Haraklys;131 Proteria and Sansnos’ fellow monk Psatos;132 Apo[---], the co-recipient of a letter with Sansnos;133 Besarion and his “brother” Prêt;134 Makarios;135 three priests named Zaccheos, Com[---] and Pechenephnibis;136 Herakleios;137 Daniel;138 Patese and Abaras;139 Peteêsis;140 Horion and two presbyters, Dorkon and [---]arios;141 and finally the “beloved father Pachome” addressed by Papnoute.142 Apa Sansnos features prominently in the letters from Codex VII and is identified as both monk and priest.143 At least eight letters are addressed to Sansnos, seven in Greek and one in Coptic,144 and one Greek letter is written by him.145 Given that people wrote to him in Greek and Coptic, he was either bilingual or of Codex IX also refers to a “brother Phaêris” (G147). Although the term “brother” is not by itself a firm criterion for identifying a document’s Christian provenance (cf. Choat, Belief and Cult, 49), the context in which these documents were found, alongside other clearly Christian and monastic papyri, which include nomina sacra and biblical names, suggests Christian usage of the word adelphos in these documents. 127 G68, G69, G72, G75, G76, G77, G78, C5, C8. 128 G69. Since the reference to Sansnos the shepherd appears in a letter written by Apa Sansnos himself (G69), it is likely that they were two different persons (unless he refers to himself in the third person). There are also references to two different people named Sansnos in a list of names from the cover of Codex VI (G44), “Sansnos (son of) Chollos” and “Sansnos (son of) M[---],” but we cannot know whether either of these are Sansnos the monk and/or shepherd. The repeated references to “brothers” (adelphos) in G44 may suggest that the document, perhaps an account, comes from a Christian and possibly monastic setting. 129 G68, perhaps to be identified with the Papnoute of C6. 130 G69, C4, C5. 131 G69. 132 G72. 133 G73. 134 G75. A Besarion is also mentioned in G77, though he may be a different person. 135 G76. 136 G77. Zaccheos the priest also appears in G78. 137 G78. 138 C4. 139 G66. 140 G74. 141 G71. 142 C6. On this fragment, see the discussion in chapter five. 143 G72, G78. On monks as priests, see the discussion in chapter five. 144 G68, G72, G73, G75, G76, G77, G78, C5. 145 G69. Perhaps Sansnos did not send the letter or kept a copy for himself.

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had to rely on a translator.146 Since some of the letters in which the greeting and farewell are preserved refer to “all the brothers” with Sansnos, it is clear that he was not a solitary anchorite but lived in a community of monks.147 As we have seen, one of his monastic brothers was named Psatos,148 and another Apo[---], both named as his co-recipients in different letters.149 The various titles with which people address Sansnos also provide a glimpse of his status in the community. Harpocration and Besarion address Sansnos as “my beloved father” and “my lord father” respectively,150 which may suggest that they are his subordinates, while the way Makarios addresses him as “my beloved son”151 may imply that he is Sansnos’ superior.152 Another monk, whose name is unfortunately lost, refers to him both as “my father Sansno” (ⲡⲁⲉⲓⲱⲧ ⲥⲁⲛⲥⲛⲱ) and “Apa Sansno” (ⲁⲡⲡⲁ ⲥⲁⲛⲥⲛⲱ).153 On the other hand, the priest Zaccheos addresses him as “beloved [brother] and priest” as if an equal.154 Proteria, who might not have belonged to their monastic organization, and who may not even have been a Christian, refers to Sansnos and Psatos simply as “monks” with no further terms of reverence.155 Apa Sansnos certainly appears to have been an authority figure in his community, with administrative responsibilities, personal influence, and business contacts. In one letter, three priests ask him to receive people who bear a letter of recommendation from a bishop,156 and in another, the priest Zaccheos appeals to Sansnos’ “innate love” to receive a brother named Herakleios.157 People also turned to Sansnos to adjudicate social and economic disputes, not unlike Apa Paiêous in the Hathor papyri, Apa John, or St. Antony in the Vita.158 In one 146 John of Lycopolis relied on translators for Greek (Palladius, Hist. Laus. 35), as did Pachomius for Greek and Theodore for Coptic (SBo 89, 91, 196; 205; G1 94). A mixture of Greek and Coptic letters is also found in the Apa Paiêous archive. 147 G68, G77, C5; cf. C8, G67. Similalrly, in C4, Daniel greets Aphrodisios and “all the brothers with you, each by name.” 148 G72. 149 G72 and G73. Similarly, we hear of “those with Papnoutios” (G68), the brothers and “children” with Heraklys (G69), and the shepherds with whom Sansnos the monk inquires about livestock (G69). 150 G68, G75. 151 G76. 152 Cf. Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 14. 153 C8. 154 G78; see similarly “brother” in G77, G73. 155 G72. Proteria’s letter lacks the formulaic “greetings in the Lord” and any nomina sacra characteristic of Christian letters. In contrast, the nomen sacrum κ͞ ω ͞ (once ͞κυ͞ ) is found in many of the other letters: G66, G68, G70, G71, G74, G76, G78 and G79. 156 G77. 157 G78. 158 Apa Paiêous was asked on two occassions to use his influence to help brothers whose children had been taken away by creditors and sold into slavery (P. Lond. VI 1915 and 1916). On Apa John, see Minnen, “Roots of Egyptian Christianity”; on Antony, see Athanasius, Vit. Ant. 14, 81, 84–87.

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letter, Sansnos is beseeched by Harpocration to intervene in a conflict between Peter and a brother named Appianos over certain payments (τῶν ἐκφορίων); he asks him to make Peter stop harrassing Appianos until they can visit Sansnos themselves and resolve the problem.159 The fact that Harpocration adds “for so they have requested” – i. e., they have asked to defer the matter to Sansnos – implies that all the parties involved in the dispute regarded him as the right person to consult. Harpocration even tries to persuade Sansnos with a little Christian rhetoric, exhorting him to “help the brother (Appianos), for it suits your agapê in Christ.” Not only was Apa Sansnos the right person to turn to for settling conflicts, but he also appears to have been the go-to man for procuring things people needed. In Harpocration’s letter concerning the dispute between Peter and Appianos, he tacks onto the end a small business request for Sansnos: “And if it is no trouble for you, get us ten wagon loads of chaff (ἀχύρου ἀγώγια δέκα) and let us know how much they will sell for.”160 In another letter, Proteria similarly asks Sansnos and his fellow monk Psatos to locate chaff for her animals, since she cannot find any where she lives, and “to let me know about the price, how much it is per wagonload (ἅμαξαν).” She then mentions the anticipated arrival of a boat (τὸ πλοῖον), presumably for the transport of the chaff.161 In another situation, a certain Aphrodisios, who is ill, asks Sansnos to conduct business on his behalf, including the purchase of grain and the settling of accounts (“Get twenty-four talents from Abraham and give ten to Moses”).162 Such requests pertaining to commercial affairs show that Sansnos maintained contacts in a wider trade network and was able to procure products for people that they themselves had trouble finding in their own location. The fact that his transactions involved amounts as large as ten wagon-loads and shipments by boat suggests that he oversaw a well-organized and routine operation of no small significance. As Roger Bagnall observes in his study of the means of transportation in ancient Egypt, wagons cost more than camels and donkeys, but could also carry much more cargo: “Wagons are expensive, camels cheaper, donkeys cheapest. The more expensive means of transportation may be more efficient if used much of the time, but only if one’s use is great enough to allow the capital invested to be put to work with this sort of efficiency.”163 Another letter found with Sansnos’ correspondence deals with the shipment of grain by boat and pack-animal to a monastery (τὸ μονάχιον), where it is to be 159

G68. G68. 161 G72. A boat is also mentioned in G77, the letter to Sansnos from three priests. 162 C5, on which see further below. 163 Roger S. Bagnall, “The Camel, the Wagon, and the Donkey in Later Roman Egypt,” BASP 22 (1985): 1–6. In contrast to this view, Shelton suggests that Sansnos and the other monks witnessed in the cartonnage documents belonged to the class of “unorganized remnuoth” (“Introduction,” 7). 160

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stored in a bin (σιρός).164 The fact that the recipient is reminded to “reckon a few extra days” may imply that the distance of the shipment is relatively large, more than several days long, and that the people responsible for it were mindful of keeping a schedule. As the names of the sender and recipient have been lost, we do not know if Sansnos was involved here too, but the logistics described fit well with what we know about his operations. In other letters we find Apa Sansnos managing his own business affairs, including the acquisition and redistribution of goods. In one letter, Besarion asks his “lord father” Sansnos to supply his brother Prêt with five artabas of grain (about 194 liters).165 In another situation, Sansnos was involved in the acquisition of sheep and other livestock from local shepherds in order to supply food to certain “children” (τὰ παιδία).166 Who these children were remains unclear. They might have lived in a monastery for whose stock Sansnos was responsible,167 or perhaps they were local children to whom the monks donated food as a charity.168 At any rate, it is clear from the letter that Sansnos was supposed to share responsibility for the children’s food supply with his associate Aphrodisios;169 but apparently Aphrodisios did not hold up his end of the agreement, and Sansnos was left in the lurch with the burden of providing for the children entirely from his own resources.170 Sansnos’ responsibility for the children, and his dealings 164 G67. According to Shelton (Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 61) this is the earliest known usage of the term μονάχιον and “is presumably equivalent to μοναστήριον.” 165 G75. On the measures, see Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 332 (1 artaba = approx. 38.78 liters). 166 G69. 167 Children evidently lived in some Egyptian monasteries already in the fourth century. One finds references to τὰ παιδία with the monks in the Apa Paiêous papyri from Hathor (e. g., P. Lond. VI 1914, 56, 60); and the Life of Pachomius (G1 40) mentions “many neophytes … and boys (παιδία)” who live in the community. For evidence of children in Egyptian monasteries, see Caroline T. Schroeder, “Children in Early Egyptian Monasticism,” in Children in Late Ancient Christianity (ed. Cornelia B. Horn and Robert R. Phoenix; STAC 58; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 317–38; Arietta Papaconstantinou, “Notes sur les actes de donation d’enfants au monastère thébain de Saint-Phoibammon,” JJP 32 (2002): 83–105; Mariachiara Giorda, “Children in Monastic Families in Egypt at the End of Antiquity,” in Re-thinking Monastic Education (ed. Samuel Rubenson and Lillian Larsen; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming). 168 According to Palladius, Hist. Laus. 32.9–10, the Pachomian monks at Panopolis provided food for the poor and needy, including those in prison, from their own surplus and swine herding. Pachomius’ master Palamon was also remembered for teaching that giving charity to the poor was a central part of the monastic life (SBo 10). 169 This may perhaps be the same man met in C5. 170 G69: “Sansnos, to my beloved brother [Aphrodisios]. Greetings in the Lord. Just as when you departed from us […] the children (πεδία) are without food. And you, Aphrodisios, have sent them nothing because we sent them food. And you, Aphrodisios, agreed that we would bring the sheep and goats. But you still haven’t sent the children anything. I responded once before sending for you. I checked with the shepherds about the animals, and the shepherds agreed that those who have the sheep and lambs should themselves pay in full. And I checked with Sansnos the shepherd about how we are doing with the lambs, and Sansnos said that there

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with the shepherds and livestock, further underscore his position as an important person in his monastic community. We know that Sansnos lived with other monastic brothers, such as Psatos, but the size and organization of his community is difficult to determine. Was it a relatively small and unorganized group of monks living close to each other, like Palamon’s circle on the outskirts of Sheneset?171 Or could it have been one of the larger, more regulated cenobitic monasteries in the region, Pachomian or otherwise? No monastery’s name or affiliation is mentioned in the letters, but we should not necessarily expect such references in documentary papyri. In the Apa Paiêous archive, for instance, only one letter explicitly refers to his residence at the Hathor monastery,172 while the other letters merely greet him and his brothers as in the Sansnos letters. The economic enterprises in which Sansnos was engaged – handling finances,173 purchasing and distributing grain and livestock,174 locating products on the market,175 and the logistics involved in his operations, including boats, wagons and pack-animals176 – all point in the direction of a cenobitic organization. If so, Sansnos was probably one of its administrators (an οἰκονόμος) responsible for the practical needs of the monastery and connected to a wider network of suppliers. It is somewhat harder to imagine that an anchorite, even one living near a village and participating in the local economy through the peddling of his handiwork, would have been involved in such extensive dealings as Sansnos. While Apa Sansnos looms large in the monastic papyri from the cover of Codex VII, a few documents from the same cover also provide a glimpse at other monks in his network of contacts. In letters C4 and C5 we meet Daniel and Aphrodisios, a monk tortured by illness. In C4, Daniel addresses Aphrodisios as his “beloved father” and “lord father,” and expresses his customary Christian “greetings in the Lord.” He also greets “all the brothers with you, each by name” and refers to “the others who are in the house with me.” Daniel was deeply concerned over Aphrodisios’ poor health, but is now relieved since a certain Sourous, Daniel’s “lord brother,” has informed him of Aphrodisios’ recovery. Daniel then comforts Aphrodisios by reflecting on the theological reasons for his illness and applying scripture to Aphrodisios’ predicament: “Whom the Lord loves, he is wont to chastise; he scourges every son whom he will receive to himself” are sheep and goats left over. I gave them twenty θαρις (?). We are doing nothing. Write to me about our affairs so I may know. We greet Haraklys and the brothers and Haraklys’ children (τὰ τέκνα). [I pray for your] health [for many years].” 171 SBo 10; G1 6; see similarly Palladius, Hist. Laus. 58. 172 P. Lond. VI 1922. 173 C5. 174 G69, G75, C5. 175 G68, G72. 176 G68, G72, G77.

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(Heb 12:6).177 Aphrodisios is therefore encouraged to understand his suffering as something precipitated by God, yet as a sign that God loves him as a son. Daniel rejoices over his recovery and instructs him and all the brothers to offer up prayers. In closing the letter, he exhorts “My beloved [brothers, remember me] in your prayers,” similar to the colophon in Nag Hammadi Codex II, and implores them to “be strong in the Lord.”178 Sometime later, however, Aphrodisios must have become ill again, and decided to use the back side of Daniel’s letter to write a letter to Sansnos.179 He describes his illness as something terrible180 and expresses a rather dismal outlook: “I do not know what is going to befall me, whether I shall come out of the body or live.”181 As we have seen, he writes to ask Sansnos to settle some business on his behalf, including the purchase of wheat that he previously asked Sansnos to arrange for him, the collection of talents from a certain Abraham, and a payment to Moses. It is perhaps ironic that while some researchers speak of the Egyptian monks as completely isolated from “the world” and its economic affairs, Aphrodisios is here concerned with business dealings even while seriously ill. A few more letters from the cover of Codex VII were probably also written by or to monks, perhaps some of the “brothers” we hear about in the letters to Sansnos, and deal with commercial and administrative business. In one of them, G66, Patese writes to his “lord brother” Abaras, with the customary Christian “greetings in the Lord (ἐν κυ̅ ),” concerning livestock, sheep sheering, the sale of wool, and collections of money. He instructs Abaras to get a sheep and a goat from the shepherd when he sheers the rest of the animals, and to make a series of collections on his behalf – one from John for a donkey Patese had sold to Pekysios, and two more from Paphob and Makarios. Furthermore, he tells Abaras not to sell the wool until he arrives, as his visit has been delayed by a disturbance of “the recruits” or “novices” (τὴν ταραχὴν τῶν τειρώ̣ν[̣ ων]).182 According to the final editor of the Greek cartonnage, John Shelton, Patese’s obscure reference to recruits may suggest that he had a connection to the army, or that he fears marauders who are disrupting travel conditions;183 but a situation involving novice monks

177 C4. Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 136. Heb 12:6 is also quoted in Theodore, Instr. 3.40. 178 For further commentary on C4 and C5, see Shelton, “Introduction,” 9–10. For a discussion of the colophon in NHC II, see chapter seven. 179 C5. 180 ϩⲛϫⲱⲙⲉ, which Browne suggests corresponds to Sahidic ϩⲉⲛϭⲱⲱⲙⲉ, something twisted or crooked (W. E. Crum, A Coptic Dictionary [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1939], 818a), perhaps cramps (Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 137–38). 181 C5 (trans. Browne in Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 137–38). 182 ὁ τείρων, from Latin tiro, “recruit, beginner, novice.” Compare οἱ νεόφυτοι, “beginners,” in the Life of Pachomius (G1 24, 40, 65, 68, 109, 119, 121) and ὁ ἀρχάριος in Paral. 1. 183 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 60.

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would seem just as plausible, if not more so, given Patese’s markedly Christian identity and the monastic correspondence next to which his letter was found.184 The possibility that the monks witnessed in the Nag Hammadi cartonnage papyri might have belonged to the Pachomian federation has been suggested and bitterly disputed.185 We find it plausible that they could have been Pachomian monks, and deal with that issue in chapter five, where we consider the full range of cartonnage papyri from the Nag Hammadi Codices and discuss their probable relationship to the people responsible for making the covers.

Conclusion From this survey of monasticism in Upper Egypt in the fourth and fifth centuries emerges a picture of monks in Upper Egypt, both men and women, anchorites and members of cenobitic organizations, who appear to have maintained contacts with society even after their renunciation of “the world.” The picture of the Egyptian monk withdrawn into the solitude of the desert is largely a hagiographical fiction, rooted especially in the most famous literary portrait of St. Antony painted by Athanasius. Given Egypt’s peculiar geography, most Egyptian monks lived close to and even in villages and cities of the Nile Valley, participating in society by engaging in commercial transactions and serving as intercessors in social and economic problems. Many of them appear to have been educated to one degree or another as well. The image of the illiterate monk is as fictitious as the withdrawn troglodyte. In reality, a broad range of educational levels could be found among the monks of Upper Egypt, from the illiterate neophyte whom the Pachomian Rule insists must be taught to read, even if he refuses, to those monks who had memorized Scripture by heart, perhaps by copying them on the walls of caves like the one at the Jabal al-Tarif. One hears of women ascetics like Palladius’ neighbor in Antinoë who read Clement of Alexandria, and sages like Diocles whose education had taken him as far as studies in Greek philosophy.

184 Two other clearly Christian letters from the cover of Codex VII similarly concern sheep, artabas of grain, and an exchange of dates for water skins facilitated by two presbyters. In G71, Horion writes to two presbyters named Dorkon and [---]arios, his “sweetest fathers,” asking them to purchase on his behalf two skins, and adding with urgency that “I am very greatly in need of a skin.” He sends the presbyters two artabas of dates as payment and promises to pay the balance if the dates do not cover the cost. He ends the letter with a typical Christian farewell, including a nomen sacrum, “I pray for your health in the Lord (ἐν κ͞ ω ͞ ).” In G74, Peteêsis writes to someone whose name is lost concerning some sheep and artabas of grain. Like Horion, he uses a common Christian nomen sacrum in his greeting, “I pray to the Lord (τῷ κ͞ ω ͞ ) [for your safety].” 185 For arguments in favor of their Pachomian affiliation, see Barns, “Preliminary Report,” esp. 13–14; for arguments against, see Shelton, “Introduction”; Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library.”

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It should be clear at this point in our discussion that the monastic hypothesis for the provenance of the Nag Hammadi Codices is not synonymous with the Pachomian hypothesis, and arguments challenging the latter do not by implication challenge all theories of monastic ownership. As we have seen, the Pachomians were not the only monks on the Dishna plain and its environs. Other cenobitic organizations were nearby, and the anchoritic movement in which Pachomius originally participated before establishing his communities continued to thrive. The Pachomians were probably the dominant monks in the region in terms of their organization and sheer numbers, but at least some of the “outside monks” maintained a friendly relationship with them, visiting their monasteries and joining them for meals and prayer. While the Pachomian rules show concern that such visitors be of the same faith, they reveal little about the diversity of theological commitments among monks of the region. Despite the varieties of monasticism in the region where the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced, we believe that the Pachomian hypothesis still has much to recommend it. Given the idealized and anachronistic nature of the Pachomian sources, we are not in a very good position to determine which theological commitments could and could not have been found among the Pachomians themselves. It would be surprising if at least some diversity in belief and practice did not exist in a religiously-oriented organization as large as the Pachomian federation; and the fact that there were conflicts over both beliefs and practices among them emerges consistently from the surviving sources, despite their idealized perspective. We will return to a fuller treatment of these issues in chapter nine, when we consider different monastic contexts in which the Nag Hammadi Codices could have been read, including the Pachomian federation. We return in chapter five to the cartonnage papyri, and in chapter six to our discussion of monasticism in Egypt by examining what we know about book collections in Egyptian monasteries, and discuss how the Nag Hammadi Codices may fit into that culture. But first, in chapters three and four, we will consider in detail certain prominent arguments against the monastic provenance of the Nag Hammadi Codices, including theories which maintain that the codices were owned by Egyptian “Gnostics.”

Chapter 3

Gnostics? The term “gnosticism” has become in effect a brand name with a secure market. “Gnosticism” is salable, therefore it will continue to be produced. – Morton Smith1

In order to clear the way for our defense of the hypothesis that the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced by Egyptian monks, and that Egyptian monasticism is the immediate context in which the codices should be understood, it is necessary to dispel the long-standing notion that they were owned by “Gnostics,” as Jean Doresse had originally proposed. In this chapter, we respond in detail to Doresse’s “Sethian Gnostic” hypothesis as it has been revived in recent years by Alastair Logan, and then consider the question of whether any so-called Gnostic groups existed in Egypt in the fourth and fifth centuries to which the codices might have belonged.

Sethian Gnostics? Already in Jean Doresse’s pioneering study of the Nag Hammadi Codices, The Secret Books of the Egyptian Gnostics, first published in French in 1958,2 he argued that the codices could not have come from a Christian monastery, but had been the property of an Egyptian-Gnostic group. Assuming the traditional heresiological schematization of Gnostic sects, Doresse concluded that the codices’ owners were probably Sethian Gnostics, or a related sect, such as the Ophites, Naasenes, Archontics, or Barbelo-Gnostics. He highlighted the fact that Barbelo, a typical character in Sethian myths, appears in several of the treatises, and noted that “so many of the books are labeled with the name of Seth,”3 as well as one

1 Morton Smith, “The History of the Term Gnostikos,” in Sethian Gnosticism (vol.  2 of The Rediscovery of Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, New Haven, Connecticut, March 28–31, 1978; ed. Bentley Layton; SHR 41; Leiden: Brill, 1981), 806–7. 2 Doresse, Les livres secrets. 3 In fact only two of the treatises bear the name Seth in the title: Treat. Seth and Steles Seth, both of which are in Codex VII. One could also count Gos. Eg. (NHC III,2; IV,2), which purports to be written by Seth.

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entitled Allogenes, a figure associated with the Sethians by Epiphanius.4 The presence of other sectarian writings (e. g. from the Valentinians and Hermeticists) he explained by the assertion that Gnostics were fond of borrowing books from each other. The fact that several scribes were involved in copying the codices, and that some of them evidently worked in different locations from the intended audience (as witnessed in the scribal note in Codex VI),5 led him to conclude that “there was indeed an actual Gnostic church, maintaining relations with groups situated in other regions.” Finally, Doresse appealed to the eye-witness testimony of Epiphanius to corroborate the idea that Gnostic groups still existed in fourth-century Egypt.6 While Doresse’s theory that the Nag Hammadi Codices belonged to a Sethian Gnostic church has always had supporters,7 it has received an especially strong endorsement in recent years by Alastair Logan. Despite powerful challenges both to the utility of “Gnosticism” as a category, and the notion that “the Gnostics” can be identified as a specific religious movement in antiquity,8 Logan maintains that Sethian Gnostic communities persisted in Egypt as late as the fifth century, and that they were responsible for producing the Nag Hammadi Codices: I find myself much in agreement with the original judgements of Doresse about the relative reliability of the heresiologists and about the codices as the library of an ascetic Sethian Gnostic community, assembled from several smaller collections, either exchanged with other related groups from elsewhere in Egypt or acquired because of their content. 4 Epiphanius, Pan. 39.5.1. Doresse also pointed to Paraph. Shem, which he incorrectly associated with a Paraphrase of Seth mentioned by Hippolytus, Ref. V.22 (Secret Books, 251). 5 On this scribal note, see our discussion in chapter seven. 6 Doresse, Secret Books, 250–51. 7 E. g., Martin Krause, “Der Erlassbrief des Theodore,” in Studies Presented to Hans Jacob Polotsky (ed. Dwight W. Young; East Gloucester, Mass.: Pirtle & Polson, 1981), 220–38, esp. 230; Paulinus Bellet, “The Colophon of the Gospel of the Egyptians: Concessus and Macarius of Nag Hammadi,” in Nag Hammadi and Gnosis: Papers Read at the First International Congress on Coptology (Cairo, December 1976) (ed. Robert McL. Wilson; NHS 14; Leiden: Brill, 1978), 44–65. Bentley Layton, in an adaptation of Doresse’s Sethian hypothesis, suggests that Codex II may have been designed for Valentinian readers, despite the fact that only one of its texts (Gos. Phil.) has been classified as Valentinian by modern scholars; see Layton, ed. Nag Hammadi Codex II,2–7 Together with XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or.4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655 (2 vols.; NHS 20–21; Leiden: Brill, 1989), 1:xiii, 6. 8 M. A. Williams, Rethinking; Karen L. King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press/Harvard University Press, 2003). More recently, Williams, “Was There a Gnostic Religion? Strategies for a Clearer Analysis,” in Was There a Gnostic Religion? (ed. Antti Marjanen; Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 87; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 2005), 55–79, has given a more specific response to the theory proposed by Bentley Layton, “Prolegomena to the Study of Ancient Gnosticism,” in The Social World of the First Christians: Essays in Honor of Wayne A. Meeks (ed. L. Michael White and O. Larry Yarbrough; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 334–50, the implications of which applies equally to David Brakke, The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2010).

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That community, wherever it originated – perhaps in an urban milieu, as Khosroyev has suggested – became active in the area of Chenoboskia in the mid- to late fourth century. Although it operated in the vicinity of Pachomian monasteries, it was itself not monastic, but in all likelihood comprised both women and men. Its library, which contained a collection … that may have had some connection with monastic circles, was in kernel and bulk essentially Gnostic, and was apparently buried in the grave of its last leader in the late fourth or early fifth century, probably because the cult was dying out.9

In his delineation of this Sethian Gnostic “cult,” Logan follows the sociological typology of Rodney Stark and William Sims Bainbridge, who distinguish between churches, sects, and cults based on the level of tension with their social environment.10 While church movements tend toward increased accommodation, sect movements arise as schisms within churches as people attempt to maintain more traditional beliefs and a higher tension with society. In contrast to churches and sects, cult movements, according to Logan, “are non-schismatic deviant movements, generally without a previous tie to another religious body, arising either via innovation or the importation of ideas from another religion or culture.”11 Departing slightly from Stark and Bainbridge’s emphasis on the typical autonomy from another religion that characterizes cult movements, Logan posits that “the Gnostic cult” arose within Christianity around the end of the first century, and while it maintained a Christian identity over the several centuries of its lifetime (down to the fifth century), it gradually became further withdrawn from the Christian church, “the endpoint being a novel religious culture embodied in a distinct social group.”12 According to Logan, the social organization of the Gnostic cult can be described according to Stark and Bainbridge’s model of “fully fledged” cult movements which, unlike less organized audience and client cults, attempt “to satisfy all religious needs of converts,” demand “total commitment,” and “exlude membership in other groups.”13 In a later article following the publication of Codex Tchacos, Logan suggests that by the end of the third century, the Gnostic cult movement in Egypt had become so estranged from its surrounding environment that it was persecuted by both the Roman Empire and the Catholic church.14 Logan, The Gnostics, 29. Rodney Stark and William Sims Bainbridge, The Future of Religion: Secularization, Revival and Cult Formation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985). Stark and Bainbridge develop the church-sect typology of Benton Johnson, who distinguished between churches and sects based on the single-variable principle of tension with society; see Johnson, “On Church and Sect,” ASR 28:4 (1963): 539–49; and see also Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996); M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 109–113 for the theory’s application to early Christian communities. 11 Logan, The Gnostics, 4. 12 Logan, The Gnostics, 59; cf. 4–6. 13 Logan, The Gnostics, 4, 58. 14 Logan, “Another Document of the Gnostics?” in The Codex Judas Papers: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex Held at Rice University, Houston, Texas, 9

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Logan argues that the Gnostic cult can be identified by its distinctive mythology, expressed in the long version of the Apocryphon of John (NHC II,1 and IV,1), and by its unique initiation rite of a baptism with five seals, found especially in Gospel of the Egyptians (NHC III,2 and IV,2).15 Despite the wide variety of literature found throughout the Nag Hammadi collection, Logan maintains that the cult regarded Codices IV and VIII (the long version of the Apocryphon of John, the Gospel of the Egyptians, Zostrianos, and the Letter of Peter to Philip) as “the core,” “heart” and “original nucleus” of its library.16 The presupposition of the library’s “core” constitutes the cornerstone of Logan’s theory of Sethian Gnostic owners. As he describes it, “the key to the collections seems to lie in a kind of Gnostic ‘scripture’ formed by the Apocryphon of John and the Gospel of the Egyptians, encapsulating the ‘classic’ myth and ritual of the movement.”17 The importance of these two texts for the doctrine and ritual practices of the cult, Logan maintains, is suggested by the fact that the Apocryphon of John is the first tractate in three of the codices (II, III, and IV), and that in two of these cases (III and IV) it is followed by the Gospel of the Egyptians. Logan thinks the cult then gathered into its library the other codices, the contents of which appealed to its members’ interest in asceticism, the soul, healing, visions, heavenly ascents, eschatology, and revealed knowledge. Logan attempts to further support his reconstruction of the Gnostic cult using Michael Williams’ theory concerning possible scribal rationales for the selection and organization of tractates within individual codices.18 As we have seen, Logan maintains that Codices IV and VIII (which are closely related on both codicological and paleographical grounds) constitute “the core” of the library, since they showcase the cult’s distinctive mythology and baptismal rite. Following Williams’ theory of scribal rationales, Logan posits that the cult designed Codices IV and VIII as a two-volume set organized according to a “history of revelation” scheme, in which the Apocryphon of John presents instruction on primordial origins, the Gospel of the Egyptians offers an autobiography of the divine Seth, Zostrianos records the testimony of a visionary from ancient times,

March 13–16, 2008 (ed. April D. DeConick; NHMS 71; Leiden: Brill, 2009), 3–21, esp. 12 on persecutions. The idea that the Gnostics were persecuted by the Roman authorities has also been suggested by Robinson (Nag Hammadi Codices, ii; “Introduction,” 20). 15 Ap. John is the focus of Logan’s previous book, Gnostic Truth and Christian Heresy: A Study in the History of Gnosticism (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), and the baptism of five seals is treated in his article “The Mystery of the Five Seals: Gnostic Initiation Reconsidered,” VC 51:2 (1997): 188–206. 16 Logan, The Gnostics, 19–21, 23, 25, 28. 17 Logan, The Gnostics, 6; cf. 18–19: Together, Ap. John and the Gos. Eg. “seem to echo the same myth and triple descent scheme,” share the cult’s initiation rite of five-seals baptism, and employ one of the cult’s mythic self-designations, “the immovable race.” 18 Logan, The Gnostics, 18–23.

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and the Letter of Peter to Philip concludes the collection with a demonstration of Christ as the latter-day illuminator.19 After determining the library’s “core” in Codices IV and VIII, Logan posits various explanations as to how the other codices might have appealed to the cult’s members. For example, he suggests that they were attracted to Codex XIII because it too seems to be organized in a “history of revelation” scheme like IV and VIII. Logan speculates that Codex XIII also started with the long version of the Apocryphon of John – a text about primordial origins – and was then followed by a liturgical text, the Trimorphic Protennoia, which, like the Gospel of the Egyptians, treats the five-seals baptism and offers a “spiritual autobiography” of Protennoia and her triple descent into the world. Codex XIII then concludes with “Gnostic cosmology and eschatology” in On the Origin of the World. The Gnostics who owned the library were attracted to Codex II, Logan suggests, because it opened with another copy of one of their most important texts, the long version of the Apocryphon of John. Yet unlike Codices IV and VIII, he posits that Codex II was organized according to the model of “Christian Scripture”: it begins with the Apocryphon of John, which provides a re-written Genesis (thus constituting the Old Testament section), continues with Gospels (of Thomas and Philip) and an exegesis of Paul (the Hypostasis of the Archons), and concludes with eschatology (On the Origin of the World and the Exegesis on the Soul). As Logan himself points out, however, the difficulty with this theory is that Codex II actually ends with the Book of Thomas, which is much more of an exhortation to asceticism than a book about eschatology. But following Khosroyev’s suggestion, Logan relegates the Book of Thomas to the status of an afterthought on the part of the scribe, who copied it into the codex only to fill-up empty pages.20 Turning to Codices V and VI, Logan suggests that the cult probably found them interesting because of the teachings about the soul’s ascent (Codex V) and eschatology (Codex VI), as well as the themes of revealed knowledge, healing, and asceticism found in both. The cult’s interest in asceticism and the health of the soul could also explain why they acquired Codices XII (with the ethical teaching of the Sentences of Sextus) and Codex X (the neo-Platonic Marsanes). In connection with Codex X, Logan identifies another distinctive trait of his Gnostic cult movement as its “interest in and assimilation of Platonic philosophy.”21 According to Logan, Codex III was attractive because it, like Codex IV, contained a version of the Apocryphon of John followed by the Gospel of the Egyptians. Yet Logan maintains that Codex III must be seen as a mere addition to the library, and not part of its “original nucleus,” because it contains only the Logan, The Gnostics, 19. Logan, The Gnostics, 19–20. Cf. Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 14–15. 21 Logan, The Gnostics, 20. 19 20

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short version of the Apocryphon of John, which lacks those teachings found in the longer version that he regards as central to the cult’s doctrine and ritual, namely the triple-descent of Pronoia and the baptism of five seals. Although the short version of the Apocryphon of John does not include these sections, Logan believes that its presence in Codex III and Papyrus Berolinensis 8502 points to the existence of “related Gnostic communities sharing the same designation (‘the immovable race’), scriptures, myth and ritual, and willing to exchange texts.”22 Finally, Logan explains the attraction of Codices I, VII and XI on the basis of their organization. Codex VII, he maintains, was organized in a “history of revelation” scheme like IV, VIII and XIII, and offers much by way of ascetic teaching (e. g., the Teachings of Silvanus) and Sethian liturgy (the Three Steles of Seth). Although Codices I and XI contain several texts Logan regards as “Valentinian,” he believes Codex XI could have appealed to the cult’s interests in liturgy and heavenly ascent (the “liturgical fragments” [XI,2a–e] and Allogenes), while Codex I’s appeal would have been its organization after the pattern of “Christian Scripture” like Codex II.23 Although Logan acknowledges that the Nag Hammadi “library” includes a diverse range of literature, he nevertheless concludes that its ancient owners would have read all the codices through the lens of their own Sethian Gnostic perspective: it is surely this particular combination of asceticism and a distinctive myth of Barbelo, Christ and Sophia, based on their particular understanding of Christian initiation and encapsulated in their scriptures, the Apocryphon of John and Gospel of the Egyptians, that … offers the key to the baffling variety of texts in the Nag Hammadi Library, a variety that has led most commentators to reject it as the work of one group. If scholars have been willing to accept the collection in all its variety as that of a community of Pachomian or Melitian monks, why do they refuse to accept the possibility, attested by Epiphanius, that it is the library of a Gnostic cult for whom everything was grist to their mill?24

To answer Logan’s question, one reason why researchers have been reluctant to accept the theory that the codices belonged to a specifically Sethian Gnostic sect in fourth-century Egypt is that it has proven difficult to show the uniquely Sethian character of the entire collection. Logan’s explanation for how Sethian Gnostics could have read such a diverse range of literature through the lens of their “core” teachings is creative. Yet it must be remembered that his theory only assumes, but does not demonstrate, that the owners regarded one part of the corpus as its core in the first place. Logan seems to begin with the presupposition, inherited from Doresse, that the owners were Sethian Gnostics, proceeds to locate the best specimens of Sethian myth and baptismal liturgy in Codices IV Logan, The Gnostics, 21. Logan, The Gnostics, 22. 24 Logan, The Gnostics, 28. 22 23

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and VIII, and thus posists that these two codices must constitute the library’s “original nucleus.” According to Logan, the Sethian affiliation of the owners is also suggested by the fact that the Apocryphon of John was placed at the beginning of three codices (NHC II, III, and IV). That is too hasty a judgement in our view. The placement of the Apocryphon of John at the beginning of these three codices may suggest its relative popularity vis-à-vis some of the other texts in the corpus, but cannot inform us about the sectarian identity of those copying and reading the texts.25 The other nine Nag Hammadi Codices do not include the Apocryphon of John, and as Logan points out, the copy in Codex III lacks those sections on the descent of Pronoia and five-seals baptism which he regards as central to the Sethian cult. The placement of the Apocryphon of John at the beginning of three codices probably has less to do with the sectarian identity of their owners than with special features of the text, such as its all-encompassing narrative of salvation history, or its claim to record special revelation delivered from the risen Christ to his apostle John. In our view, to understand all thirteen codices as a collection does not require that one identify a “core.” Not only would such an identification be rather subjective, but it would only become necessary if one were to assume a specific sectarian identity of the owners in the first place, which could be reconstructed on the basis of this collection of books. It is hard to imagine, however, that the Nag Hammadi Codices were the only books their owners possessed. The discovery of a fragment of the book of Genesis among the papyri that had been reused as cartonnage in the cover of Codex VII certainly suggests otherwise.26 If the Nag Hammadi Codices once belonged to a larger and more diverse collection of books, including Christian Scripture, Logan’s hypothesis would become even more tenuous since it would then need to explain how an even wider diversity of literature was read through the Sethian “core” of two codices. At what point, then, would sheer diversity in the collection suggest that there was no “core” at all? Logan’s explanations for why the other codices were collected by the cult also seem rather far fetched. Certainly some of the broader themes he identifies in the texts, such as the healing of the soul, ascetic teachings, liturgical prayers, and revelations delivered to the apostles, are likely to be among the reasons why they attracted the attention of their ancient owners. But of course there is nothing uniquely “Gnostic” about an interest in these topics. On the other hand, one has to wonder if the organization of a codex according to patterns such as “history of revelation” or “Christian Scripture” can really explain why ancient readers 25 Although it is not part of the Nag Hammadi collection, it is worth noting that in Papyrus Berolinensis 8502 Ap. John is the second treatise in the codex, after Gos. Mary. 26 On the fragment of Genesis, see chapters five and eight.

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would have found them appealing. These patterns are rather generic abstractions of modern scholarship to begin with, and as we have seen, in some cases are based on speculation about what must once have been part of a partially preserved codex (NHC XIII), or in other cases require explaining away some of the actual contents in the codex (NHC II). Another difficulty with the theory of the codices’ Sethian Gnostic owners is that the case for the great pervasiveness of Sethian doctrinal features throughout the corpus has been overstated. Logan argues that one finds “an abundance of texts with the same central mythological figures as the Apocryphon of John (Barbelo and four illuminators, Adamas, Pistis Sophia, etc.)” in three of the five codicological sub-groups from which the larger collection was formed.27 This presentaton of the evidence is misleading, however, since one of Logan’s “groups” is, in fact, constituted by a single codex (NHC III). Yet even leaving Codex III aside, and focusing on what Logan calls “the two main groups,”28 he argues that A closer examination of the these two groups, which Khosroyev has shown as closely linked, and which form the bulk of the collection, comprising 31 tractates, reveals the prominence of original Gnostic and Sethianized Gnostic texts concerned with aspects both of the ‘classic’ myth of the Apocryphon [of John] and of Gnostic ritual.29

Yet if one counts Sethian features tractate by tractate, and not by codicological sub-group, it may be observed that out of the thirty extant treatises in these two groups,30 eighteen of them, or 60 percent, do not contain any reference to typically Sethian features such as Barbelo, Adamas, and the four luminaries.31 If one includes Codex III in the equation, then twenty-one of thirty-five treatises (again 60 percent) do not include such features. And the name “the immovable race,” which according to Logan was a special group designation used by members of the cult, appears in only five tractates of the entire Nag Hammadi

27

On the sub-groups of the Nag Hammadi Codices, see our discussion in chapter eight. I.e., NHC II, IV, V, VI, VIII, IX, X, XIII. 29 Logan, The Gnostics, 19. 30 For the sum of 31 tractates mentioned by Logan, he evidently includes the lost first treatise in Codex XIII, which he assumes to have been another copy of Ap. John. 31 Typically Sethian characters are absent from all eight texts of Codex VI (Acts Pet. 12 Apost., Thund., Auth. Teach., Great Pow., the excerpt from Plato’s Republic, Disc. 8–9, Pr. Thanks., and the excerpt from the Asclepius); from Testim. Truth in Codex IX; from Gos. Thom., Gos. Phil., Exeg. Soul, and Thom. Cont. in Codex II; from Eugnostos, Apoc. Paul, 1 Apoc. Jas. and the 2 Apoc. Jas. in Codex V; and from Ep. Pet. Phil. in Codex VIII. The Sophia figures mentioned in some of these texts (e. g. Eugnostos) are too generic to be regarded as representive of a distinct Sethian mythology. For the classic formulation of Sethian mythology and its unique characteristics, see Hans-Martin Schenke, “The Phenomenon and Significance of Gnostic Sethianism,” in Sethian Gnosticism (ed. Bentley Layton; vol. 2 of The Rediscovery of Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, New Haven, Connecticut, March 28–31, 1978; SHR 41; Leiden: Brill, 1981), 588–616. 28

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corpus.32 In summary the evidence that a specifically Sethian Gnostic cult owned the Nag Hammadi Codices is rather meager, and we should look in other directions for their likely owners.

Gnostics in Fourth- and Fifth-Century Egypt? A further question that needs to be addressed is whether any so-called Gnostic groups existed in the fourth and fifth centuries when the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced. The evidence suggests they did not, and certainly not in the way Logan defines the Gnostics as an independent “cult movement” socially withdrawn from the Christian church. There were of course Christians in Egypt who read books that modern scholars have labelled as “Gnostic” books. But whether such people should be called “Gnostics” as well, and then imagined as a religious group set apart from the rest of the Christian church, even at odds with and persecuted by “Catholic” Christians, is a different set of questions altogether. If there were Gnostic communities in Egypt in this period, why did virtually no one refer to them? It is notable that one hears nothing about “Gnostics” in the heresiological polemics of Egyptian writers of the time, such as archbishops Athanasius, Theophilus, Cyril, and Dioscorus, and their Upper Egyptian monastic allies, such as Shenoute of Atripe and the Pachomians. Rather, it was Christian heretics such as the Arians, Melitians, and followers of Origen who plagued these authors. Of course, as Doresse and Logan point out, the one person who does explicitly testify to the presence of “Gnostic” sects in the fourth century is the famous heresiologist Epiphanius, bishop of Salamis. Scholars have often regarded Epiphanius as a less reliable source than other heresiologists, such as Irenaeus, as he

32 I.e., Steles Seth, Zost., Ap. John, Gos. Eg., and Soph. Jes. Chr. On the designation, see Michael A. Williams, The Immovable Race: A Gnostic Designation and the Theme of Stability in Late Antiquity (NHS 29; Leiden: Brill, 1985). Cf. Logan, The Gnostics, 24: “Williams’ earlier delineation of the likely character of those using the designation ‘the immovable race’ as communal and with fairly defined sectarian boundaries is perhaps more relevant than his most recent position.” Logan points to “clear signs of commitment to a community” which Williams discussed in Immovable Race, including identity-altering experiences, bridge-burning acts, baptismal sacrament, proselytizing and recruitment activity, negative attitutes toward apostates, and the promise of salvation for men and women. However, Williams analyzed these features as evidence of sectarian identity in the context of the texts’ original authors and communities, but the present question regards the texts’ later reception by people whom Williams believes to have lived in what were likely quite different environments than the original authors. Hence in later work, Williams speaks of sociologically “failed” religious movements whose literature was “recycled” by later readers in different cultural contexts (Rethinking, 261–62).

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seems more prone to repeat or fabricate outrageous stories about his enemies.33 Logan, however, argues for the overall trustworthiness of Epiphanius’ testimony: Perhaps we should be more prepared to accept the evidence of the heresiologists, particularly Irenaeus and Epiphanius, about the existence and nature of Gnostic communities (1) where they do appear to have first-hand information either from texts or personal knowledge (the Barbeloite, later Sethian, Gnostics of Irenaeus, the Archontics and ‘libertine’ Gnostics of Epiphanius), and (2) where they have no personal axe to grind and are primarily concerned to describe rather than refute (more true of Irenaeus).

In our view, it is difficult to accept the premise that the heresiologists were ever simply describing their opponents without having a “personal axe to grind.” After all, refutation is inherent to the heresy catalogue. When reading Epiphanius, one must keep in mind how his aims and rhetorical strategies dominate the way he presents his opponents. As Jon Dechow has demonstrated, the primary purpose of Epiphanius’ two heresiological works, the Panarion and its precursor the Ancoratus, was to target followers of Origen, whom he claims were especially prominent among Egyptian monks. It is Origen and his followers who constitute the centerpiece of the Panarion, and by far the longest section of the book (chapter 64) is preoccupied with him.34 The polemical strategy chosen by Epiphanius was an old one – to discredit the followers of Origen by relating them geneaologically to older “heresies,” including the well-known sects of the Christian heresiological tradition drawn from second-century catalogues like Irenaeus’ Against the Heresies.35 He thus imported “Gnostic” sects from previous centuries into his fourth-century work to associate them with the “heresy” of Origen. “When Epiphanius considers Origen,” observes Dechow, “he is unable to see him in any other way than as the epitome of heresy – the culmination of heretics before him and after him and the inspiration and predecessor of those who follow.”36 Accordingly, Epiphanius writes that the heresy of Origen is “a dreadful sect and worse than all the ancient ones, and indeed, has beliefs like theirs.”37 It is clear that most of the “heresies” catalogued by Epiphanius did not exist in the fourth-century. Many of them had disappeared by the time he wrote the Panarion, most notably the Sethians whom, he says, “have probably been 33 See for example the critical discussion of Epiphanius by M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 179–84. 34 Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism. On the issue of “Origenists” and “Origenism” in Egyptian monasticism, see our discussions in chapters two, six, and nine. 35 On this strategy in Irenaeus’ work, see Geoffrey S. Smith, Guilt by Association: Heresy Catologues in Early Christianity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 131–71. 36 Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism, 95. 37 Epiphanius, Pan. 64.4.1. Translations of Epiphanius’ Pan. follow that of Frank Williams, The Panarion of Epiphanius of Salamis (2 vols.; 2nd rev. ed.; NHMS 63, 79; Leiden, Brill, 2009, 2013) unless otherwise noted.

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uprooted from the world by now.”38 In other cases, names of sects were simply invented to capture a theological idea – for example the so-called “Antidicomarians” and “Alogi,” whose names Epiphanius admits to devising himself.39 Epiphanius organized the Panarion into eighty heresies, not because there were that many different groups, but, he says, in accordance with the eighty concubines mentioned in Song of Songs 6:8 (“There are sixty queens and eighty concubines, and virgins without number”).40 It is doubtful that most of these heresies ever existed as real social entities such as a church, sect, or cult movement. As Frank Williams observes, “Rarely are such names the ones the group in question gave themselves … Equally rarely do they represent organized bodies.”41 There are, however, two cases in which Epiphanius provides eye-witness testimony concerning so-called Gnostic sects present in his own day. One is a group whom he himself refers to as “Gnostics” – it is not clear what they called themselves – though he says people call them by various other names too, including Borborians (“filthy people”), Koddians, Zacchaeans, Socratists, Secundians, and Barbelites, while in Egypt they are known as Stratiotics and Phibionites.42 The other sect Epiphanius claims to have encountered is the so-called Archontics, whose members, he says, could be found in Armenia and near his home town of Eleutheropolis in Palestine.43 According to Logan, the Sethian “core” of the Nag Hammadi Codices, with its mythical speculations about Barbelo, etc., corresponds most closely to beliefs of “the Gnostics” described by Epiphanius, from which, Logan posits, that the Archontics were probably a schismatic offshoot.44 According to Epiphanius, these Gnostics read the Old and New Testaments, but also had lots of pseudepigraphic literature, some of which included typically “Sethian” characters.45 They also held secret love feasts, he alleges, in which they engage in all kinds of debauchery, swapping wives and ritually consuming semen, menstrual blood, and aborted fetuses.46 Epiphanius, Pan. 39.1.1. Epiphanius, Pan. Proem I.4.8; I.5.4; I.5.9; 51.3.1–2. 40 According to Epiphanius (Pan. 35.3.5–6), the eighty concubines represent the heresies who take the name of Christ but do not truly belong to his bride, the Church. Cf. F. Williams, Panarion of Epiphanius, 1:xxi–xxii; Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism, 94. 41 F. Williams, Panarion of Epiphanius, 1:xxiii. 42 Epiphanius, Pan. 26.3.5–7; Proem I.4.3 and I.5.4. 43 Epiphanius, Pan. 40. 44 Logan, The Gnostics, 5, 11–12, 25–26. 45 Epiphanius, Pan. 26. He mentions in particular books attributed to Seth and apocalypses of Adam (8.1), a book entitled Noria (1.3), a Gospel of Perfection (2.5), Gospel of Eve (2.6), Questions of Mary (8.1), a Birth of Mary (11.12), and many books forged in the name of Jesus’ disciples (8.1) including a Gospel of Philip (13.2, though evidently not the one in NHC II based on the given quotation). In his description of the Archontics, he says they have lots of “apocryphal books,” including a Greater Harmony and Lesser Harmony, multiple books of Allogenes, and the Ascension of Isaiah (40.2.1–2). 46 Epiphanius, Pan. 26.3–5. 38 39

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The integrity of Epiphanius’ testimony concerning the libertine practices of these “Gnostics” has already been evaluated thoroughly by Michael Williams, who rightly points out that while Epiphanius probably did meet some of these “Gnostics” as a young man in Egypt (ca. 330–340), he never claims to have attended any of their meetings or actually witnessed their debauchery firsthand.47 Rather, Epiphanius says he fled when some of their young women tried to seduce him, and only came to understand just how wretched they were when he later read their texts and understood their “true meaning.” As Michael Williams observes, Epiphanius’ information about these people’s disgusting rituals appears to come from nothing more than his own interpretation of their texts and “the widely respected testimony of rumor,” or in the heresieologist’s words, “from the witness of trustworthy men who were able to tell me the truth.”48 Lest Epiphanius himself be implicated in their foul deeds, he states clearly that “I encountered and escaped them, read, understood, despised, and passed them by.”49 He promptly investigated how many of them were “hidden in the church,” reported their names to the local bishops, and saw to it that some eighty persons were expelled from the city.50 There is little reason to doubt that Epiphanius encountered Christians in Egypt whom he regarded as heretics. But what is important for our current discussion is that the reliable part of Epiphanius’ eye-witness testimony actually calls into question Logan’s idea that such people belonged to a “Gnostic cult movement.” While Logan describes the Gnostics as a cult “embodied in a distinct social group,” which attempted to fulfill all the needs of its members, demanded total commitment, and excluded membership in other groups,51 Epiphanius says the people he encountered were members of what he regarded as the orthodox Christian church (or in his words, they were “hidden in the church”). What we evidently have in this case are Christians who participated in their local Christian church and who found value in reading non-canonical texts which Epiphanius deemed inappropriate. They were expelled from the church and city, but their expulsion hardly justifies Logan’s picture of a unique Gnostic cult organization 47 M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 179–84, esp. 181. On Epiphanius’ sojourn in Egypt, see Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism, 32–36. 48 M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 181. Epiphanius, Pan. 26.18.1; cf. Proem II.2.4. 49 Epiphanius, Pan. 26.18.4. 50 Epiphanius, Pan. 26.17.8–9: “The women who taught this dirty myth were very lovely in their outward appearance but in their wicked minds they had all the devil’s ugliness. But the merciful God rescued me from their wickedness, so that after reading their books and understanding their true meaning, and not being carried away with it, and after escaping without taking the bait, I lost no time reporting them to the bishops in that place, hunting down the names of those hidden in the church. And they were expelled from the city, about eighty persons, and the city was purified of their tare-like, thorny growth” (trans. F. Williams, Panarion of Epiphanius, modified on the basis of the Greek text in Karl Holl, Epiphanius [3 vols.; GCS; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1915, 1922, 1933], 1:298). 51 Logan, The Gnostics, 4, 58.

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persecuted by a Christian church from which it had become estranged since well over a century before. The case of the so-called Archontics whom Epiphanius encountered in Palestine similarly calls into question the existence of a distinct Gnostic cult movement in the fourth century. According to Epiphanius, the source of this heresy was an old man named Peter from Kephar Baricha near Eleutheropolis in Palestine, close to the monastery where Epiphanius had been an abbot.52 Like the people Epiphanius targeted in the Egyptian church, Peter was evidently regarded by the Christian community as orthodox, and held the position of presbyter in the church. Thus Epiphanius complains that “he actually wore a sheep’s fleece on the outside, and it was not realized that on the inside he was a ravening wolf.” After some time, however, Peter was “accused and convicted of following the heresy of the gnostics,” deposed from the presbyterate, and banished to Arabia. Yet after a period of excommunication, Peter returned, was evidently welcomed back into the church “as though having come to his senses,” and thus “went unrecognized by everyone.” Eventually, however, he was “exposed” a second time, anathematized, and, Epiphanius adds, “refuted by my poor self.”53 After Peter was deposed from his clerical position and excommunicated from the church, he seems to have taken up life as an anchoritic monk with a following of ascetics. “He appeared to be an anchorite (ἀναχωρητής),” says Epiphanius, “because he lived in a certain cave, gathered many, supposedly for the ascetic life, and was called ‘father,’ if you please, because of his age and his dress. He had distributed his possessions to the poor, and gave alms daily.”54 Logan argues, however, that we should regard Peter and his followers not as authentic anchorites, but as “Gnostic” sectarians, because “Epiphanius’ remark that some of [Peter’s] followers ‘made a show of withdrawal from the world in imitation of the monks’ reveals that they were not monks.”55 Yet the assertion that they were merely pretending to be monks is clearly a figment of Epiphanius’ rhetoric. When we read past the polemical innuendo, it is evident that Peter was living as an anchorite, similar in lifestyle to someone like Pachomius’ spiritual father Palamon. Both Peter and Palamon lived in caves near a village, sold their possessions, gave alms to the poor, and attracted other ascetics who regarded them as spiritual fathers.56 Indeed, the fact that Peter and his ascetic brothers are reported 52 Epiphanius, Pan. 40.1.1–7. It is not entirely clear that Epiphanius met Peter in person, but he may well have done so since they both lived near Eleutheropolis, and Epiphanius says he refuted Peter after the latter was anathematized. See similarly F. Williams, Panarion of Epipanius, 1:xiv. 53 Epiphanius, Pan. 40.1.5–6. 54 Epiphanius, Pan. 40.1.4. Although Epiphanius summarizes Peter’s monastic lifestyle before describing his conviction as a heretic (40.1.5–6), he says Peter moved into the cave only after he was anathematized (40.1.7). 55 Logan, The Gnostics, 26 (Logan’s emphasis); cf. Epiphanius, Pan. 40.2.4. 56 On Palamon, see SBo 10; G1 6.

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to have possessed many “apocryphal books” (including the Ascension of Isaiah, books of Allogenes, and a Greater and Lesser Harmony) lends further credibility to the idea that the Nag Hammadi Codices might have belonged to monks rather than a “Gnostic” cult.57 Peter, as we saw, lived as an anchorite in Palestine, “wore a sheep’s fleece,” and “appeared to be a hermit because he lived in a certain cave,” and attracted many disciples “supposedly for the ascetic life.”58 Among Epiphanius’ charges against Peter and his circle was that they were forging and collecting apocryphal books. Among the titles mentioned by Epiphanius we find reference to books “called ‘the Strangers’”59 and “certain books in the name of Seth.”60 The former reminds us of course of Allogenes (i.e. the Stranger) from Nag Hammadi Codex XI, while “books in the name of Seth” is a description that would fit several of the Nag Hammadi texts. Epiphanius’ description of Peter and his followers is an indication that at least some monks read apocrypha. Logan, however, maintains that this was far from a “characteristically monastic library of books,” and asserts that “here we have a Christian-Gnostic (or ex-Gnostic), with his ascetic, anchorite lifestyle and eclectic library, living undetected for some years with his group of followers in close proximity to the monastery of Epiphanius, arch-heresy hunter.”61 Logan does not specify what he means by a “characteristically monastic library,” but asserts that the eclectic nature of Peter the Archontic’s collection of books makes it different from a monastic collection. As we shall see, when we compare the contents of Peter’s library with what we know about later Egyptian monastic libraries, its “eclectic nature” does not in itself seem un-monastic, and there is little reason to believe Epiphanius when he charges Peter and his followers with adopting the monastic life merely in appearance.

Gnostics in Egyptian Monasteries? Another notable theory featuring “Gnostics” in fourth- and fifth-century Egypt locates the origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices among Egyptian monks, but explains this by suggesting that “Gnostics” may have been “hiding out” in the 57 Epiphanius, Pan. 40.2.1–2; 40.7.4–7. On apocryphal books in monastic libraries, see our discussion in chapter six. 58 Epiphanius, Pan. 40.1.4 (trans. F. Williams, Panarion of Epiphanius, 1:283). 59 Epiphanius, Pan. 40.2.1 (trans. F. Williams, Panarion of Epiphanius, 1:284). 60 Epiphanius, Pan. 40.7.4 (trans. F. Williams, Panarion of Epiphanius, 1:289). Although Epiphanius criticizes these non-canonical texts, elsewhere in Pan. he himself cites other apocrypha with approval. He quotes an Apocrypon of Ezekiel as authentic words of the prophet (64.70.5; 64.71.10), the book of Jubilees (39.6.1), and a Travels of Peter by Clement, which he says heretics have corrupted with interpolations (30.15.1). 61 Logan, The Gnostics, 26.

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monasteries. However, this theory is based on a problematic construction of a social group from the contents of a set of books. By making the inferential leap from “Gnostic” books to “Gnostic” readers, the question is no longer why and how the codices could have been produced and read in monasteries, but becomes more about explaining why and how there could have been Gnostic people there. We thus have another example of how the category of “Gnosticism” and the misleading classification of the Nag Hammadi Codices as “Gnostic” books have obscured the analysis of the codices’ provenance. A good example in this regard is found in an important and pioneering article by Frederik Wisse, which presents an argument for the monastic provenance of the Nag Hammadi Codices, but nevertheless assumes “Gnosticism” as a central factor to be taken into consideration. In contrast to Logan’s theory that “Gnostics” became increasingly estranged from the Christian church, Wisse suggested that some “Gnostics” gradually became Christians due to the shifting power relations in the Roman Empire. As Wisse puts it, “The increasingly Christian climate of third and fourth century Egypt would be sufficient motivation for the syncretistically inclined Gnostic to make adjustments,” especially toward Christian monasticism, since “the individualistic and heterodox nature of the early monastic movement made it especially attractive to the gnostic ascetic.”62 Wisse thus concluded that early Egyptian monasticism functioned “as a half-way house for Gnostic and other ascetic sectarians to return to the fold of the church,” and that Gnostic texts would have entered into monasteries as their Gnostic owners “brought along their books drawn from Christian, heretical and pagan circles but with a common ascetic emphasis.”63 While Wisse’s approach is entirely understandable considering the period in which he wrote this article, prior to the important critique of the category of “Gnosticism” by Michael Williams,64 the presupposition of the category led Wisse to move the discussion beyond an explanation of how the Nag Hammadi Codices relate to monastic culture, to social explanations for the presence of Gnostic people in Egypt. Yet since there is no need to presuppose a Gnostic social group that corresponds to the theological contents of these particular codices, there is also no need to explain how Gnostics could have been present in the monasteries. The category of “Gnosticism” has been important for both critics and proponents of the monastic hypothesis. On the one hand, Charles Hedrick searched the Pachomian corpus for evidence of what he termed “gnostic proclivities” among the Pachomian monks, such as an interest in visions and revelations, in order to argue for the likelihood that Pachomians owned the Nag Hammadi 62 Wisse, “Gnosticism and Early Monasticism,” 440. This view is echoed by Robinson, Nag Hammadi Codices, 1; Goehring, “Monastic Diversity.” 63 Wisse, “Gnosticism and Early Monasticism,” 440. 64 M. A. Williams, Rethinking.

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Codices.65 On the other hand, critics of Hedrick’s approach have used what they regard as his failure to identify truly “Gnostic” features in the Pachomian texts as an argument against the possibility that the Nag Hammadi Codices could have been owned by Pachomians.66 While Hedrick was rightly criticized for failing to identify any specifically “Gnostic” features in the Pachomian sources, we would emphasize that it is unnecessary to do so in order to understand why Pachomians might have owned the Nag Hammadi Codices. The correspondences Hedrick noted between the contents of the codices and the interests of the Pachomians are no less significant just because they cannot be shown to be particularly “Gnostic.” Veilleux argued, in response to Hedrick, that while there were “Gnostics in Egypt,” no evidence suggests that they ever came into contact with orthodox Christian monks.67 In this case too, the question about the appeal and provenance of the Nag Hammadi Codices has been confused by the presupposition that there must have been Gnostic people who owned them. But Gnosticism is simply an unnecessary factor brought into the discussion by modern scholars. On the basis of the “Gnostic” nature of the Nag Hammadi Codices, Veilleux also argued that they were probably not buried as a result of the ecclesiasticallymandated purges of heretical books from the monasteries of Upper Egypt. Since these purges were directed against Melitians and Origenists, rather than Gnostics, Veilleux argued that this could not have been the reason why the Nag Hammadi Codices were hidden away. As he puts it, “although we have testimonies about an anti-Origenist purge at the end of the century among the monks of Egypt, especially after Evagrius’s death in 399, we do not have witnesses permitting us to speak of an anti-gnostic purge among them.”68 The problem with this line of argumentation, however, lies once again in the very category of “Gnosticism.” Rather than seeing the lack of evidence for any “anti-gnostic purge” as an indication of a problem inherent in the category of “Gnosticism” itself, Veilleux drew the conclusion that books like the Nag Hammadi Codices would not have been the target of such purges. However, when we dispense with the category, there is good reason to believe that these texts were indeed among the targets of the anti-Origenist purges of heretical books in Upper Egypt in the fifth century, since the reading of books like these was associated with monks inspired by Origen. We shall return to this issue in chapter nine. Others have posited the presence of Gnostic sectarians in Upper Egypt even as late as the fifth century. Scholars have identified several points of contact between the anti-heretical writings of Shenoute and the Nag Hammadi Codices.69 65

Hedrick, “Gnostic Proclivities.” Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 88–89; Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 286. 67 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 285–86. 68 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 290. 69 See, e. g., Dwight W. Young, “The Milieu of Nag Hammadi: Some Historical Considerations,” VC  24 (1970): 127–37; Tito Orlandi, “A Catechesis Against Apocryphal Texts by 66

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Shenoute’s references to the use of apocryphal texts and to people who claimed to be “kingless” have been taken to indicate that he was polemicizing against “Gnostics,” and regarded as evidence that there were “Gnostics” in Upper Egypt well into the fifth century.70 While we agree with Orlandi and Young that Shenoute does make occasional reference to writings like those found in the Nag Hammadi Codices, we do not find any references in his works to “Gnostics” or “Gnosticism.” When Shenoute criticized people who read apocrypha, or claimed to be “kingless,” and believed in the existence of other worlds,71 he never identified them as Gnostics, but rather as Melitians, Origenists, or pagans.72 The same is true of archbishop Theophilus’ 16th Festal Letter of 401, which Shenoute quotes at length. Both Shenoute and Theophilus explicitly associate the use of apocryphal texts with the Origenists, and many years earlier, in an important passage also quoted by Shenoute, Athanasius associated the use of such books specifically with the Melitians.73 While Orlandi acknowledges the fact that Shenoute connects apocryphal books with the Origenists, he argues that the abbot “somewhat confuses Origenistic and Gnosticizing doctrines.”74 We maintain, however, that the confusion Shenute and the Gnostic Texts of Nag Hammadi,” HTR 75:1 (1982): 85–95; David W. Johnson, “Coptic Reactions to Gnosticism and Manichaeism,” Mus 100 (1987): 199–209. 70 For Orlandi, these Gnostics are to be identified as the “Origenistic-Gnosticizing” followers of Evagrius Ponticus (“Catechesis Against Apocryphal Texts,” 94–95), whom he believes may have reached Upper Egypt “by infiltrating the Pachomian and Shenoutean monasteries (“Catechesis Against Apocryphal Texts,” 95). For Young, on the other hand, the Gnostics were not identifiable as such for Shenoute himself, who only saw them as heretics, but may be identified as “Gnostics” by modern scholars by way of comparison between the views attributed by Shenoute to his opponents and the contents of the Nag Hammadi texts (“Milieu of Nag Hammadi,” esp. 137). 71 See, e. g., Orlandi, “Catechesis Against Apocryphal Texts”; Young, “Milieu of Nag Hammadi”; D. W. Johnson, “Coptic Reactions”; Louis Painchaud and Timothy Janz, “The ‘Kingless Generation’ and the Polemical Rewriting of Certain Nag Hammadi Texts,” in The Nag Hammadi Library After Fifty Years: Proceedings of the 1995 Society of Biblical Literature Commemoration (ed. John D. Turner and Anne McGuire; NHMS 44; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 439–60; Lundhaug, “Shenoute’s Heresiological Polemics.” 72 Building on the work of Young, Robinson suggests that Shenoute’s references to people who professed to be “kingless” may refer to “a Christian Gnostic, perhaps a Sethian group, even though in his polemic Shenoute calls them pagan heretics” (Robinson, “Introduction,” 20). 73 See Lundhaug, “Shenoute’s Heresiological Polemics”; Lundhaug, “Origenism in FifthCentury Upper Egypt: Shenoute of Atripe and the Nag Hammadi Codices,” in Studia Patristica LXIV: Papers Presented at the Sixteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2011: Vol. 12: Ascetica; Litrugica; Orientalia; Critica et Philologica (ed. Markus Vinzent; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 217–28. For further discussion of Shenoute’s treatment of apocryphal texts, see chapters six and nine below. 74 Orlandi, “Catechesis Against Apocryphal Texts,” 95. Orlandi argues that when Shenoute polemizices against Origen, what he is really opposing is the “Origenistic-Gnosticizing” followers of Evagrius Ponticus. Young, for his part, argues that Shenoute would probably not have been able to identify his “Gnostic” opponents as “Gnostics,” but only as being unbelieving heretics: “We are not stretching the evidence if we speculate that it would have been almost impossible for him to single out any who were dedicated to Gnostic teachings. … He was certainly

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does not originate with Shenoute, but with the very category of “Gnosticism” as it has been devised and employed by modern scholars. It is far more likely that Shenoute knew full well what he was talking about, while the category of “Gnosticism” has created problems for modern interpreters. We see no reason to suppose that Shenoute was confused when he associated the reading of apocryphal texts with followers of Origen. Indeed, Shenoute shares this view with archbishop Theophilus. By making this connection, Shenoute either points out a real link between Origenists and apocryphal texts, or he uses the spectre of Origen in order to brand as heretics those who read apocrypha.75 We will return in chapter nine to the question of Origenist monks as possible owners of the Nag Hammadi Codices, but for now it suffices to say that neither Shenoute, nor Theophilus, Dioscorus or Athanasius associate the use of apocryphal books with Gnostics, and that they give no indication that Gnostic groups or individuals existed in Upper Egypt in their lifetime.

Conclusion From the discussions above it should be clear why we do not find “Gnosticism” or “Gnostics” to be helpful categories for theorizing about the origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices and their owners. On the contrary, we find “Gnosticism” to be a highly misleading category in such studies, and as we will show throughout this book, it has led scholars to ask the wrong questions and to offer unnecessary explanations. In the next chapter we will deal with the specific question of whether monks could have read texts like those we find in the Nag Hammadi Codices, and here too we shall see that the category of “Gnosticism” has proved to be an obstacle to clear analysis of the evidence at hand.

aware that these sectaries were in the churches, but he was not in the position to name names” (Young, “Milieu of Nag Hammadi,” 137). 75 Cf. Lundhaug, “Shenoute’s Heresiological Polemics.”

Chapter 4

Contrasting Mentalities? Hate the world and all that is in it. Hate all peace that comes from the flesh. Renounce this life, so that you may be alive to God. – Antony the Great1 No one knows the God of truth except he alone who will forsake everything in the world, renouncing the entire place. – NHC IX,32

A major argument against the hypothesis of a monastic provenance for the Nag Hammadi Codices has been that such unorthodox texts would not have been read by monks whose basis of authority was the Bible. A representative example of this view is found in Alexandr Khosroyev’s study Die Bibliothek von Nag Hammadi, where he characterizes the Nag Hammadi texts as “anti-biblical” and “semi-philosophical.” As an alternative hypothesis he suggests that the codices fit better with what he describes as the “syncretistic mentality” prevalent in GrecoEgyptian cities. Echoing Max Weber’s influential thesis that Gnosticism was a religion of urban intellectuals,3 Khosroyev locates the Nag Hammadi Codices among people whom he profiles as being “in no way traditionalists” and outsiders to the institutional church. These people were semi-intellectuals familiar with enough Greek philosophy to be able to understand the Nag Hammadi texts, and possessed a “syncretistic mentality” similar to Zosimus the alchemist and those behind the Theban magical papyri.4 Thus the Nag Hammadi Codices become relegated to what James Goehring has described as a sort of shadowy “Gnostic ghetto” situated at best on the margins of Christianity in late antique Egypt.5 Khosroyev presents his argument in response to a series of previous hypotheses, including Jean Doresse’s theory of a group of Sethian Gnostics,6 Martin 1 Ap. Patr., Antony the Great, 33 (trans. Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection [CS 59; London: Mowbray, 1975], 6–7). 2 Testim. Truth 41.4–9. 3 Max Weber, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriss der verstehenden Soziologie (ed. Johannes Winckelmann; 5th rev. ed.; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1976), 305–6; cf. Kurt Rudolph, Gnosis: The Nature & History of Gnosticism (trans. Robert McL. Wilson; San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1987), 291–93. 4 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 62, 98–102. 5 Goehring, “Some Reflections,” 69. 6 Doresse, Secret Books; see the discussion in chapter three above.

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Krause’s theory of a wealthy individual,7 and the theory of Pachomian monks, as argued by John Barns, Frederik Wisse, Clemens Scholten and others.8 While Khosroyev assumes, with Doresse, the generic “Gnostic” identity of the Nag Hammadi texts and their owners, he disagrees with Doresse that the owners should be identified specifically as Sethian Gnostics, because of the ambiguity of the term “Sethian” and the diversity of texts represented in the Nag Hammadi corpus. He also discounts Krause’s suggestion of a wealthy individual as the owner, since he maintains that one would not expect a single individual to acquire multiple copies of the same writings.9 After responding briefly to Doresse and Krause, Khosroyev mounts a lengthy argument against the hypothesis that the Nag Hammadi Codices were owned by Christian monks, especially the Pachomians. He argues that even if the Pachomians were not as doctrinally orthodox as later hagiographies depict them, it is simply too difficult to imagine that they would have been edified by the Nag Hammadi Codices, since they contain what he regards as “bizarre” and “antibiblical” teachings. Moreover, while he concedes that the Pachomians were not the only monks in the region, and that some other, more obscure, monastic group might have owned the codices,10 he ultimately rejects the idea that the codices originated in any Christian monastic environment, because their contents do not correspond to the “mentality” of Christian monastic literature.11 By relying on a number of clichés about the Gnostic “mentality,” including elitism and secrecy, Khosroyev reasons that those who owned the Nag Hammadi Codices cannot have had anything in common with Pachomian monasticism or the culture of “rural Copts”: If one defines them [i. e., the Gnostics] as individuals who remoulded various traditions (not only biblical) into their own particular worldview, who, unlike the “simple” Christians, were convinced that salvation was not possible for everyone but only the elect, who placed their inner freedom and independence higher than any worldly authority … then one sees a phenomenon opposed to Pachomianism in every respect. Since such a bizarre mentality based on different traditions (including at least a rudimentary knowledge of Greek philosophy), and with such a bizarre written production as its manifestation, could only arise from a corresponding foundation, one must regard the polymorphous gnostic currents as an urban phenomenon par excellence. The fact that these texts were translated from Greek into Coptic is not in itself proof that those who read these writings in Greek 7

Krause, “Die Texte,” 243. Barns, “Preliminary Report”; Wisse, “Gnosticism and Early Monasticism”; Scholten, “Buchbesitz.” See chapter one above. 9 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 63–65. 10 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 72–77; cf. chapter two above. 11 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 85–86; cf. 97: “Obwohl das Repertoire der Nag-HammadiSchriften aus dem Kontext der monastischen Literatur herausfällt und nicht ihrer Mentalität, wie wir sie aus dieser Literatur kennen, entspricht, haben einige Forscher versucht, eine Reihe von Nag-Hammadi-Texten mit dieser Literatur zu vergleichen, um zu zeigen, daß die Mönche Literatur von der Art der Nag-Hammadi-Schriften gelesen und daraus manches entlehnt hätten.” 8

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sought to disseminate them among the rural Copts. The claim of these texts themselves, as well as of their users, that they contained secret knowledge accessible only to the elect, hardly presupposes such missionary activity, especially among people who were deemed too ignorant with respect to their education and interests in the first place. Considering that we are dealing with two different types of religious mentality, one may doubt that there was any space at all for Gnostics in the Pachomian system.12

Khosroyev’s argument rests on several dubious assumptions, not only about the “Gnostic” identity of the owners, which is an inference he makes about the identity of people based on a classification of the texts, but also a set of caricatures about the philosophical character of the texts and the kind of culture and education he believes someone must have had in order to read and understand them. These assumptions decisively shape his analysis. Characterizing the Nag Hammadi texts as “semi-philosophical (or philosophizing),”13 he infers that their owners must have been familiar with Greek philosophy in order to read and understand them.14 One inference then leads to another: Because the owners presumably had some familiarity with Greek philosophy, they must have belonged to the “middle class” of society in the Greco-Egyptian cities,15 and cannot have been rural Copts or monks who in his opinion “were not real theologians (from the perspective of an Alexandrian Christian equipped with the instrumentarium

12 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 85–86: “Wenn man sie, aber als Individuen definiert, die verschiedene (nicht nur biblische) Traditionen in ihre eigenartige Weltanschauung umschmolzen, die gegenüber den ‘einfachen’ Christen davon überzeugt waren, daß die Erlösung nicht allen, sondern nur den Auserwählten möglich sei, die ihre innere Freiheit und Unabhängigkeit höher als irgendeine weltliche Obrigkeit stellten … sieht man ein in allen Belangen dem Pachomianismus entgegengesetztes Phänomen. Weil eine solche auf verschiedenen Traditionen (unter denen eine ansatzweise Kenntnis der griechischen Philosophie nicht den letzte Platz einnahm) gegründete bizarre Mentalität und als ihre Verkörperung eine solche bizarre schriftliche Produktion nur auf einem entsprechenden Grund entstehen konnte, muß man die vielgestaltigen gnostizistischen Strömungen als ein städtisches Phänomen par excellence betrachten. Das Faktum, daß diese Texte aus dem Griechischen ins Koptische übersetzt wurden, ist allein kein Beweis dafür, daß diejenigen, die diese Schriften auf Griechisch lasen, sie unter der koptischen Landbevölkerung zu verbreiten suchten. Der Anspruch sowohl dieser Texte selbst als auch der ihrer Benutzer, daß sie ein geheimes, nur von Auserwählten erreichbares Wissen enthielten, setzt kaum eine solche missionarische Aktivität voraus, besonders unter den Leuten, die ihrer Bildung und ihren Interessen nach von vornherein zu Unverständigen verurteilt waren. In Anbetracht dessen, daß es sich um zwei verschiedene Ausprägungen religiöser Mentalität handelt, darf man daran zweifeln, daß für die Gnostizisten in dem pachomianischen System überhaupt Platz blieb.” 13 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 62: “halbphilosophischen (oder philosophisierenden).” 14 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 62 n. 175: “Diese Texte setzen doch voraus, daß ihre Leser die griechische philosophische Kultur zumindest ein wenig kennen mußten.” Cf. Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 101: “kann man auch vermuten, daß solche Texte nie das städtische Milieu verließen und von Stadt zu Stadt wanderten, weil gerade dort immer Leute waren, die soweit mit der griechischen philosophischen Bildung vertraut waren, um solche Schriften zu verstehen.” 15 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 86: “diese der mittleren Ebene der Gesellschaft (man kann das aufgrund ihres Bildungsgrades behaupten) angehörenden Leute …”

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of Greek philosophy).”16 Yet after making so many inferences about the codices’ owners, their religious mentality, class, and level of education, Khosroyev offers a decidedly more limited conclusion as to who they may have been: One may go no further than the assumption of some religious communities (in the end only one?) as owners of the book collection(s) (with J. Doresse, but without describing the community in question as Sethian), whose members possessed a strong syncretistic mentality and who were in no way traditionalists (with M. Krause, but without assuming a wealthy person as the owner).17

In our view, the underlying problem for Khosroyev’s theory is that it assumes the existence of “Gnostics” in the first place. As we have seen, and this point cannot be emphasized enough, the presence of the Nag Hammadi Codices in Egypt does not testify to the presence of Gnostics in Egypt. Once we jettison the idea of “Gnosticism” and the concomitant notion that there were Gnostics living in Upper Egypt in the fourth and fifth centuries, we are left with the challenge of explaining the presence of the texts themselves. As Michael Williams has suggested, a better way to conceptualize these manuscripts in their Egyptian context is as artifacts that witness to an ongoing process of textual transmission, in which Christians were receiving and “repackaging” texts that had originated in different communities at different times and places. As Williams aptly puts it, The Nag Hammadi collection presents us with one fourth-century snapshot from what was a long and much wider history of recycling and repackaging religious innovations. In a fourth-century context, one way to think of the texts that were still being gathered together in collections like the Nag Hammadi books is as shards from what were, in relative terms, failed religious movements of earlier generations, debris from religious experiments that never really created truly successful new religions. Nevertheless, the shards were still being reused, assembled in new combinations and designs, the debris scavenged for precious enduring truths.18

While the statement that all the Nag Hammadi texts originated in previous generations may well be challenged, Williams is undoubtedly right to point out that questions regarding the original context of a writing and its authorship should be kept separate from questions regarding its subsequent transmission and reception. Thus even if one were to maintain that some of the Nag Hammadi texts were originally composed by “Gnostics,” this premise would have 16 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 82: “wenn sie auch keine echten Theologen (vom Gesichtspunkt eines alexandrinischen Christen aus, der mit dem Instrumentarium der griechischen Philosophie ausgerüstet war) gewesen sind.” 17 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 98: “Man darf nicht weiter gehen als bis zur Annahme irgendwelcher religiöser Gemeinden (letzendlich nur eine [?]) als Besitzer dieser Buchsammlung(en) (mit J. Doresse, aber ohne die betreffende Gemeinde als sethianisch zu bezeichnen), deren Mitglieder eine stark synkretistische Mentalität besaßen und keineswegs Traditionalisten waren (mit M. Krause, aber ohne eine reiche Person als Besitzer zu vermuten).” 18 M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 262.

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no bearing on the question of who read them in Egypt in the fourth and fifth centuries. The question should not be whether there were Gnostics in Egypt or in the monasteries, but whether monks owned the Nag Hammadi Codices, and if so, why?19 Khosroyev’s answer, that the codices could not have belonged to Christian monks because they contain “anti-biblical” teachings and express a “mentality” at odds with Christian monasticism, relies on questionable assumptions and inferences. The distinction between monastic and Gnostic “mentalities” is another example of what Michael Williams has rightly identified as the failure of the category of “Gnosticism” to aid historical analysis. One cannot detect a general mentality of a phenomenon as broad as monasticism, let alone distinguish it from another equally generalized mentality allegedly expressed througout the Nag Hammadi Codices, as if they represent a homogeneous corpus of thought. Nor can theorizing about the historical setting of the Nag Hammadi Codices in Upper Egypt rely on a comparison of mentalities. Only by studying the Nag Hammadi texts in all their diversity and detail, and situating them in the culture of Upper Egypt at the time when the codices were read, can one get a clearer idea of how these books might have appealed to their readers. Stephen Emmel has indeed called for such a reading of “the texts exactly as we have them in the Nag Hammadi Codices in an effort to reconstruct the reading experience of whoever owned each of the Codices,” and has rightly pointed out that this “would have to be undertaken in full cognizance of contemporary Coptic literature, and the culture of Upper Egypt, during, say, the third to seventh centuries.”20 In our view, it would be impossible to maintain “full congnizance of contemporary Coptic literature” without taking into account the monastic literature of this period, since the bulk of Coptic literature comes from a monastic setting.

Anti-Biblical Books? A cornerstone of Khosroyev’s argument against the monastic hypothesis is that the Nag Hammadi Codices contain so many “anti-biblical concepts” that no one who regarded the Bible as an authority could have read them sympathetically.21 While he initially concedes that one should not presuppose strict orthodoxy 19 For further discussion of how the codices could have appealed to monks, see chapters six and nine. 20 Stephen Emmel, “Religious Tradition, Textual Transmission, and the Nag Hammadi Codices,” in The Nag Hammadi Library After Fifty Years (ed. John D. Turner and Anne McGuire; NHMS 44; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 42–43. 21 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 82. See similarly Wipszycka, who describes the Nag Hammadi Codices as “works far from being orthodox even in the widest sense of the word” (“Nag Hammadi Library,” 190).

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among the Pachomians, as they are depicted in the hagiographical sources,22 just pages later his argument appears to rest on this very presupposition: the Pachomian monks adhered so faithfully to the Bible and the “precepts of the Fathers” that it is difficult to imagine that they could have read the Nag Hammadi texts as edifying literature. In his view, since the Pachomians would easily have been able to distinguish between “biblical” and “anti-biblical” concepts, they would not have read books whose teachings are not only far removed from the Bible and the precepts of the Fathers, but even teach the opposite.23 In order to entertain such a possibility, Khosroyev claims, one would have to assume that the beliefs of the Pachomians were so vague that they did not care what they read.24 The idea that the Nag Hammadi texts are anti-biblical has a long tradition both in scholarship and popular imagination. The modern reception of the Nag Hammadi texts has to a great extent been characterized by a juxtaposition of these texts over against the canonical Old and New Testaments as a sort of alternative canon. Modern book titles such as The Other Bible,25 The Gnostic Bible,26 and Lost Scriptures: Books that Did Not Make It into the New Testament27 illustrate all too well how the Nag Hammadi texts have been received by modern scholarship and marketed to the general public.28 Other titles like The Gnostic Gospels,29 The Gnostic Scriptures,30 or Gnostic Truth and Christian Heresy,31 reinforce the impression that the Nag Hammadi Codices constitute a sort of “Gnostic” counter-canon in opposition to the Bible. “Gnosticism” itself is often presented as an alternative form of Christianity, or even as a religion in its own right. 22 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 78: “… muß diese Möglichkeit [i. e., that the Pachomians read the Nag Hammadi Codices] nicht aufgrund dessen ausgeschlossen sein, daß die Pachomianer orthodox waren (wie sie in den späteren Quellen dargestellt wurden) und nur die von der Amtskirche empfohlenen Bücher lasen (deshalb interessierte sie so etwas wie die Nag-HammadiSchriften nicht), sondern aus anderen Gründen.” 23 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 82–83: “Das bedeutet jedoch, daß die Mönche … zwischen biblischen und antibiblischen Konzepten klar unterscheiden konnten. Deshalb ist es schwer vorzustellen, daß die Pachomianer als ihre erbauliche Lektüre Bücher benutzt haben könnten, die oft nicht nur mit der Bibel und den Geboten der Väter nichts zu tun hatten, sondern auch das Entgegengesetzte lehrten.” 24 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 83: “Wenn man dies trotzdem vermutet, nimmt man an, der Glaube Pachomianer sei so amorph gewesen, daß es ihnen egal war, was sie lasen und wovon sie sich leiten ließen.” 25 Willis Barnstone, ed., The Other Bible: Jewish Pseudepigrapha, Christian Apocrypha, Gnostic Scriptures, Kabbalah, Dead Sea Scrolls (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1984). 26 Willis Barnstone and Marvin Meyer, eds., The Gnostic Bible (Boston: Shambhala, 2003). 27 Bart D. Ehrman, Lost Scriptures: Books that Did Not Make It into the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). 28 As Morton Smith rightly predicted, “Gnosticism” has “a secure market” and will therefore “continue to be produced” (“History of the Term Gnostikos,” 806). 29 Elaine H. Pagels, The Gnostic Gospels (New York: Random House, 1979). 30 Bentley Layton, The Gnostic Scriptures: A New Translation with Annotations and Introductions (London: SCM Press, 1987). 31 Logan, Gnostic Truth.

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James M. Robinson, for example, took the appearance of titles such as Gospel, Apocalypse, and Epistle among the Nag Hammadi texts as indications that “it is almost as if the Nag Hammadi Codices were prepared as a kind of countercanon, an alternative to the New Testament, or at least claiming equal status.”32 While he noted a tendency among the Nag Hammadi texts “to use the names of literary genres” which had authority by virtue of their usage in the emerging New Testament canon, he also asked “to what extent such a title is appropriate to the text itself” apart from what he called “its tendentious and secondary use in the Nag Hammadi Codices.”33 Robinson thus interpreted the word “Gospel” in the incipit of the Gospel of Truth, “The gospel of truth is joy for those who have received from the Father of truth the grace of knowing him,”34 as an “invidious opening comment” meant to depreciate the canonical Gospels by proclaiming itself as the real gospel.35 However, rather than being interpreted as an attack on the canonical Gospels, the opening statement of the so-called Gospel of Truth36 is better understood as a homage to the canonical gospels and their message. Its exegesis certainly takes the canonical texts for granted as authoritative Scripture, and the entire text may be understood as an extended exegesis of New Testament writings.37 It is important to observe that the characterization of the Nag Hammadi texts as “anti-biblical” relies on the old clichés associated with “Gnosticism,” such as “protest exegesis” and hatred of the world and the god of creation. As three decades of scholarship have effectively dismantled the validity of these clichés, pronouncements about the “Gnostic” character of the Nag Hammadi texts can no longer be sustained.38 When one moves beyond the realm of generalization to 32 James M. Robinson, “The Nag Hammadi Gospels and the Fourfold Gospel,” in The Earliest Gospels: The Origins and Transmission of the Earliest Christian Gospels – The Contribution of the Chester Beatty Gospel Codex P45 (ed. Charles Horton; JSNTSup 258; London: Continuum/T&T Clark, 2004), 71. 33 Robinson, “Nag Hammadi Gospels,” 71–72. 34 Gos. Truth. I.16.31–33. (trans. Harold W. Attridge and George W. MacRae. “The Gospel of Truth: I,3:16.31–43.24,” in Nag Hammadi Codex I (The Jung Codex) [2 vols.; ed. Harold W. Attridge; NHS 22–23; Leiden: Brill, 1985], 1:83). 35 Robinson, “Nag Hammadi Gospels,” 74. 36 The text has no title in the manuscript and is referred to by scholars as the Gospel of Truth based on its incipit. Cf. Johannes Munck, “Evangelium Veritatis and Greek Usage as to Book Titles,” ST 17 (1963): 133–38. 37 For a catalogue of scriptural allusions in the text, see Jacqueline A. Williams, Biblical Interpretation in the Gnostic Gospel of Truth from Nag Hammadi (SBLDS 79; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988). For an example of this hermeneutical approach with respect to Gos. Truth’s famous “myth of Error” (which many interpreters have seen as a cryptic version of Valentinian Sophia mythology), see Geoffrey Smith, “Constructing a Christian Universe: Mythological Exegesis of Ben Sira 24 and John’s Prologue in the Gospel of Truth,” in Jewish and Christian Cosmogony in Late Antiquity (ed. Lance Jenott and Sarit Kattan Gribetz; TSAJ 155; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 64–81. 38 For critical evaluations of scholarship’s reliance on the clichés of Gnosticism, especially as they have been applied to Nag Hammadi texts, see e. g. M. A. Williams, Rethinking; King,

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analyze the nuances of each text, one finds that far from having “nothing to do with the Bible,”39 the texts are in fact replete with scriptural exegesis and biblical topics, and many of them are attributed to biblical figures such as Peter, John, James, Philip, Thomas, Paul, Adam, Seth, Shem, and Melchizedek.40 Moreover, the way the Nag Hammadi texts refer to, allude to, and interpret biblical writings, presupposes the scriptural authority of the latter. The majority of Nag Hammadi texts present us with interpretations of Scripture, not contradictions of it.41 One additional example should suffice to show how implicit notions of “Gnosticism” have guided scholarly interpretations of the Nag Hammadi texts in ways that unnecessarily complicate our understanding of their readers in late antiquity. Henriette Havelaar, who edited the Apocalypse of Peter (NHC VII,3) in the late 1990s,42 concluded that although this text seems to regard the writings of the New Testament as authoritative Scripture, it does so only “in a limited way.”43 Although she concedes that its author seems to approach the canonical texts as “sacred literature,” she nevertheless argues that he “apparently dismisses the view of the Gospels held by his orthodox opponents as literalism.”44 ThereWhat is Gnosticism, esp. 191–217; Elaine H. Pagels, “Gnostic and Orthodox Views of Christ’s Passion: Paradigms for the Christian’s Response to Persecution?” in The School of Valentinus (ed. Bentley Layton; vol. 1 of The Rediscovery of Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, New Haven, Connecticut, March 28–31, 1978; SHR 41; Leiden: Brill, 1980), 262–88; Michel R. Desjardins, Sin in Valentinianism (SBLDS 108; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990); Michael A. Williams, “Higher Providence, Lower Providences and Fate in Gnosticism and Middle Platonism,” in Neoplatonism and Gnosticism (ed. Richard T. Wallis and Jay Bregman; Studies in Neoplatonism: Ancient and Modern 6; New York: SUNY Press, 1992), 483–507; M. A. Williams, “Was There a Gnostic Religion”; Karen L. King, The Secret Revelation of John (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006); Hugo Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth: Cognitive Poetics and Transformational Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip and the Exegesis on the Soul (NHMS 73; Leiden: Brill, 2010); Lance Jenott, The Gospel of Judas: Coptic Text, Translation, and Historical Interpretation of ‘The Betrayer’s Gospel’ (STAC 64; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). 39 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 83. 40 Perhaps the figure of Silvanus too, if Teac. Silv. (NHC VII,4) is be identified with the apostle Paul’s coworker (2 Cor 1:19; 1 Thess 1:1; 2 Thess 1:1; 1 Pet 5:12). However, the Silvanus of Teach. Silv. may also be a monastic figure of the same name. 41 One can of course point to exceptions, such as Ap. John’s famous insistence that “it is not as Moses wrote …” Yet even this challenge to the authority of Moses need not be interpreted as an instance of protest exegesis. Rather, it can be understood as part of a broader Christian debate over the authority of the Torah in light of Jesus’ own teaching. Jesus himself was remembered for challenging Moses’ authority through an interpretation of the creation story (Mark 10:1–12). Consider also Paul’s attitude to the Torah in Romans and Galatians. 42 Henriette W. Havelaar, The Coptic Apocalypse of Peter (Nag-Hammadi-Codex VII,3) (TUGAL 144; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1999). 43 Henriette W. Havelaar, “The Use of Scripture in the Coptic Gnostic Apocalypse of Peter (NHC VII,3),” in The Use of Sacred Books in the Ancient World (ed. L. V. Rutgers et al.; CBET 22; Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 224. 44 Havelaar, “Use of Scripture,” 224, quoting Elaine H. Pagels, Johannine Gospels in Gnostic Exegesis: Heracleon’s Commentary on John (SBLMS 17; Atlanta: Scholars’ Press, 1989), 15.

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fore she concludes that the canonical New Testament texts were not regarded as authoritative by the author of the Apocalypse of Peter. In her opinion, “the author obviously did not have to or wish to adhere to a method of interpretation in which the New Testament text had the inviolable authority orthodox Christianity ascribes to it.”45 She further conjectures that the Apocalypse of Peter must have been composed very early, at a time when “the texts of the New Testament had not yet obtained full canonicity, which would have prevented a free reading as offered in [the Apocalypse of Peter].”46 She posits that the exegetical method on display in the Apocalypse of Peter “was occasioned by this non-canonical or pre-canonical status of the New Testament texts,” and concludes that “the New Testament texts were obviously not considered the only source of revelation.”47 However, Birger Pearson has offered an alternative interpretation which convincingly demonstrates that far from rejecting the authority of the New Testament, the rhetoric and contents of the Apocalypse of Peter are largely based on canonical Second Peter.48 Even the highly polemical content of the Apocalypse of Peter, which has most often been interpreted as “Gnostic” criticism of orthodox Christianity, with its characterization of opposing “bishops” and “deacons” as “waterless canals,”49 seems to be based on Second Peter’s description of its opponents as “waterless springs” (2 Pet 2:17).50 The same is true of its warnings against false prophets and teachers. Pearson lists no less than twenty-two points of connection between the two texts,51 and convincingly argues against the view of Terence Smith, that the Apocalypse of Peter represents the opponents of Second Peter.52 Instead, Pearson concludes that the Apocalypse of Peter is completely dependent upon Second Peter.53 Such examples could easily be multiplied. In fact, the great majority of Nag Hammadi texts are engaged in the interpretive reception of Scripture, not in at-

Havelaar, Coptic Apocalypse of Peter, 169. Havelaar, Coptic Apocalypse of Peter, 169. 47 Havelaar, Coptic Apocalypse of Peter, 169. 48 Birger A. Pearson, “The Apocalypse of Peter (NHC VII,3) and Canonical 2 Peter,” in The Emergence of the Christian Religion: Essays on Early Christianity (Harrisburg, Penn.: Trinity Press, 1997), 88–98. 49 Apoc. Pet. 79.24–31. See, e. g., Pearson, “Apocalypse of Peter,” 97; C. Wilfred Griggs, Early Egyptian Christianity: From Its Origins to 451 CE (Brill’s Scholars’ List; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 85; Pagels, Gnostic Gospels, 25, 40, 106. 50 Pearson links the shift from “waterless springs” to “waterless canals” to the Egyptian milieu of Apoc. Pet. (“Apocalypse of Peter,” 93). 51 Pearson, “Apocalypse of Peter,” 91–93. 52 Terence V. Smith, Petrine Controversies in Early Christianity: Attitudes Towards Peter in Christian Writings of the First Two Centuries (WUNT 15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1985), 137– 41. 53 Havelaar, however, remains unconvinced by Pearson’s conclusions (Coptic Apocalypse of Peter, 166–67). 45 46

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tempts to undermine it.54 The biblical reception on display in the Nag Hammadi texts, in the form of creative reinterpretation, rewriting, and reworking of biblical texts and narratives, crucially depends on canonical Scripture, and by doing so they can be seen to cement the scriptural status of the latter. It is, for instance, only because of the authoritative status of Second Peter that there is any need for the Apocalypse of Peter to reinterpret it in the first place, and by being put to use in this way, Second Peter’s status is not undermined, but strengthened. Another question concerns the authority of the Nag Hammadi texts themselves. To what extent did their readers regard texts like the Gospel of Philip, the Gospel of Thomas, the Apocryphon of John, or the Apocalypse of Peter as authoritative Scripture, not to mention other texts in the collection that are not attributed to apostolic persons, such as the Tripartite Tractate, the Treatise on the Resurrection, or the Exegesis on the Soul? Were these texts intended to replace, or to supplement the canonical texts? The ways in which the Nag Hammadi texts use and refer to the canonical texts tend to make it rather implausible that the intention was to replace them.55 In a majority of the Nag Hammadi texts, the canonical Old and New Testaments function as authoritative Scripture in a way that can be likened to how Paul and the Gospels treat the Septuagint.56 Indeed, the Nag Hammadi texts seem to presuppose a deep knowledge of Scripture among their authors, redactors, and readers. Again, the category of “Gnosticism” has hindered the understanding of how the Nag Hammadi texts treat canonical Scripture. As Michael Williams has shown, when one eschews generalizations about “Gnosticism” and studies biblical interpretation within the Nag Hammadi texts in detail, it becomes clear that they do not programmatically employ “protest exegesis” against the “correct” or “inherent” meaning of Scripture. Rather, they usually show different ways readers have struggled with and attempted to explain ambiguities in the biblical text. Thus Williams aptly describes the scriptural interpretation of the Nag Hammadi texts as “hermeneutical problem-solving,” attempts to resolve by interpretation problems perceived in the authoritative biblical texts.57 54 For an extensive index of scriptural citations, references and allusions in the Nag Hammadi texts, see Craig A. Evans, Robert L. Webb and Richard A. Wiebe, eds., Nag Hammadi Texts and the Bible: A Synopsis and Index (Leiden: Brill, 1993). 55 This has also been argued by Ingvild Sælid Gilhus in a perceptive article on canonicity and Nag Hammadi Codex II: “Contextualizing the Present, Manipulating the Past: Codex II from Nag Hammadi and the Challenge of Circumventing Canonicity,” in Canon and Canonicity: The Formation and Use of Scripture (ed. Einar Thomassen; Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2010), 106. 56 For Paul’s use of the Septuagint, see, e. g., Richard B. Hays, Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989). For the suggestion that the texts of the Nag Hammadi Codices could represent a kind of tertiary canonization process, see Gilhus, “Contextualizing the Present,” 106–7. 57 M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 54–79. On the interpretive processes involved in reading canonical texts in light of each other, see Hugo Lundhaug, “Canon and Interpretation: A Cog-

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Given the preoccupation with scriptural interpretation throughout the Nag Hammadi texts, it seems unlikely that the owners of the Nag Hammadi Codices would not also have owned and read canonical Scripture. It is therefore misleading to characterize the Nag Hammadi Codices as “anti-biblical,” and to base a theory of their owners’ identity on such a characterization. Indeed, from the degree of complexity that is often witnessed in the biblical interpretation of the Nag Hammadi texts a picture emerges in which their ideal readers must have known Scripture well enough to be able to intuitively grasp their numerous scriptural quotations and allusions.58 As we shall see in chapter nine, we do in fact have evidence of communities in fourth- and fifth-century Egypt that fit this description. From their intense focus on practices of scriptural reading and memorization,59 and their production and use of books, the monks of Upper Egypt emerge as ideal consumers of the biblical interpretation found throughout the Nag Hammadi Codices. Hatred of the World and its Creator? So far we have been considering the misleading caricature of the Nag Hammadi Codices as a kind of “Gnostic Bible” standing in opposition to the Christian Bible, and how such a characterization does not make sense when we consider the actual treatment of Scripture in the Nag Hammadi texts. When scholars identify the “Gnostic” character of a text, however, they usually point to one theological point in particular, namely a disdain for the god who created the world, and a concomittant hatred of that world as an evil creation. Thus, when Khosroyev speaks of “anti-biblical concepts” in the Nag Hammadi Codices, he points specifically to the idea that the creator and his creation are evil as the hallmark feature that separates the “mentality” of the Nag Hammadi texts from that of Christian monasticism. On this point, Khosroyev relies nitive Perspective,” in Canon and Canonicity: The Formation and Use of Scripture (ed. Einar Thomassen; Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2010), 67–90. 58 The complexity is such that it is often quite difficult for us as modern scholars to grasp the rhetorical nuances of the texts without detailed and time-consuming analysis. For studies highlighting the deep biblical intertextuality of the Nag Hammadi texts, see, e. g., Hugo Lundhaug, “‘These Are the Symbols and Likenesses of the Resurrection’: Conceptualizations of Death and Transformation in the Treatise on the Resurrection (NHC I,4),” in Metamorphoses: Resurrection, Body and Transformative Practices in Early Christianity (ed. Turid Karlsen Seim and Jorunn Økland; Ekstasis: Religious Experience from Antiquity to the Middle Ages 1; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 187–205; Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth; René Falkenberg, “Noetic Exegesis in the Nag Hammadi Library: Eugnostos the Blessed as a Point of Departure,” in Kanon in Konstruktion und Dekonstruktion: Kanonisierungsprozesse religiöser Texte von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart: Ein Handbuch (ed. Eve-Marie Becker et al.; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2011), 503–18, esp. 515. 59 Hugo Lundhaug, “Memory and Early Monastic Literary Practices: A Cognitive Perspective,” JCH 1:1 (2014): 98–120.

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on Guy Stroumsa’s broad typological distinction between “ascesis and gnosis” which differentiates between two opposing theological motivations for worldrenunciation as practiced by Christians and Gnostics respectively, also referred to as Christian asceticism and Gnostic encratism. As the argument goes, Gnostic encratic world-renunciation is based upon hatred of the creator god and his world, while Christian ascetic world-renunciation affirms the goodness of the creator and creation, but calls upon the ascetic to choose God over the world.60 When Khosroyev distinguishes the “mentality” of the Nag Hammadi texts from that of Christian monastic literature, he does so precisely because he maintains that they feature this allegedly Gnostic hatred of the world and its creator. He therefore concludes that Christian monks would not have read the Nag Hammadi Codices for edification. Yet since the publication of Khosroyev’s book, the notion that the Nag Hammadi texts exhibit hatred for the god of creation has been shown to be yet another misleading generalization derived from the scholarly concept of “Gnosticism.”61 As Karen King rightly points out, “The variety of perspectives represented by the works classified as Gnostic confounds any attempt to treat them adequately under the single theme of radical anticosmological dualism.”62 This raises the question of exactly how many of the Nag Hammadi texts actually exhibit such a negative attitude toward the creator with which they are so frequently associated. As the following table demonstrates, the majority do not in fact explicitly state, nor even implicitly assume, that the world was created by an evil god. It is often overlooked that of the fifty or so texts in the collection, less than half give a markedly negative depiction of the creator. About ten of the texts express an explicitly positive view toward the creator, while the remaining twenty or so do not express a clear attitude toward him or comment on creation directly. In the latter cases one can only wonder how ancient readers would have understood the texts’ evaluation of the creator and what kind of creation theology they would have regarded as being implicitly assumed in the texts.

60 Guy Stroumsa, “Ascèse et Gnose,” RThom 89 (1981): 557–73, esp. 563, for the delineation between “asceticism” and “encratism”; Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 81: “Scholten had bemerkt, daß ‘die Motivation von gnostiker und mönchischer Askese völlig anders gelagert ist.’ Dem muß man zustimmen, denn man sieht, daß sich die Orthopraxie der Pachomianer nicht auf eine enkratistische Weltanschauung (d. h. der Schöpfer der Welt und die Welt selbst sind schlecht, deshalb muß man sie hassen), die man in mehreren Nag-Hammadi-Schriften antrifft, sondern auf den aus der Bibel entlehnten Glauben beruft, daß der Schöpfer, der gut ist, die schlechte Welt nicht gebildet haben könne, aber wenn man zwischen Gott und Welt wählen müßte, sollte man, um zu Gott näher zu kommen, auf die Welt verzichten.” (Khosroyev refers to Scholten, “Buchbesitz.”) 61 M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 98–100; King, What is Gnosticism, 192–201. 62 King, What is Gnosticism, 201; cf. M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 98–100.

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Attitudes toward the Creator in the Nag Hammadi Codices Positive

No Clear Evaluation

1. Tripartite Tractate 1. Prayer of the Apostle 2. Gospel of the Egyptians Paul (I,1) (III,2)64 2. Apocryphon of James (I,2) 3. Dialogue of the Savior 3. Treatise on the Resurrec(III,5)65 tion (I,4) 4. Gospel of the Egyptians 4. Gospel of Thomas (II,2) (IV,2) 5. Gospel of Philip (II,3)72 6. Exegesis on the Soul (II,6) 5. Authoritative Teaching 7. Book of Thomas (II,7) (VI,3)66 6. Discourse on the Eighth 8. Eugnostos the Blessed and Ninth (VI,6)67 (III,3) 7. Prayer of Thanksgiving 9. Eugnostos the Blessed (VI,7)68 (V,1) 8. Asclepius (VI,8)69 10. Acts of Peter and the 9. Teachings of Silvanus Twelve Apostles (VI,1) (VII,4)70 11. Thunder: Perfect Mind 10. A Valentinian Exposition (VI,2) (XI,2)71 (I,5)63

Negative 1. Gospel of Truth (I,3) 2. Apocryphon of John (II,1) 3. Hypostasis of the Archons (II,4) 4. On the Origin of the World (II,5) 5. Apocryphon of John (III,1) 6. Wisdom of Jesus Christ (III,4) 7. Apocryphon of John (IV,1) 8. Apocalypse of Paul (V,2)73 9. 1 Apocalypse of James (V,3)

Tri. Trac. 95–102, esp. 100.19–36. Although the character of the creator-angel Sakla in this story has been interpreted through the lens of Ap. John’s negative depiction of Yaldabaoth, they are quite different characters. In Gos. Eg., Sakla organizes the cosmos out of primordial chaos not in an act of arrogance or rebellion, but on behalf of providential powers. Heavenly ministers first call forth an angel to rule over chaos, and when Sakla emerges to do so, he organizes the world “by the will of the Self-Begotten One” (an epithet for God according to this text’s theology). It is only after the creation of the world that Sakla rebels (Gos. Eg. III 56.22–58.26, esp. 57.22–26). The story is more akin to myths of angelic apostasy, in which the world is created by the will of God, but usurped by fallen angels. Cf. Jenott, Gospel of Judas, 94–99. 65 Dial. Sav. 144.9–10; cf. 127.19–131.15. 66 Auth. Teach. 25.27–26.26. 67 Disc. 8–9 55.24–56.11, esp. 56.8: “He created everything.” 68 Pr. Thanks. 64.25. 69 Asclepius 66.35–67.34. 70 Teach. Silv. 116.5–9; 115.16–19. 71 Val. Exp. 35.24–31; 37.28–38; 38.37–39 (see discussion below). 72 One passage in Gos. Phil. (75.2–10) is conventionally interpreted by scholars to refer to the evil creator of the world. The passage is, however, sufficiently ambiguous that it allows for alternative interpretations. Instead of refering to an evil creator god, it could be understood as a reference to Adam’s transgression and the world that came into being after the Fall: “The world came into being from a transgression (ⲡⲁⲣⲁⲡⲧⲱⲙⲁ), for he who made it wanted to make himself imperishable and immortal. He perished and he did not obtain what he hoped for, for the world was not imperishable, and the one who created the world was not imperishable.” Cf. Gos. Phil. 68.23–26; 71.24–27; 74.1–12; Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 214–20. 73 Apoc. Paul 22.24–23.29, esp. 23.26–29: “He (the old man on the throne in the seventh heaven) turned his face downwards to his creation (ⲡⲉϥⲥⲱⲛ[ⲧ]) …” 63 64

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Positive

No Clear Evaluation

Negative

12. Plato, Republic 588a– 589b (VI,5) 13. Three Steles of Seth (VII,5) 14. Melchizedek (IX,1) 15. Thought of Norea (IX,2) 16. Marsanes (X) 17. Interpretation of Knowledge (XI,1) 18. Liturgical Fragments (XI,2a–e) 19. Allogenes (XI,3) 20. Hypsiphrone (XI,4) 21. Sentences of Sextus (XII,1) 22. Fragments (XII,3)

10. 2 Apocalypse of James (V,4)74 11. Apocalypse of Adam (V,5) 12. Concept of Our Great Power (VI,4)75 13. Paraphrase of Shem (VII,1) 14. Second Treatise of the Great Seth (VII,2) 15. Apocalypse of Peter (VII,3)76 16. Zostrianos (VIII,1) 17. Letter of Peter to Philip (VIII,2) 18. Testimony of Truth (IX,3) 19. Gospel of Truth (XII,2)77 20. Trimorphic Protennoia (XIII,1) 21. On the Origin of the World (XIII,2)78

While one may quibble over how to interpret the depiction of the creator god in this or that text, the overall significance of the distribution is clear: less than half the texts in the collection clearly denigrate the creator. Those texts which clearly express attitudes toward the creator can thus be plotted on a wide spectrum, ranging from more antagonistic depictions, such as Yaldabaoth in the Apocryphon of John or personified Error in the Gospel of Truth, to views which in terms of their creation theology are positively “orthodox.” The Dialogue of the Savior, for example, pronounces the straightforward view that the divine Father “established the world for himself.”79 In other texts the world is created by an intermediary figure such as the Logos or Jesus. Ac74 In 2 Apoc. Jas 58.2–8, “he who created heaven and earth and dwelt in it” is said to have not seen the Savior. The reference is ambiguous, but probably assumes some kind of antagonistic demiurgical theology. 75 Great Pow. 48.9–11. 76 Apoc. Pet. 82.20–25, where Elohim, to whom Jesus’ body is said to belong, is presumably the creator and God of Israel. 77 Assuming that the version in XII included the same myth of Planê as the version in Codex I. 78 Assuming that the version in XIII included the same myth of Yaldabaoth as the version in Codex II. 79 Dial. Sav. 129.20–21, 144.9–10, where the Father clearly refers to the benevolent God and father of Jesus (cf. 121.5–7; 146.19–20).

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cording to the Teachings of Silvanus, it is wrong to describe the creator of all things as ignorant, since he is in fact the Logos and eternal Son of the Father;80 and in the treatise conventionally entitled A Valentinian Exposition, the demiurge is identified with the heavenly Jesus himself.81 Another text, referred to by scholars as the Tripartite Tractate, describes the creator positively as an “image of the Father” and as an instrument employed by the Logos in the work of creation.82 The view of creation found in other texts defies tidy classification. In the Trimorphic Protennoia, the ignorant and antagonistic rulers are said to have played some role in creation, including the formation of humanity, yet the divine voice of providence affirms that “I dwell within all the sovereignties, powers, and angels … None of them knew me, yet it is I who work in them. But [they thought] the universe was created [by them] since they are ignorant.”83 Even in those texts which cast the creator god in a rather negative light, the attitude toward the created world itself is not always disdainful. As Michael Williams has shown, many of these texts emphasize that while the creation of the world was the direct work of antagonistic rulers, it neverthless reflects to some extent the goodness and order of the divine realm, and came into being providentially for a greater purpose, “by the will of the Father.”84 It is therefore a rather misleading generalization to describe the Nag Hammadi texts as representatives of a “Gnostic” attitude of hatred toward the creator and the world. As one can see from this brief survey of creation theology in these texts, the majority of them do not present such a view, and several express positive views about both the creator and the world. This has important implications for the possible theological views of those who owned the Nag Hammadi Codices in Upper Egypt. As Goehring has Teach. Silv. 116.5–9; 115.16–19. Hence the title Jesus the Demiurge originally given to the text (see David M. Scholer, Nag Hammadi Bibliography, 1948–1969 [NHS 1; Leiden: Brill, 1971], 188). At Val. Exp. 35.24–31, the eternal Father brings forth the form of pre-existent realities, and the heavenly Jesus in turn creates “the creation” (ⲧⲕⲧⲓⲥⲓⲥ); then at 37.28–38, “this creator” (evidently Jesus according to the context in 37.20–31; cf. 35.31) creates mankind; and at 38.37–39, the text states that God (either the Father or Jesus) “almost regreted that he created the world” after the apostate angels descended to the daughters of men (cf. Gen 6:6). 82 Tri. Trac. 95–102, esp. 100.19–36. 83 Trim. Prot. 47.19–27; cf. 35.11–20: “I move in every creature … within every power, every eternal movement, invisible lights, rulers, angels, demons, and every soul. … I move in everyone and I delve into them all.” A similar view of the Holy Spirit’s providential activity through the antagonistic rulers is expressed in Gos. Phil.: “The rulers thought that it was by their power and their will that they were doing what they were doing, but the Holy Spirit was secretly effecting everything through them as it wished” (55.14–19). 84 See, e. g., Hyp. Arch. 88.10–12; 96.11–14; Soph. Jes. Chr. 114.13–24; Paraph. Shem (passim). For a detailed discussion see Michael A. Williams, “A Life Full of Meaning and Purpose: Demiurgical Myths and Social Implications,” in Beyond the Gnostic Gospels: Studies Building on the Work of Elaine Pagels (ed. Eduard Iricinschi et al.; STAC 82; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 19–59. 80 81

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observed, “One need not always assume that the less heterodox texts were read in light of the more heterodox texts, and not the other way around.”85 Despite the presence of those texts in the collection which depict the creator god as antagonistic, the possibility that the codices could have been read by people who believed that the creator was in fact benevolent should not be discounted. This possibility becomes even more intriguing when we remember that the texts with more negative attitutes toward the creator constitute a minority in the collection as a whole. The texts in the middle column, which do not express a clear evaluation of the creator, may well have been read in light of a positive evalution rather than a negative one. If the owners of the Nag Hammadi Codices did not embrace the negative attitudes towards the creator professed by the texts in the negative column, how might these texts have been read by the owners of the books? It is important to remind ourselves that one cannot assume that ancient readers believed everything they read in these texts anymore than readers do today. They may not have shared modern readers’ preoccupation with the issue of creation theology, but may have found the texts appealing for what they had to offer on any number of other subjects (e. g., spiritual progress, revealed knowledge, angelology, asceticism, etc.). It may have been that the presence of such texts in the collection was not regarded as theologically problematic, at least not by everyone in the community. At any rate, we cannot reconstruct the theological views of the codices’ ancient owners based on what books they kept in their collections, not only because of the sheer diversity of views exhibited among the Nag Hammadi texts, but also because these codices are not likely to have been the only books they read.86 In summary, it is problematic to characterize the Nag Hammadi texts as representatives of a “Gnostic” attitude which can be distinguished from the “mentality” of Christian monasticism. To do so is to ignore the actual contents of most of the texts in favor of caricatured descriptions informed by ancient heresiology and modern generalizations about “Gnosticism.” When we consider the complexity of perspectives in the texts themselves, it is clear that the typological distinction between Christian asceticism and Gnostic encractism does not bring us closer to the historical reality of those who owned and read the Nag Hammadi Codices in late antique Egypt.

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Goehring, “Some Reflections,” 69. It is worth noting, however, that with the exception of Codex X and the incomplete Codex XI, all the Nag Hammadi Codices contain at least one text that represents a negative evaluation of the creator. It is not improbable that this circumstance may have contributed to the fact that these particular books were eventually gathered together in a jar and buried. 86

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Urban Literati? A cornerstone of Khosroyev’s theory that it was urban literati rather than rural monks who owned the Nag Hammadi Codices is his assertion that some education in Greek philosophy would have been necessary to read and understand the texts. Khosroyev does not explain what he means when he calls the texts “semiphilosophical” or “philosophizing,” but he substantiates his claim with reference to a short article published by Alexander Böhlig, entitled “Die griechische Schule und die Bibliothek von Nag Hammadi.”87 As evidence for the “influence” of Greek education on select texts from the collection, Böhlig points to such examples as the Exegesis on the Soul’s citations of Homer, Marsanes’ teaching about consonants and vowels, On the Origin of the World’s familiarity with Greek mythological characters (Chaos, Eros, Psychê, the Phoenix), the brief, though modified excerpt of Plato’s Republic in Codex VI, Platonic notions of cosmological archetypes and copies, as well as the frequent use of “philosophical” terminology (e. g., archê, pneuma, logos, nous, physis). In his final analysis, Böhlig concludes that no one could “understand” such texts, let alone compose them, without having some Greek education.88 But these assumptions also need to be queried. Is the characterization of the Nag Hammadi texts as “semi-philosophical” or “philosophizing” an adequate summary of their contents? Is it more likely that a “philosophizing” text would be read by urban intellectuals rather than Coptic monks, in codices written in Coptic, and not in Greek? Is knowledge of Greek philosophy really necessary to read and understand the Nag Hammadi texts? And what does it mean to “understand” these texts in the first place? First of all, the characterization of the Nag Hammadi texts as “semi-philosophical” or “philosophizing” is, in our view, a rather reductive caricature that conceals their clear relationship with the Christian biblical tradition. Despite a trend in modern scholarship to investigate the relationship between some of the Nag Hammadi texts and Greek philosophy,89 even a cursory glance over their titles, not to mention their contents, reveals a firm grounding in the Christian biblical tradition – the plethora of Gospels, Acts, Letters, and Revelations associated with respected biblical characters, as well as biblically based subjects such as the Treatise on the Resurrection, the Dialogue of the Savior, the Wisdom of Jesus Christ, the Hypostasis of the Archons (cf. 1 Cor 2:8; Eph 6:12), and the 87 Alexander Böhlig, “Die griechische Schule und die Bibliothek von Nag Hammadi,” in Zum Hellenismus in den Schriften von Nag Hammadi (ed. Alexander Böhlig and Frederik Wisse; GOF.H 2; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1975), 41–44. 88 Böhlig, “Die griechische Schule,” 44: “Wer die griechische Schule nicht besucht hatte, konnte die gnostischen Texte kaum verstehen. Solche Texte verfassen, konnte er auf keinen Fall.” 89 See, e. g., Richard T. Wallis and Jay Bregman, eds., Neoplatonism and Gnosticism (New York: SUNY Press, 1992); John D. Turner, Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition (BCNH.É 6; Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2001).

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Acts of Peter and the Twelve Apostles. As we have seen, if the Nag Hammadi texts can be said to “presuppose” any sort of education on the part of their readers, then someone familiar with the Christian Bible, its stories, characters and themes, would, in our view, be better equipped to “understand” the texts than would someone well-read in Plato’s dialogues. In any event, the description of the Nag Hammadi texts as “semi-philosophical” and “philosophizing” does no more justice to their biblical roots than the characterization of them as “antibiblical,” and cannot provide the basis for speculating about the social profile of their Egyptian readers. Yet even if one were to admit that the Nag Hammadi texts somehow “presuppose” that readers have familiarity with Greek education and philosophy, why should monks not be among the likely candidates? On this point, Khosroyev’s hypothesis problematically assumes a rather strict dichotomy between Greekspeaking city intellectuals on the one hand, and relatively illiterate “rural Copts” and monks on the other. But the close interconnections between the monasteries, villages and cities of Egypt are well documented.90 The critical re-reading of literary sources and increasing wealth of documentary evidence for Egyptian monasticism show that monks often lived in close proximity to, and even within, villages and cities, traveled widely, and participated in the local economy as laborers, manufacturers, teachers, counsellors, and intercessors.91 Simultaneously, research into levels of education and the continuity of the classical tradition among Egyptian monastics has also revealed that the picture of the unlettered hermit of the desert, as presented by Athanasius in the Vita Antonii, must be regarded primarily as hagiographical fiction, rather than historical 90 Alan K. Bowman, Egypt After the Pharaohs: 332 BC – AD 642: From Alexander to the Arab Conquest (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 129–30, 142–43, 153–55; James G. Keenan, “On Village and Polis in Byzantine Egypt,” in Proceedings of the XVIth International Congress of Papyrology: New York, 24–31 July 1980 (ed. Roger S. Bagnall et al.; ASP 23; Chico, Cal.: Scholars Press, 1981): 479–85; cf. Samuel Rubenson, The Letters of St. Antony: Monasticism and the Making of a Saint (SAC; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995), 91–95; Rousseau, Pachomius, 3–13; James E. Goehring, “The World Engaged: The Social and Economic World of Early Egyptian Monasticism,” in Gnosticism & the Early Christian World: Essays in Honor of James M. Robinson (ed. James E. Goehring et al.; Sonoma, Cal.: Polebridge Press, 1990), 134–44; Goehring, “The Encroaching Desert: Literary Production and Ascetic Space in Early Christian Egypt,” JECS 1:3 (1993): 281–96; Goehring, “Withdrawing from the Desert: Pachomius and the Development of Village Monasticism in Upper Egypt,” HTR 89:3 (1996): 267–85. 91 For a detailed study, see Wipszycka, “Le monachisme égyptien et les villes,” TMCB 12 (1994): 1–44, whose basic thesis is that “la nette opposition entre le désert et le ‘monde,’ que nous constatons dans la pensée et la mentalité des moines d’Égypte, ne correspond nullement à une nette séparation dans la vie de tous les jours. Dans la réalité, les deux zones étaient liées l’une à l’autre” (ibid., 2). On the urban apotactic movement, see Goehring, “Through a Glass Darkly: Images of the Ἀποτακτικοί(αί) in Early Egyptian Monasticism,” in Ascetics, Society, and the Desert, 53–72. On the Pachomian monks in particular, see Goehring, “The World Engaged” and “Withdrawing from the Desert.” Cf. Peter Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity,” JRS 61 (1971): 80–101, esp. 83 on Egypt.

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reality.92 As Samuel Rubenson observes, the Letters of St. Antony, in contrast to the Vita, “reveal that he must not only have been literate, but also possessed of some education. His theology shows that he must have had a fairly good knowledge of contemporary philosophical ideas and a fair acquaintance with Origenist tradition and exegesis.”93 Of course not all monks were as educated as the Antony of the Letters, or as sophisticated as Diocles, the philososopher monk with whom Palladius discoursed near Antinoë.94 Nevertheless, one should expect to find the full range of educational levels represented among Egyptian monks, from the completely illiterate to those with training in rhetoric and philosophy. Therefore monks cannot be excluded from among the potential readers of the Nag Hammadi Codices simply on the grounds that the texts presuppose some classical education. However, the more important question in our view is whether one really needs to be familiar with Greek paideia in order to “understand” the Nag Hammadi texts. To begin with, the notion that the texts somehow “presuppose” some classical education of their readers confuses the education of the texts’ authors with that of their readers, though the two need not be equivalent. Elements of Greek myth, rhetoric and philosophy in the Nag Hammadi texts may reflect the education and culture of their authors or redactors, but not necessarily the education and culture of their readers. In the process of textual transmission, geographic diffusion, and translation into other languages and cultures, texts come to be 92 Samuel Rubenson’s ongoing research project, “Early Monasticism and Classical Paideia” (MOPAI) at Lund University is an excellent example of this direction in scholarship. See the essays in Samuel Rubenson, ed., Early Monasticism and Classical Paideia (vol. 3 of Studia Patristica LV: Papers Presented at the Sixteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held at Oxford 2011; ed. Markus Vinzent; Leuven: Peeters, 2013); Rubenson, “Monasticism and the Philosophical Heritage,” in The Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity (ed. Scott Johnson; New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 487–512; Lillian Larsen, “Pedagogical Parallels: Re-reading the Apophthegmata Patrum” (Ph.D. diss.; Columbia University, 2006), esp. 26–73; Larsen, “The Apophthegmata Patrum and the Classical Rhetorical Tradition,” in Studia Patristica XXXIX: Papers Presented at the Fourteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2003: Historica, Biblica, Ascetica et Hagiographica (ed. F. Young, M. Edwards, and P. Parvis; Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 409–15; Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony, 96–99; Henri Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1956; repr. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1982), 314–50. 93 Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony, 141. On the legacy of Origen in Egyptian monasticism, see Rubenson, “Origen in the Egyptian Monastic Tradition of the Fourth Century,” in Origeniana Septima: Origenes in den Auseinandersetzungen des 4. Jahrhunderts (ed. W. A. Bienert and U. Kühneweg; BETL 137; Leuven: Peeters, 1999), 319–37; Samuel Rubenson, “Reading Origen in the Egyptian Desert,” MCPL 19 (2004): 44–50. Cf. David Brakke, Athanasius and the Politics of Asceticism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 213, who characterizes Antony’s letters as witnesses to “an academic Christianity of the desert.” The writings of Origen and Didymus the Blind discovered in the Tura papyri from the Monastery of Arsenios furnish a material example of the Origenist legacy in Egyptian monasticism; see Ludwig Koenen and Wolfgang MüllerWiener, “Zu den Papyri aus dem Arsenioskloster bei Ṭurā,” ZPE 2 (1968): 41–63. 94 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 58.

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read by all sorts of different people regardless of the education of their original authors and that of the intended readers. To take Paul’s Epistle to the Romans as an example, several recent studies have suggested that one cannot understand it properly without some knowledge of the Greco-Roman rhetorical devices used by the Apostle.95 And yet generations of readers from Paul’s lifetime up to the present day have certainly read and “understood” Romans, in so far as they have found the text meaningful and managed to make sense of it, without any acquaintance with ancient rhetoric. Granted, a reader who understands ancient rhetorical devices will almost certainly interpret Romans differently from someone who does not, and may arguably be in a better position to understand what Paul tried to convey in the letter, but we cannot infer anything from this about who actually read Romans throughout history, what sense they made of it, or what kind of education they must have had. Mutatis mutandis, while the contents of the Nag Hammadi texts may tell us something about the education and culture of their authors, it does not necessarily tell us anything about what kind of education their readers must have had or how they “understood” the texts as they read them in the socio-cultural context of late antique Upper Egypt. Knowledge of Greek philosophy may, among other subjects, in many cases be helpful for scholars of religion today who wish to understand the Nag Hammadi texts in the wider spectrum of ancient intellectual history (as could be said about a vast amount of ancient Christian literature, including parts of the New Testament). But what about a reader in late antique Egypt, who read the Nag Hammadi texts for what were presumably devotional purposes? Readers interested in biblical interpretation, prayer and ritual, ethical teaching, explanations of the world and its spiritual powers, would not necessarily be concerned with understanding the texts in the same way as modern scholars of religion are, and would not need education in philosophy, philology, history or other cognate disciplines. Khosroyev’s assumption that no one could “understand” the Nag Hammadi texts without familiarity with Greek philosophy, and concomittantly, the inferences he draws from this assumption concerning the social and cultural profile of their owners, are therefore not tenable. This does not mean, however, that it is impossible to infer anything about the readers of the Nag Hammadi Codices from their texts. One important fact we know about the codices’ owners is that they read literary texts in the Egyptian 95 E. g., George Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation through Rhetorical Criticism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 10: “What we need to do is to try to hear [Paul’s] words as a Greek-speaking audience would have heard them, and that involves some understanding of classical rhetoric.” See Neil Elliott, The Rhetoric of Romans: Argumentative Constraint and Strategy, and Paul’s Dialogue with Judaism (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007); John Lodge, Romans 9–11: A Reader-Response Analysis (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996); Stanley Stowers, The Diatribe and Paul’s Letter to the Romans (SBLDS 57; Chico, Cal.: Scholars Press, 1981); Stowers, A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994); Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000).

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language (Coptic). This in itself raises the important question, “Why Coptic?” as Stephen Emmel has put it.96 Why are the Nag Hammadi texts in Coptic, and not in Greek? And if they were originally composed in Greek, as most scholars assume,97 why were they then translated from Greek into Coptic? The conventional explanation for why the Nag Hammadi texts were translated into (or composed in) Coptic – namely, so they could be read or heard by Coptophones who did not understand Greek  – poses a difficult challenge to Khosroyev’s theory: for if the owners were urban intellectuals steeped in Greek philosophy and culture, why would they read their literary texts in Coptic and bother to translate them from Greek in the first place? Why not simply read the texts in Greek? Egypt was of course a highly bilingual society at the time when the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced, yet we know that by the fourth century, Greek had long been the dominant language of the educated classes in both the cities and villages.98 Regardless of one’s native language and social status, education in late antique Egypt was firmly grounded in what Roger Bagnall describes as “a profoundly traditional training in Greek,” in the language and its canon of literature.99 Of course some educated people had competence in both Greek and Coptic, either because they learned Coptic for practical reasons (to manage their estates, for example) or because they were native-speaking Egyptians who had enjoyed the benefits of a classical education.100 But it was Greek that prevailed as the language of culture and literature among the educated classes. It is therefore difficult to explain why urban intellectuals in the fourth century would read the Nag Hammadi texts in Coptic, not Greek, and even go so far as to translate them into Coptic.101 Khosroyev posits that the Nag Hammadi texts were translated into Coptic because their owners found themselves losing their abiblity to read Greek. In order to continue understanding the texts, they had to get them into Coptic before it was too late: 96

Emmel, “Coptic Gnostic Texts,” 43. It is important to note that while it is commonly assumed that the Nag Hammadi texts were translated into Coptic from Greek, this is something that is not usually argued, but simply taken for granted. In our view this has to be argued on a case by case basis, and the burden of proof should be on those who would argue for a different original language than the one in which the texts have been preserved. 98 On the prevalence of the Greek language among the educated classes of Egypt, see Naphtali Lewis, Life in Egypt Under Roman Rule (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983), 36–83; Bowman, Egypt After the Pharaohs, 125–28, 157–64; Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 99–109; and Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind. 99 Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 99. 100 Jean-Luc Fournet, “The Multilingual Environment of Late Antique Egypt: Greek, Latin, Coptic, and Persian Documentation,” in The Oxford Handbook of Papyrology (ed. Roger S. Bagnall; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 418–51, esp. 433–34; cf. Lewis, Life in Egypt, 66–67, 82. 101 This is especially difficult to explain if, as Khosroyev maintains, they had no intention of speading their “secret” teachings outside their own circle. 97

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Such books were most likely translated by bilingual Egyptians, and indeed not with the aim of spreading the teaching, but rather because at this time knowledge of Greek among the Copts, even in the cities, gradually began to dwindle, so that in the circles of the urban semi-intellectuals outside the institutional church, who had their own conception of Christianity (by which they did not necessarily consider themselves part of a concrete Christian school), and who had earlier been able to read such texts in the original, but who were not professional translators, the need was felt to translate these increasingly less-understood writings for their own use.102

Khosroyev’s hypothetical profile of the codices’ urban owners rests on many unfounded assumptions. First of all, bracketing for a moment the dearth of evidence for such a group of city-dwelling, middle class, syncretistic, bilingual, untraditionally Christian, semi-intellectual Coptophones familiar with Greek philosophy, as he describes them, his theory asks us to believe that in late antique Egypt there was a demographic whose constituents were, on the one hand, losing their command of the Greek language, and thus felt compelled to translate their “philosophizing,” “anti-biblical” texts into Coptic, and yet simultaneously continued to possess enough education in Greek philosophy to be able to “understand” them. If these were in fact the circumstances in which the Nag Hammadi texts were translated into Coptic, then why do we not find Coptic translations of Plato, Aristotle and other Classical authors as well?103 Moreover, it is difficult to imagine any real-life scenario in which there was a generation of bilingual people who knew Greek well enough to produce translations of their texts but at the same time perceived that their command of the language was on the wane. Secondly, Khosroyev’s argument that the texts were translated merely for internal use within his hypothetical group, and not to be disseminated among other Coptophones, is based on the premise that the texts purport to offer “secret” teaching (e. g., the Secret Books of John and James, and others that warn against sharing their contents with the unworthy). He infers from such calls to secrecy that the owners were, in actual practice, elitists with no missionizing aspirations or intentions of disseminating their wisdom among the “rural Copts” whose

102 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 101–2: “Höchstwahrscheinlich wurden solche Bücher von zweisprachigen Ägyptern übersetzt und zwar nicht zum Zweck der Verbreitung der Lehre, sondern deswegen, weil zu dieser Zeit die Kenntnis des Griechischen bei den Kopten, sogar in den Städten, allmählich zu schwinden begann, so daß in den Kreisen der außerhalb der Amtskirche stehenden städtischen Halbintellektuellen, die ihre eigene Auffassung vom Christentum hatten (wobei sie sich nicht unbedingt zu einer konkreten christlichen Schule zählten) und die derartige Texte früher im Original gelesen haben könnten, aber keine professionellen Übersetzer waren, die Notwendigkeit begriffen wurde, diese immer weniger verstandenen Schriften für den eigenen Gebrauch zu übersetzen.” 103 Cf. Bentley Layton, A Coptic Grammar: With Chrestomathy and Glossary: Sahidic Dialect (PLO 20; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2000), 4. The small excerpt of Plato’s Republic in NHC VI can hardly be seen as evidence to the contrary as it has been greatly revised and bears no title or attribution to Plato in the manuscript.

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culture they disdained.104 Yet as a number of studies on the motif of secrecy in religious texts have observed, tantalizingly secretive titles like “Apocryphon,” and exhortations to guard a book’s contents, do not necessarily indicate how such literature was used or disseminated in practice.105 In fact, the claim to offer secret teachings can also be interpreted as a form of religious advertising used to enhance the appeal of the literature for new readers who are in turn encouraged to see themselves as those special people for whom the hidden wisdom has been preserved all along.106 Therefore we cannot agree with Khosroyev that the claim to secrecy in some (and only some) of the Nag Hammadi texts indicates that their owners in late antique Egypt did not want to disseminate their literature. Finally, Khosroyev’s argument that the Greek language was gradually dwindling among educated Egyptians at the time when the texts were translated into Coptic (presumably sometime before 400) contradicts everything we know about the persistence of the Greek language in Egypt. A wealth of evidence shows that Greek continued to be used for literature and letters, as well as business and legal affairs well into Egypt’s Byzantine and Arab periods.107 As Sarah Clackson summarizes the situation, “Despite the gradual emergence of Coptic as a valid language for external affairs beginning in the sixth century, Greek kept its status in Egyptian society even after the last Byzantines were long gone.”108 Egyptians continued to read classical and patristic authors in Greek centuries after the Roman era, as the many extant manuscripts of their works show.109 104 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 85–86: “Das Faktum, daß diese Texte aus dem Griechischen ins Koptische übersetzt wurden, ist allein kein Beweis dafür, daß diejenigen, die diese Schriften auf Griechisch lasen, sie unter der koptischen Landbevölkerung zu verbreiten suchten. Der Anspruch sowohl dieser Texte selbst als auch der ihrer Benutzer, daß sie ein geheimes, nur von Auserwählten erreichbares Wissen enthielten, setzt kaum eine solche missionarische Aktivität voraus, besonders unter den Leuten, die ihrer Bildung und ihren Interessen nach von vornherein zu Unverständigen verurteilt waren.” 105 See especially Michael A. Williams, “Secrecy, Revelation, and Late Antique Demiurgical Myths,” in Rending the Veil: Concealment and Secrecy in the History of Religions (ed. Elliot R. Wolfson; Chappaqua, NY: Seven Bridges Press, 1998), 31–58. 106 This view is also reflected in heresiological writings of the period, such as Shenoute’s I Am Amazed, on which see Hugo Lundhaug, “Mystery and Authority in the Writings of Shenoute,” in Mystery and Secrecy in the Nag Hammadi Collection and Other Ancient Literature: Ideas and Practices (ed. Christian H. Bull, Liv Ingeborg Lied, and John D. Turner; NHMS 76; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 259–85, and the discussion in chapter six of the present study. 107 See Anneliese Biedenkopf-Ziehner, “Kontinuität Ägyptischer Ausbildung und Bildung in paganer und christlicher Zeit,” GöMisz 173 (1999): 21–48; Bagnall, Everyday Writing, 95–116; Klaas A. Worp, “Studien zu spätgriechischen, koptischen und arabischen Papyri,” BSAC 26 (1984): 99–108. 108 Sarah J. Clackson, “Coptic or Greek? Bilingualism in the Papyri,” in The Multilingual Experience in Egypt, from the Ptolemies to the Abbasids (ed. Arietta Papaconstantinou; Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), 103. 109 Maehler, “Byzantine Egypt”; Roger Pack, The Greek and Latin Literary Texts from Greco-Roman Egypt (2nd ed.; Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1965). To cite one example from Pack’s inventory, Greek texts of Homer’s Iliad dated by their editors to the

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Furthermore, we know of the illustrious careers of famous, fifth-century Egyptian literati like Nonnus, Triphiodorus, Cyrus, Pamprepius and Olympiodorus, all born in Upper Egypt, and all fluent in Greek.110 In the sixth century we see successful Egyptians like Dioscorus of Aphrodito (north of Panopolis), who received a classical education in Greek, rhetoric, and law, and served as legal counsel to the dukes of the Thebaid. The remains of his rather extensive archive show that Dioscorus worked in his native Coptic language but wrote prose and verse compositions in Greek.111 By the fifth century, when some Egyptians, such as Shenoute, had begun to compose literary texts in Coptic,112 clergymen like Cyril of Alexandria and his successor Dioscorus continued to read and write in Greek. Dioscorus wrote to Shenoute in Greek, and asked him to translate the letter into Coptic for Egyptian readers.113 Even as late as the eighth century, the fifth century or later: nos. 555, 557, 563, 573, 586, 587, 592, 608, 611, 629, 654, 658, 667, 695, 728, 813, 843, 864, 872, 873, 877, 884, 888, 902, 904, 911, 923, 925, 926, 932, 933, 939, 946, 948, 954, 961, 984, 988. See also the Greek manuscripts in Pack’s appendix “Patristic Authors,” 152–55. A book-list on a sheet of papyrus from the Fayum dating to the seventh/eighth century lists a significant number of Greek patristic works, showing the reading of even minor Christian works in Greek here at a very late date (see Hans Gerstinger, “Ein Bücherverzeichnis aus dem VII.–VIII. Jh. n. Chr. im Pap. Graec. Vindob. 26015,” WSt 50 [1932]: 185–92). For a full overview of Greek (as well as Coptic) literature referred to in Egyptian documentary texts, see Hermann Harrauer, “Bücher in Papyri,” in Flores litterarum Ioanni Marte sexagenario oblati: Wissenschaft in der Bibliothek (ed. Helmut W. Lang et al.; Biblos-Schriften 163; Wien: Böhlau Verlag, 1995), 59–77. With only a few exceptions, there is also a notable lack of translations of authentic patristic works from Greek into Coptic (see, e. g., Orlandi, “Coptic Literature,” in The Roots of Egyptian Christianity [ed. Birger A. Pearson and James E. Goehring; SAC; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986], 51–81; Orlandi, “Patristic Texts in Coptic,” in Patrology: The Eastern Fathers from the Council of Chalcedon (451) to John of Damascus (d.750) [ed. Angelo di Berardino; trans. Adrian Walford; Cambridge: James Clarke & Co, 2006], 491–570). 110 Alan Cameron notes that “The fact that so many of these poets came from the Thebaid suggests that there were some very competent schools and teachers there to foster the tradition; it is most unlikely that they all received their instruction in Alexandria” (“Wandering Poets: A Literary Movement in Byzantine Egypt,” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 14:4 [1965]: 473 n. 17). See also Cameron, “Poets and Pagans in Byzantine Egypt,” in Egypt in the Byzantine World (ed. Roger S. Bagnall; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 21–46, esp. 34–44. For a literary study of Nonnus’ works, with less attention to his social context, see Robert Shorrock, The Myth of Paganism: Nonnus, Dionysus and the World of Late Antiquity (Classical Literature and Society; London: Bristol Classical Press, 2011). 111 Leslie S. B. MacCoull, Dioscorus of Aphrodito: His Work and His World (TCH 16; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988). And see her collected essays on Dioscorus in MacCoull, Coptic Perspectives on Late Antiquity (CStS; Aldershot: Ashgate, 1993), nos. II–X; Maehler, “Byzantine Egypt,” 118–19. 112 On Coptic literature, see Orlandi, “Coptic Literature”; Orlandi, “Literature, Coptic,” in Coptic Encyclopedia (8 vols.; ed. Aziz S. Atiya; New York: Macmillan, 1991), 5:1450–60; Orlandi, “Letteratura copta e Cristianesimo nazionale egiziano,” in L’Egitto Cristiano: Aspetti e problemi in età tardo-antica (ed. Alberto Camplani; SEAug 56; Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 1997), 39–120 ; Orlandi, “Patristic Texts in Coptic;” Stephen Emmel, “Coptic Literature in the Byzantine and Early Islamic World,” in Egypt in the Byzantine World (ed. Roger S. Bagnall; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 83–102. 113 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 68 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 371).

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Coptic patriarch Alexander II composed his annual festal letter not in Coptic, but in Greek.114 Moreover, medieval Coptic manuscripts often contain colophons written wholly or partly in Greek.115 Therefore we can hardly accept Khosroyev’s unsubstantiated claim that knowledge of the Greek language was dwindling among Egyptians already at the time when the Nag Hammadi texts were being translated. His theory cannot adequately explain why, if the owners of the Nag Hammadi Codices were urban intellectuals, they would have read their literary texts in Coptic, especially if, as he maintains, they had no intention of disseminating them among non-Greek speaking readers. To us, the inevitable conclusion must rather be that whoever translated the Nag Hammadi texts into Coptic, and in some instances probably even composed, rewrote, or edited the texts in that language, did so because they wanted them to be read or heard by Coptophones who did not have an adequate knowledge of Greek. The important question “why in Coptic?” has been taken up by Stephen Emmel as well, and like Khosroyev, he finds the simple explanation – so that they could be read or heard by Coptophones who did not have adequate knowledge of Greek – to be an inadequte answer.116 While Emmel largely agrees with Khosroyev that the people among whom the Nag Hammadi texts circulated were probably bilingual persons in the Hellenized cities of Egypt, and not Christian monks, they part ways over the primary language of these people. Whereas Khosroyev believes they were native Coptic speakers who learned Greek as a second language, Emmel sees them as primarily Greek speakers who translated “esoteric” texts into Coptic in order to create a new form of Egyptian wisdom literature. Like Khosroyev, Emmel characterizes the Nag Hammadi collection generically as “texts of a philosophical nature or of pure theological speculation” and maintains, in turn, that Egyptians who did not know Greek would probably not have been interested in them. “Thinking primarily about such texts as, for example, the Gospel of Truth, the Tripartite Tractate, the Three Steles of Seth, Zostrianos, or Allogenes,” says Emmel, “it is nearly impossible for me to imagine that the ‘market’ for Coptic translations of such works was non-Greek-speaking Coptophones.”117 In addition to the Nag Hammadis texts’ presumed “philosophical nature,” Emmel infers a primarily Greek-speaking readership from his evaluation of their Coptic style. In his estimation, the forms of Coptic found among the Nag E. g., P. Berol. 10677; cf. Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 255. See the abundance of examples of this practice in Arnold van Lantschoot, Recueil des colophons des manuscrits chrétiens d’Égypte: Tome I: Les colophons coptes des manuscrits sahidiques (Mémoire couronné au Concours Universitaire pour 1924–1926) (2 vols.; BMus 1; Leuven: J.-B. Istas, 1929). 116 Emmel, “Coptic Gnostic Texts.” 117 Emmel, “Coptic Gnostic Texts,” 45. 114 115

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Hammadi Codices can sometimes be so unintelligible that in order to understand them one has to “rethink” them in Greek.118 Quoting Enzo Lucchesi on the challenges modern scholars can face when translating particularly difficult Coptic texts, Emmel posits that if one imagines that such works were translated, or transposed, into Coptic for the sake of an audience with no Greek, one must face the paradox that “in order to understand them, one practically needs a profound knowledge of Greek, or at least a certain familiarity with the structure of Greek sentences, or put otherwise, habits of mind (forma mentis) that only bilingual people (or candidates for bilingualism) could have had.”119

Emmel’s conclusion then leads him to the key question: Why would native Greek speakers translate these texts into Egyptian at all, instead of simply reading them in Greek? He suggests that it may have been an attraction to the Egyptian language in particular that motivated the translations. He proposes that the kind of people among whom the Nag Hammadi texts circulated, and who eventually produced the Coptic translations which underlie the versions we now possess in the Nag Hammadi Codices, were probably native Greek speakers from the Greco-Egyptian cities. Because of their love for Egypt and its hallowed tradition, and perhaps even in response to the growth of Christianity and/or Manichaeism in Egypt, they sought to create a new Egyptian wisdom literature and did so by learning enough Coptic to translate, even if only poorly, their Greek “philosophical” texts into Coptic, to be read in Coptic, as Egyptian literature. Yet because their Coptic was rather poor, they – not unlike modern scholars – must have often been compelled to rethink their translations in the original Greek language in order to understand them.120 118 Emmel draws on Enzo Lucchesi’s reflections on a Coptic manuscript of Pachomius’ successor Horsiesios, which Lucchesi had found especially difficult to translate, thus leading him to the conclusion that it “must be rethought in Greek” in order to understand it. Emmel, “Coptic Gnostic Texts,” 44, quoting Lucchesi, “Deux pages inédites d’une instruction d’Horsièse sur les amitiés particulières,” Or 70 (2001): 190 n. 17. 119 Emmel, “Coptic Gnostic Texts,” 45, quoting Lucchesi, “Deux pages,” 191. 120 Emmel, “Coptic Gnostic Texts,” 48: “I think we have to do with the products of a kind of Egypt-wide network (more or less informal) of educated, primarily Greek-speaking (that is, having Greek as their mother tongue), philosophically and esoteric-mystically like-minded people, for whom Egypt represented (even if only somewhat vaguely) a tradition of wisdom and knowledge to be revered and perpetuated. Perhaps they stood in the same tradition as that group of people who were responsible for producing texts (in Greek) … that claimed to be translations of the old Egyptian priestly literature – and who had experimented (in ‘Old Coptic’) with giving Egyptian a new written form. Once the idea of written Egyptian, in the form of standardized Coptic, became current (in the third century, let us say), it is easy to imagine a kind of rush to create a new ‘esoteric-mystical Egyptian wisdom literature’  – being ‘Egyptian’ above all by the virtue of being in Coptic rather than in Greek (even if the Coptic was sometimes barely comprehensible). I doubt it made any difference to the producers of this new Egyptian literature whether what they used for their translation activities was ‘Christian’ or ‘un-Christian.’ It would not surprise me if they were even motivated by basically anti-Christian sentiments, perhaps also by anti-Manichaean sentiments.”

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In response to this theory we can only ask what seems more plausible: That someone produced Coptic translations of Greek texts for bilingual readers, who would then have to rethink the Coptic texts in Greek in order to understand them? Or that the Coptic translations were produced in order to be read or heard by Coptophones who did not have an adequate knowledge of Greek? It seems to us that Emmel’s theory only becomes necessary if we first accept Lucchesi’s suggestion that late antique Coptophones faced the same challenges that we do when reading what to us appears to be difficult Coptic. Is it not reasonable to assume that a native speaker of Coptic living in the linguistic-cultural matrix of late antique Egypt would have been better equipped to understand his or her own mother tongue than anyone in the twenty-first century? Of course we do not mean to suggest that ancient readers never puzzled over confusing passages in their own language, or that a translators’ insufficient command of Greek or Coptic would not have introduced difficulties into a text (in addition to other textual peculiarities inevitably created in the process of transmission). Yet even if a late antique Coptophone encountered such difficult passages, there is little reason to assume that as a rule they must have resorted to rethinking the texts in Greek in order to resolve the difficulties.121 An important distinction must be maintained between the inability to understand a text without “rethinking” it in another language and the process of puzzling over a difficult passage, which inevitably leads to the creation of meaning. Whether that meaning corresponds to the intentions behind a hypothetical Vorlage is another question entirely.122 Since we cannot accept the premise that the Nag Hammadi texts, written in Coptic, somehow imply a primarily Greek-speaking readership that would have had to rethink their Coptic texts in Greek in order to understand them,123 the 121 This is partly a question of the perceived “authenticity” of the language of a translation as opposed to that of an untranslated text. Ariel Shisha-Halevy addresses this question with regard to Coptic translations of the New Testament, stating that “we badly need a formulation of authentic (in the sense of ‘untranslated’) grammatical usage for Coptic before we can even begin to argue contrastively about the native-idiomatic vs. Greek components of Scripture Coptic, and the degree and quality of artificiality, of adherence to the Vorlage and of its influence on the system of the translation” (Coptic Grammatical Categories: Structural Studies in the Syntax of Shenoutean Sahidic [AnOr 53; Rome: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1986], 2). This comment is just as relevant with regard to questions regarding the relationship between the Coptic Nag Hammadi texts and their hypothetical Greek Vorlagen. Shisha-Halevy repeats his call for a Coptic-Greek contrastive grammar in his Topics in Coptic Syntax: Structural Studies in the Bohairic Dialect (OLA 160; Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 27. 122 On the question of the interpretation of a text from the point of view of a reader versus the intentions of an author, see the discussion in Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 50–64. 123 The practical explanation has also been challenged by Tito Orlandi. According to Orlandi, the idea that Coptic literature was created in order to translate Greek texts like the Bible for Egyptians who did not understand Greek “may be partially true,” but, he continues, “the formation and use of the Coptic language appear so complicated, given the acceptence of an enormous number of Greek words and the importance of Greek syntax, that the ‘practical’ purpose of translation does not seem to hold. Other purposes should be considered, namely,

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conclusion must be that the Nag Hammadi texts were most likely translated into Coptic so that they could be read and understood by Coptic speakers who had inadequate knowledge of Greek. Moreover, where and by whom this translation activity may have occurred – whether in cities or monasteries, in Lower Egypt or Upper Egypt – has no bearing on whether or not Christian monks were the people who eventually received the texts in Upper Egypt and produced the codices we now possess.124 As we have seen, it is unlikely that people who belonged to the urban elite would have translated literary texts like these from Greek into Coptic, or that they would have chosen to read such texts in Coptic rather than in Greek if both were available. There is simply no indication that urban intellectuals would have read literary texts in Coptic.125 the effort to revive a national Egyptian culture long since in decline though never completely dead and a wish to interpolate the content of the new religious spirit into the ancient Egyptian tradition” (“Literature, Coptic,” 5:1451). Yet if the inception of Coptic as a written language had been motivated by nationalistic aspirations, why would its creators use Greek letters and allow for the “enormous number” of Greek loan words in the first place? Orlandi’s assumption that Greek vocabulary would somehow have proven too obscure for non-Greek-speaking Egyptians does not account for the fact that much Greek vocabulary entered the Egyptian language during centuries of Hellenization and, as Layton observes, “must be considered a real part of the Coptic literary lexicon.” See Layton, Coptic Grammar, 3, with further reference to LouisTheophile Lefort, “Gréco-copte,” in Coptic Studies in Honor of Walter Ewing Crum (Boston: Byzantine Institute, 1950), 65–71. See also Chris H. Reintges, “Coptic Egyptian as a Bilingual Language Variety,” in Lenguas en contacto: el testimony escrito (ed. Pedro Bádenas del la Peña et al.; Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2004), 69–86. As Reintges puts it in his Coptic grammar: “The emergence of Coptic is the result of intensive language contact in a bilingual (Egyptian-Greek) speech community. Greek was not only the language of the literate elite, but also the language of the Holy Scriptures and the new religion and hence a language of great cultural importance. The impact of this prestige language on the native vernacular was pervasive” (Coptic Egyptian (Sahidic Dialect): A Learner’s Grammar [Afrikawissenschaftliche Lehrbücher 15; Köln: Rüdiger Köppe Verlag, 2004], 36). He also points out that “Where a Greek source is missing, the distinction between original and translated literature becomes a moot point. The originality of some work can generally not be determined on the basis of linguistic criteria alone. The frequency of Greek loan words in a Coptic text is, for instance, not indicative of its original or translated character” (ibid., 4). 124 We should also be careful not to assume a single explanation for the circumstances and persons involved in the translations of every single text in the corpus. One can easily imagine that, as Wolf-Peter Funk’s “traveler” theory suggests, some of the texts were translated into Coptic in the north and gradually made their way south, while other texts, especially those which, as Funk observes, lack signs of dialectal editing and appear to preserve the dialect into which they were originally translated, could have been translated from Greek in Upper Egypt. See Wolf-Peter Funk, “The Linguistic Aspect of Classifying the Nag Hammadi Codices,” in Les textes de Nag Hammadi et le problème de leur classification: Actes du colloque tenu à Québec du 15 au 19 Septembre 1993 (ed. Louis Painchaud and Anne Pasquier; BCNH.É 3; Québec: les Presses de l’Université Laval, 1995), 107–47, esp. 143–46, and our discussion in chapter eight. 125 Cf. Layton, Coptic Grammar, 4: “There are almost no secular intellectual, educational, or technical works in Coptic nor belles lettres. For access to such literature, Egyptian readers would have turned to the broader and more varied literature available to them in Greek or Arabic, languages to which Coptic was always politically and socially subordinate. Although

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Conclusion In summary, the theory that the Nag Hammadi Codices are more at home among “syncretistic” urban intellectuals than among Christian monks rests on a number of questionable generalizations, presuppositions and inferences. In order to accept such a theory, we are asked to believe some combination of the following claims: 1. That the Nag Hammadi texts and Christian monasticism each have their own identifiable and mutually exclusive “mentalities.” 2. That the Nag Hammadi texts contain “anti-biblical concepts.” 3. That the Nag Hammadi texts are best characterized as “philosophical,” and therefore could not have been read or understood by anyone who did not possess an adequate knowledge of Greek philosophy. 4. That there was a strict divide between cities and monasteries in Egypt. 5. That Egyptian monks were largely illiterate and uneducated. 6. That it is unlikely that the texts were translated or composed in Coptic so they could be read or heard by Coptophones. 7. That because some of the Nag Hammadi texts profess to offer secret teachings, their owners would not have translated them into Coptic in order to disseminate them. 8. That in the fourth century, bilingual Egyptians were losing their ability to read and understand Greek. 9. That the seemingly peculiar Coptic language in which some of the Nag Hammadi texts are preserved posed such a challenge to ancient Coptic readers that they must have had to “rethink” the texts in Greek in order to understand them. Since we cannot accept these premises, we are not convinced by the theory that the codices belonged to urban literati. The pressing question is who in Upper Egypt in the fourth and fifth centuries would read literary texts like these in Coptic. Regardless of where and why the texts were originally composed or translated from Greek into Coptic, a Christian monastery whose members could read, or be read to, in Coptic, and who were interested in a wide range of religious literature – not only what is preserved in the Nag Hammadi Codices – is the best explanation for why the texts are written in Coptic.

spoken Coptic was used as a language of everyday life, literary Coptic was almost exclusively a tool of religion, spirituality, and ethnic solidarity.” Cf. also Bagnall, Everyday Writing, 81–82. What we do have evidence of from the fourth to the seventh century is of a great number of classical texts in Greek, by such authors as Homer, Demosthenes, Hesiod, Menander, Callimachus, Sophocles, and Aristophanes, to mention but a few of the most popular. For a complete list, see Maehler, “Byzantine Egypt,” 125–28.

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As we shall see in subsequent chapters, the theory that the books were produced and read by Christian monks accounts best for all the other textual, paratextual, and artefactual evidence concerning the provenance of the Nag Hammadi Codices, including codicology, scribal colophons, cartonnage material, and place of discovery. A monastery also comports with the evidence we have for the various attitudes toward apocryphal books within Egyptian monasticism and for the controversies those attitudes spawned.

Chapter 5

The Cartonnage The nature of the cartonnage, though of use for determining the approximate date and place at which the codices were bound, is of very questionable value for determining their ownership. – John C. Shelton1

The recycled scraps of papyri used to stiffen the leather covers of the Nag Hammadi Codices have long been seen as a potentially valuable source of information about the environment in which the books were produced and read. As James Robinson observes, “The bulk of the cartonnage consists of fragmentary documentary papyri, whose down-to-earth character provides pointers to the socialhistorical context of the production of the codices that is all too often missing from the quires themselves.”2 In contrast to the anonymous and pseudonymous theological treatises bound within the covers, the papyri from the cartonnage include dated business contracts, accounts, and name lists, fragments of a biblical text (Genesis), personal correspondence (including letters written to and from monks), even documents that have been described as copies of “imperial ordinances.” However, researchers have not reached any consensus concerning the relationship between the people witnessed in the cartonnage documents (e. g., Sansnos the monk and his “brothers”)3 and those who later reused these documents to produce the covers of the Nag Hammadi Codices. Key questions remain: Are any of the people witnessed in the cartonnage documents, especially the monks, related to those who made the covers? Are the people who made the covers related to, or the same as, the scribes who copied the texts? And finally, could the monastic papyri found among the cartonnage documents come from a specifically Pachomian monastic setting? In 1973, John W. B. Barns, the Oxford papyrologist initially responsible for editing the cartonnage papyri, made a preliminary report on the documents found in the covers of Codices I, IV, V, VII and VIII (at the time he did not have access to the more meager material from the covers of Codices VI, IX

1

Shelton, “Introduction,” 2. James M. Robinson, The Facsimile Edition of the Nag Hammadi Codices: Cartonnage (Leiden: Brill, 1979), xi. 3 See chapter two of the present study. 2

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and XI).4 While noting instances of what he believed were business contracts, deeds, “official” accounts, and ordinances, Barns was struck by the numerous letters written to and from monks found in the cover of Codex VII, and by what he believed was a document from the cover of Codex I pertaining to the business affairs of a monastery (G1).5 Without offering an explanation for how this diversity of documents might have been collected, Barns proposed that a monastery was the most likely setting in which the covers and the quires were produced. In his view, it seems unlikely that the writing of the codices and their binding should have been the work of two different establishments; and even more unlikely that the waste papyrus used to pack and strengthen the covers should have had no connection with the binders. The contents of the texts from the covers must therefore be vitally relevant to the provenance of the codices themselves.6

Furthermore, Barns proposed that these monks could be identified as Pachomians based on several factors  – the close proximity of the documents to the center of Pachomian monasticism at Pbow and Sheneset (Greek Chenoboskion, which is mentioned in some of the papyri);7 several names which appear in both the monastic cartonnage documents and the Pachomian Lives; and perhaps most significantly, a Coptic letter sent from Papnoute to “my beloved father Pachome” found in the cover of Codex VII (C6). As Barns observed, Papnoute was the name of the chief administrator (oikonomos) of the Pbow monastery during Pachomius’ lifetime. Barns thus concluded that the monastic documents in the cartonnage, and the Nag Hammadi Codices themselves, originated within the Pachomian monastic federation, and proposed that many of the businessoriented documents, whose original contexts are less clear, probably reflect “the practical and industrial side of the Pachomian administration.”8 Barns’ theory that the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced by Pachomian monks did not lead him to reconsider the Pachomians’ orthodox character, nor the unorthodox character of the Nag Hammadi texts. Instead, he agreed with Torgny Säve-Söderbergh that because the Pachomian federation maintained a strict orthodoxy, it must have used such heterodox reading material only to 4 Barns’ first impressions concerning some of the cartonnage material was summarized by James M. Robinson, “The International Committee for the Nag Hammadi Codices: A Progress Report,” NTS 18:2 (1972): 240. Barns died on 23 January 1974, and his preliminary report was posthumously published the following year: Barns, “Preliminary Report.” See also Robinson’s “Foreword” to Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, viii–ix. 5 Barns’ analysis of fragment G1 was later overturned by E. G. Turner, who published his reevaluation of the papyrus as an addendum to Barns, “Preliminary Report.” The critical difference between the two is that where Barns read line 5 as μονής, “monastery,” Turner read κομής, “village.” 6 Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 11–12. 7 G1, G31, G153. 8 Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 13–15.

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refute heresy. “We may be sure,” concludes Barns, “that it would not be accessible to its rank and file.”9 In his view, the most significant implication of the connection between “these abstruse works” and the Pachomians was not that it revealed their deviation from orthodoxy, but that it called for revision of “the still all too prevalent impression that Egyptian monasteries were inhabited only by blind unlettered zealots. If this one had its illiterate and semi-literate members, it also had its theologians; and, if I am not mistaken, critical theologians at that.”10 Although many researchers found Barns’ theory of the Nag Hammadi Codices’ Pachomian origins convincing,11 others quickly called it into question.12 Unfortunately Barns was unable to respond to his critics due to his untimely death in 1974. Gerald M. Browne and John C. Shelton then assumed responsibility for completing the Brill edition of the cartonnage, with Browne editing the Coptic material and Shelton the Greek. Shelton, who also wrote the introduction to the Brill edition, maintained a sceptical view of Barns’ theory, and took the opportunity to argue that the monastic letters found in the cartonnage, and by extension the codices themselves, were probably not produced by Pachomian monks. Thus from its outset, the entire presentation of the documentary papyri given in the edition – including the introductions, translations, and commentaries – became entangled in and colored by Shelton’s arguments against the Pachomian origin of the codices. Contrary to Barns, Shelton took the position that evidence for monasticism in general in these papers is less frequent than was supposed in that work [i. e., Barns’ report], and there are no texts in which a specifically Pachomian background comes plainly to the fore. … It should be emphasized, however, that the nature of the cartonnage, though of use for determining the approximate date and place at which the codices were bound, is of very questionable value for determining their ownership.13

Shelton devoted the majority of the volume’s introduction to arguing that the cartonnage letters written to and from monks cannot be reconciled with what we know about the lifestyle of Pachomian monks. He cautiously admitted that the traditional sources for the Pachomians may present an idealized and anachronistic picture, yet nevertheless concluded that the cartonnage papyri cannot be used to shed light on Pachomian monasticism unless their connection with 9 Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 16. Cf. Säve-Söderbergh, “Gnostic and Canonical,” 552–59; Säve-Söderbergh, “Holy Scriptures.” 10 Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 17. 11 E. g., Säve-Söderbergh, “Holy Scriptures”; Wisse, “Gnosticism and Early Monasticism”; Robinson, “Introduction”; Hedrick, “Gnostic Proclivities”; H. Chadwick, “Domestication of Gnosis”; Goehring, “New Frontiers”; Scholten, “Buchbesitz.” 12 Shelton, “Introduction”; Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis”; Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 4–7, 67–74; Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library.” 13 Shelton, “Introduction,” 2. In the final sentence of the introduction, Shelton firmly concludes that “There are no certain traces of classical Pachomian monasticism in the cartonnage” (ibid., 11).

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the Pachomians can first be unequivocally demonstrated. The picture one gets from the cartonnage letters of monks like Sansnos handling money, engaging in commercial enterprises, and receiving letters from women about such trifling matters as the procurement of chaff for donkeys is, Shelton maintained, “difficult or impossible to reconcile with Pachomianism,” since “the point of Pachomian coenobitic life was to avoid just such secular concerns.”14 In line with his idiosyncratic conception that the Pachomians had completely withdrawn from society, Shelton downplayed any possible links between the monks and those cartonnage documents that reflect commercial purposes (contracts, accounts, etc.). Instead, he proposed “purely secular” backgrounds, such as “official” government bureaucracy, for as many of the documents as he could, and underscored in particular the fact that some of them record large sums of money and quantities of goods, as well as references to civil superintendents (ἐπιμεληταί) and administrative districts of the Thebaid. An unmistakable pattern of speculation concerning many of the documents’ “official” administrative origin thus runs throughout the cartonnage edition. In his introduction to the volume, Shelton summarizes the documents from the cover of Codex I and concludes that “all texts in this cover are purely secular”; he argues that accounts from the cover of Codex IV record “such large quantities that taxation or military rations are probably involved,” and that “they were presumably written in some government office”; he readily accepts Barns’ designation of documents from the cover of Codex V as “official accounts,” and adds that “the natural source of such texts would again be a government office”; for a list of names found in the cover of Codex VI, Shelton conjectures that “again taxation suggests itself as the purpose”;15 and finally, the fragments of so-called “imperial ordinances” from the cover of Codex VIII would likely have come, in his view, from the “office or offices in which the tax documents in other covers were presumably produced.”16 The same pattern of speculation then continues throughout the edition in the introductions and annotations to individual documents, often far exceeding the evidence.17 14

Shelton, “Introduction,” 5–7, esp. n. 11. Shelton, “Introduction,” 3. 16 Shelton, “Introduction,” 11. 17 For a record of chaff collections (G22c), “the purpose of the chaff is not stated, but the military annona would be a reasonable guess” (Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 26); the fragments grouped under G23 are “presumably official” (ibid., 30); the first name recorded in G23b “is presumably an official in charge of collecting money or some commodity, and the second an agent of his” (ibid., 31); money recorded in G23c is “presumably revenue from some tax, covering the whole of the Thebaid” (ibid., 32); fragment G27 is “an official account concerning ἐπιμεληταί” (ibid., 34); another account, G29, is also “probably official” (ibid., 35); a list of names from the cover Codex VI is “evidently intended for taxation purposes” (G44, ibid., 39), and for another list on the back, “the impression remains that taxation of some sort is concerned” (G45, ibid., 41–42, despite repeated references to adelphoi along with several Christian names); and based solely on the extant characters […] ι ̣σ̣τρα[…], G53 is “presumably 15

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Shelton thus concluded that “It is hard to think of a satisfactory single source for such a variety of documents except a town rubbish heap – which may indeed have been the direct source of all the papyri the bookbinder used.”18 The implication of Shelton’s alternative theory is of course that the monastic documents found among the cartonnage do not necessarily point to the social setting in which the codices themselves were produced, since monks may have simply discarded their old papyri at a dump from which they were later picked-up by whoever made the covers. Shelton’s critical response to Barns and his analysis of the cartonnage documents has received a varied reception among researchers. While Bentley Layton asserted that Shelton’s reevaluation “dashes once and for all any hope of material support for the Pachomian hypothesis,” Kurt Treu found it to be a case of extreme skepticism.19 Nevertheless, the controversy over how to interpret the cartonnage has led to a fruitful field of research into the economic life of Pachomian monasteries and the extent to which correlations can be drawn between the Pachomians and the cartonnage documents. Both proponents and critics of the Pachomian theory have been more willing than Shelton to see at least some of the cartonnage documents as reflections of the practical side of monastery administration. As John Dechow aptly points out, accounts and supplies of goods in large quantities make sense within the Pachomian federation. The amount of food, wine, oil and other commodities must have been especially great at the Pbow monastery during the Easter celebrations, when monks gathered there from all the Pachomian monasteries.20 This gathering, as well as the federation’s annual audit, would have presumably required large amounts of food to feed all the brothers, not to mention logistics and record keeping. Following Dechow, James Goehring similarly points out that we should not be so quick to assume that documents related to business affairs could not be related to Pachomian monasticism, even those documents that might stem from official bureaucracies. In Goehring’s estimation, “imperial ordinances and guild contracts, while more difficult to explain, do not exclude a Pachomian origin. If the movement had grown large and influential in Upper Egypt and had begun a petition, report, or fragment of correspondence addressed to a strategus or epistrategus” (Shelton, “Introduction,” 3 and Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 46–47; see similarly G56, ibid., 49). 18 Shelton, “Introduction,” 11. 19 Bentley Layton, “Review of The Facsimile Edition of the Nag Hammadi Codices. Cartonnage,” JAOS 102:2 (1982): 398. Kurt Treu, “Review of Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri,” AFP 29 (1983): 108–10, esp. 109: “Er ist aber symptomatisch dafür, wie die allzu optimistische erste Deutung von Barns seine Nachfolger gewissermaßen zum entgegengesetzen Extreme der Skepsis geführt hat.” 20 Jon F. Dechow, “The Nag Hammadi Milieu: An Assessment in the Light of the Origenist Controversies,” in The Nag Hammadi Codices and Late Antique Egypt (ed. Hugo Lundhaug and Lance Jenott; STAC; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, forthcoming). On the annual Passover gathering of Pachomian monks at Pbow, see SBo 118.

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to play a significant role in the economy of the region, it is not improbable that local government offices would send copies of such matters to the monastery.”21 Goehring also draws attention to the fact that documents found at the monastery at Deir el-Bala’izah, from the seventh and eighth centuries, do include receipts, deeds, letters from governors, taxation accounts, private letters, various lists and inventories, even a marriage contract.22 The monks of Deir el-Bala’izah do not appear to have been so disconnected from worldly affairs, and Goehring’s subsequent research on the Pachomians’ own social and economic activities has only reinforced the impression that they were not much different.23 In summary, Shelton’s description of the Pachomians as completely withdrawn from “the world” turns out to be a misleading caricature, and one that cannot even be reconciled with what the idealized hagiographical sources tell us about their economic activities. Despite the correctives to Shelton’s skepticism set forth by Dechow and Goehring, the presence of “secular” and “official” papyri among the cartonnage has continued to be seen as a challenge to the theory of the Nag Hammadi Codices’ monastic origins.24 Armand Veilleux agreed that “one cannot exclude the possibility of some accounts coming from a monastery simply because the figures are so high.”25 Yet he too was critical of the codices’ Pachomian provenance, and so followed Shelton by emphasizing the importance of those documents that he believed had come from commercial enterprises and official administration: From the point of view of possible Pachomian contacts, the only documents that are clearly relevant are those found in the cartonnage of Codex VII. The documents found in the cartonnage of other codices (I, IV, V, VI, VIII, IX, and XI) are mostly fragments of accounts of taxation, contracts, etc. Nothing there has any specifically monastic flavor, certainly not, for example, that contract from the cartonnage of Codex I, signed between a guild of oil workers and the city of Diospolis Parva. … when all is said, it remains that some of those documents clearly come from a civilian administration as, for example, the taxation accounts, and one wonders how they came into the hands of the monks.26

Based on the presence of such administrative documents among the cartonnage, Veilleux went on to propose an alternative theory, that the Nag Hammadi 21

Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 250. Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 251; cf. Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 301 n. 234. 23 Goehring, “The World Engaged”; Goehring, “Withdrawing from the Desert.” Elsewhere Goehring highlights the fact that the monks found in the fourth-century Nepheros and Paieous archives are also engaged in social and economic affairs (“Provenance,” 247). 24 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis”; Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 3–5. In Ewa Wipszycka’s opinion, however, Shelton’s thesis did not have the impact it deserved: “the harm done by Barns took a long time to be made up for. … in the introduction signed by Shelton there was all necessary information to make a reader understand that it could not be accepted. Unfortunately, most scholars did not read the introduction or did not want to take its arguments into consideration” (Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 182). 25 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 279. 26 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 279. 22

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Codices might just as well have been produced for an officer of the military or civil bureaucracy stationed in Upper Egypt.27 Although Veilleux’s alternative suggestion may not have found many supporters, it underscores the important influence that Shelton’s presentation of the cartonnage evidence has had. We would argue, however, that due to their fragmentary state of preservation the original context and purpose of many of the cartonnage papyri that Barns and Shelton labeled as “official” documents – i. e., accounts with large quantities, putative “tax rolls,” and “imperial ordinances” – are far less clear. Furthermore, the number of such documents among the cartonnage as a whole has been exaggerated, and the seemingly large sums of money recorded in some of the fragments, which have been seen as an indication of civil or military administration, turn out to be much smaller than previously thought when properly understood within the fluctuating economy of fourth-century Egypt. When one examines the details preserved in these fragments apart from the interpretive introductions, reconstructions, and annotations provided by the editors, then determining what they could be, where they could have been written, by whom, and for which purposes is much more difficult and open to interpretation. Given the presence of other documents among the cartonnage that clearly stem from a monastic community, and which also show monks engaged in commerical and administrative affairs, a monastery setting should remain just as viable as another in the case of those fragments whose original setting and purpose are more difficult to determine. That some paper trail would have been generated by what Barns dubbed the “industrial side” of cenobitic life should be no surprise since we know that, at least in the Pachomian federation, there were monks who served as administrators (oikonomoi) and accountants (logographoi). The administrators were responsible for keeping careful records of production at each monastery and had to render their accounts to the “chief administrator” each year in a federation-wide audit.28 In many instances it may be very difficult 27 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 282: “the origin of these materials could be sought in the direction of a public administration, civilian or more probably military. The important number of documents having a clearly administrative character, such as accounts of taxes and copies of imperial ordinances, invite us to look in that direction. And the extracts of accounts bearing extremely large figures would find an explanation in that hypothesis at least as well as in that of a monastic setting. If, as Guillaumont recently noted, gnostic speculations were not of a nature to interest beyond measure the monks of Egypt, most of whom were illiterate, they could easily interest an officer of the civilian or military administration who came from the educated circles of Alexandria or of Shmin and who had been relegated for a time to the Thebaid.” 28 According to SBo, “At the time of the harvest they would come on the twentieth of Masore to render their accounts (ⲛⲟⲩⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ) to the chief administrator (ⲡⲓⲛⲓϣϯ ⲛ̄ⲟⲓⲕⲟⲛⲟⲙⲟⲥ)” (SBo 71; Lefort, Vita Bohairice Scripta, 73); the parallel account in G1 adds “writing them out in detail” (κατὰ μέρος γράφοντες αὐτούς) (G1 83; Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 56). Pr. 27 thus stipulates that the monks “shall count the ropes twisted per week, noting the sum on tablets and keeping the record until the time of the annual gathering, when an account shall be given.” According to G1 59, the entire governance of the monasteries was recorded in detail in a book by the monastery administrators (καὶ πᾶσα ἡ τοιαύτη κυβέρνησις ἐν τῷ βιβλίῳ γέγραπται κατὰ μέρος τῶν οἰκονόμων) (Halkin,

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for us to tell the difference between the account book of a monastery administrator and that of a civil or military official, especially when the papyri are in such a fragmentary state. To be clear, we are not arguing that all the cartonnage documents must have been written by monks or must reflect monastery economy, but we would like to stress that they could have been, and we do wish to underscore the point that the origin and purpose of many of the fragments are far more ambiguous than the editors’ presentation suggests. In what follows, we survey the varied contents of the cartonnage, offer correctives and clarifications to the presentation given in the edition, and propose different interpretations for many of the documents that Shelton believed were “official” and “purely secular.” Finally, we return to the question of a likely connection between the monastic papyri and the Pachomian federation, and offer explanations for how such a range of cartonnage documents might have been acquired by monks who made the covers. While the cartonnage in and of itself cannot prove that the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced by monks, it remains one important clue, among others.

Commercial Documents Aside from fragments of religious literature written in Coptic, and the personal letters written to and from monks, most of the cartonnage papyri for which any significant details can still be discerned appear to be contracts and deeds,29 various types of accounts for grain, land, money, and one for wine,30 and lists Vitae Graecae, 41). SBo 147 describes an ancient brother named Akulas who served as “the accountant who wrote on behalf of the administrator over all the monasteries of the Koinonia” (ⲡⲗⲟⲅⲟⲅⲣⲁⲫⲟⲥ ⲉⲧⲥϩⲁⲓ̈ ϩⲁⲣⲁⲧϥ̄ ⲙ̄ⲡⲟⲓⲕⲟⲛⲟⲙⲟⲥ ⲉⲧϩⲓϫⲛⲧⲕⲟⲓⲛⲱⲛⲓⲁ ⲛ̄ⲛ̄ⲥⲟⲟⲩϩⲥ̄ ⲧⲏⲣⲟⲩ) (Lefort, Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 193). 29 From Codex I: G1, G2, G3; from Codex VII: G62, G63, G64, G65. See below for further discussion. 30 From Codex IV: G17, a record of wine (see further discussion below); G18, a list of barley and wheat with no amounts specified. Codex V: G22–23, many fragments of what was originally a single roll, with references to the two administrative districts of the Thebaid, the office of procurator of the upper Thebaid (ἐπ̣[ι]τροπῆς Θηβαίδος ἄν̣[ω]), sums of money collected from various individuals in different Thebaid nomes, and lists of unspecified goods measured in xestai; G24, a record of money in myriads of talents; G26, an account (?) referring to a superintendent (ἐπιμελητής); G27, a list refering to at least four different individuals, each of whom are identified as a superintendent (ἐπιμελητής). From Codex VI: G46, an account of 1/2 an artaba of barley; G48 records 5/8 an aroura of land, with a list of names on the back; G50 and G51 (recto and verso), accounts of barley and grain, though the quantities are not clear; G55, a fragmentary account recording 1/2 of one thing and 12 of something else (no unit of measure is extant); G58, an account recording 8, 1/2, and 1/3 artabas respectively, though of what is not clear (the editors suggest grain); G59 (verso of G58), a fragmentary account with a record of 44 1/2 of something no longer discernable. From Codex VII: G82, an account with several Christian names (Zacharias, Moses, Athan[asius], Silva[nos], Paule, Zien).

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of names with no other details preserved.31 Barns also believed that fragments of two documents were copies of “imperial ordinances,” though as we shall see, what they are is far less clear. Apart from the monastic correspondence, only three of the documents dealing with commericial affairs are well enough preserved to reveal something about the people involved in the transactions.32 None of these concern “official” business, but are rather two contracts for small loans of wheat and one deed of surety signed between private individuals who probably lived in or around the villages of the region where the codices were discovered. The better preserved of the two contracts (G64) records a loan of 3 5/6 artabas of wheat given by a certain Aurelios Ptolemaius, “former magistrate of Tentyra” (ἀρξ Τεντυριτῶν), to Aurelius Comes “of the village of Techthy in the Diospolite nome” (κώμης Τεχθὺ τοῦ Διοσπολίτου νομοῦ).33 Here Aurelius Comes promises his own property as a deposit until the loan is repaid. In the other contract (G63), the name of the lender is no longer preserved, but Aurelius Psenetymis promises to return a loan of 2 1/2 artabas of wheat. Another man named Aurelius Statillius, who identifies himself as a “former magistrate,” perhaps of a city (ἀρξ τῆς π), writes on Aurelius Psenetymis’ behalf as the latter is illiterate.34 The third document (G65) is a deed of surety, in which Aurelius Melas swears under oath to deliver a woman named Theodora to some sort of “chairman” (προέδρῳ) whenever she may be required and “[without any] dispute” ([ἄνευ πάσ]ης ἀντιλογίας). The majority of other documents among the cartonnage are in such a deplorable condition that their original setting and purpose remains unclear; and while no internal details of what is preserved necessarily point to a monastery context, nothing necessarily rules one out.35 Although Shelton concluded that all the 31 In this case, all from Codex VI: G44–45, multiple fragments of what was originally one document (recto and verso) with a list including several Christian names and repeated references to adelphoi; G47, G48 (verso), G49, G52, G54, G61. These too may have been accounts of some sort. 32 G63, G64, G65, from the cover of Codex VII. 33 Tentyra (Coptic Nitentori) was the seat of a bishop and close to the Pachomian monastery of Tabennesi. See G1 29. 34 For title of ἄρξας, see Friedrich Oertel, Die Liturgie: Studien zur ptolemäischen und kaiserlichen Verwaltung Ägyptens (Leipzig: Teubner, 1917), 315, citing examples of an ἄρξας βουλευτὴς and πολιτευόμενος, but not τῆς πόλεως. The reading of π after ἀρξ/ τῆς is not clear on the photograph in the Facsimile Edition (VII 2c →). 35 In our estimation, this obscurity applies to the following fragments: from Codex I: G1, a fragmentary letter pertaining to, and perhaps sent by, village oil-workers (ἐλαιουργῶν κώμης) concerning the oil supply of a city, maybe Diospolis Parva, though the details are obscure (see further discussion below); G2, maybe a deed of sale (based on the reference to someone receiving the price [ἀπέσχον τὴν τιμὴν]); G3, a document pertaining in some way to weavers’ products. From Codex VII: G62, maybe a deed of sale as suggested by the remark “I have received the price” (ἀπέσχων τὴν τιμ̣[ὴν]). Although the editors’ translation of G62 adds “I, Aurelius NN, wrote on his behalf, as he is illitterate,” that sentence is almost entirely reconstructed in the Greek transcript (Αὐρήλιος [ἔγραψα ὑπὲρ αὐτοῦ ἀγραμμά]τ̣ο̣υ)̣ .

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papyri from the cover of Codex I reflect a “purely secular” background, the fact remains that their original settings are sufficiently ambiguous to allow for a variety of explanations, including the kind of monastic organization attested by the material from Codex VII, to which Codex I is, after all, related by scribal collaboration. Fragment G3, for example, which the editors describe as a private account “concerned to some degree with weaving and weavers’ products,” could reflect monastic industry just as much as secular enterprise. Weaving was certainly an important craft in the Pachomian federation. According to the Life of Pachomius, the female monastics in the nunnery at Bechne near Pbow, perhaps close to where G3 itself was composed, “were able to do the weaving of the woolen garments, the blankets, and other things, and also the spinning of raw flax for the tunics. The steward (oikonomos) of the Great Monastery used to send them work through Eponyches, a holy and strict man.”36 Similarly, in Shenoute’s White Monastery federation weaving was an important part of monastic life and economy.37 Given how little of G3 is actually preserved, we cannot rule out the possibility that it was generated in the process of monastery industry. To take another example from Codex I, fragment G1 is entitled “Undertaking by Oil Workers” in the edition and is described as a letter from oil-workers in or around Chenoboskion. Although Shelton admits that “virtually no details are preserved,” he nevertheless offers a conjectural summary of the historical situation underlying the document: the oil workers of a village “in the little Diospolite nome,” being organized into some kind of “corporate unity,” had previously agreed to supply oil to the “nome capital” and are now expanding their responsibilities in this service. The προεστῶτος mentioned in the greeting would, according to Shelton, be their “guild chairman.”38 Following the edition, subsequent commentators have thus highlighted this document as a particularly good example of one that is “difficult to understand” in a Pachomian monastic setting.39 As one can see from the extant text, however, none of the details supplied by Shelton’s interpretation are clear in the fragment:

36 G1 134. Palladius (Hist. Laus. 32.9, 12) also describes a variety of trade-crafts in the Pachomian monastery in Panopolis, including weavers and tailors. 37 See, e. g., Layton, “Rules, Patterns,” 56: “all monks weave mats and baskets, just as all nuns weave cloth.” Cf. the rule in Shenoute’s Canon 9 referring to “every product of every craft that is sold, whether linen, hair, rope, basket, book, or any other thing” (BV 39; trans. Layton, “Rules, Patterns,” 49 n. 20). 38 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 15–17. 39 Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 249 and n. 67: “This is particularly true for the agreement of the oil-workers guild in Codex I.” Cf. Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 279: “Nothing there has any specifically monastic flavor, certainly not, for example, that contract from the cartonnage of Codex I, signed between a guild of oil workers and the city of Diospolis Parva.”

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Fig. 15. Cartonnage fragment G1 from Nag Hammadi Codex I, from the Schøyen Collection. Courtesy of Martin Schøyen.

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Transcript (following the edition): 1 →

] Διοσ ] . ωμων

].[ ] Πεκύσιος [. . . . . ἀπ]ὸ̣ τῆς (αὐτῆς) Διὸς πόλ(εως) περὶ Χηνοβ(όσκια) 5 [. . . . . .]τω̣ν ἐλαιουργῶν κώμης [. . . . . .] τοῦ (αὐτοῦ) νομοῦ δι(ὰ) Ηδεμυ̣δ̣ρα [. . . . .]ος προεστῶτος ἀπὸ [τῆ]ς̣ (αὐτῆς) κώμης χαίρειν. [ἐπε]ὶ ἔδοξεν ὥστε κοινῇ ἡμᾶς παρα10 [σχε]ῖν τῇ εὐθενείᾳ τῆς πόλεως ἔλαια [. . . .] . . . ια, κατὰ ταὐτὰ ὁμολογοῦμε̣ν [. . . . .]ιω καὶ αὐθαιρέτῳ γνώμῃ ἐπιγνῶ[ναι . . . . . .] πάντα τὰ διαφέροντα τῇ αὐτῇ [. . . . . . . . . .] καὶ τὰ ἄλλα ἐπιτάγματα καὶ μὴ 15 [. . . . . . .] ἐ̣κ̣ τῶν πρὸς ἀλλήλους συνθηκῶν [. . . .] . πίας δι’ ἁπαξαπλῶ[ς] . [ [. . . . . . . . . .] . θα . . . [ Shelton’s translation:

Our translation:

(line 4) … from the same Diospolis near Chenoboskia, (all of us?) oil-workers from the village … of the same nome, through Hedemyras (?) son of NN, chairman, from the same village, greeting. Seeing that it was decided that we would jointly supply … oils for the food supply of the city, we in like manner agree of our own … and free will to take upon ourselves all the responsibilities of the same (public function) and (to carry out) the other orders and not to (repudiate?) the contracts of … with one another (on any pretext) whatever …

(line 1) […] Dios[…] Pekusios […] of Diospol(is) near Chenob(oskion) […] of the oil-workers of the village […] of the same nome through Êdemydra […] of the leader from the same village. Greetings. [Since] it was resolved that we would jointly [supply] oil for the prosperity of the city […] we likewise agree […] and decide by free choice […] all important matters concerning it (?) […] and all the other conditions, and not […] from the agreements with one another […] in general.

Shelton’s translation of the fragment clearly reflects his assumption that it stems from a civic setting. He inserts the explanatory gloss “public function” to clarify the otherwise obscure phrase τὰ διαφέροντα τῇ αὐτῇ on line 13,40 and chooses to translate the ambiguous term προεστῶτος in line 7 as “chairman” (which he calls the “guild chairman” in the annotation). As Barns had already observed, 40 The precise meaning of πάντα τὰ διαφέροντα τῇ αὐτῇ remains obscure since the immediate context is lost. See LSJ s. v. διαφέρω, III.3 for common meanings in the neuter participial form, including “vital matters” and “points of difference.” It could also be translated as “everything that pertains to it,” following Friedrich Preisigke, Fachwörter des öffentlichen Verwaltungsdienstes Ägyptens in griechischen Papyrusurkunden der ptolemäisch-römischen Zeit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1915), 56, s. v. διαφέρω: gehören.

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this term is also used in monastic texts to refer to leaders of the monastery.41 As the Pachomian monastery at Chenoboskion (Sheneset) was situated within the village itself, the fact that this προεστώς is “from the same village” could point to a civic or monastery position. Furthermore, it is not clear that the village oilworkers “agree in the present text to continue and expand their responsibilities,” as Shelton states. As one can see from the letter’s heavily damaged opening lines, it remains unclear who the senders and recipients actually are. While the phrases “of the oil workers of the village” (ἐλαιουργῶν κώμης) and “of the leader from the same village” (προεστῶτος ἀπὸ [τῆ]ς̣ κώμης) appear, it is not clear whether they are the senders or recipients; both are in the genitive case rather than the expected nominative and dative, as Shelton himself observes.42 As in the case of G3, although this letter could stem from a “secular” enterprise involving an oil-workers guild, its fragmentary condition leaves it obscure enough that one could also make sense of it in a monastic setting, in line with those other cartonnage documents that show monks engaged in commericial activities.43 Oil was certainly a commodity kept in monastery storerooms and used for a variety of purposes. According to an anecdote from the Pachomian Paralipomena, the cook at one monastery required approximately twenty-two liters (forty xestai) of oil per month to prepare the vegetables alone.44 Of course numbers in ancient literary texts can never be trusted with certainty; but it stands to reason that cenobitic monasteries like those of the Pachomians required large amounts of oil for cooking, lamp lighting, as well as therapeutic anointing and bathing – oil which they must have produced themselves or acquired by trade on the local market.45 Given that the Pachomian federation maintained a strong relationship with the local economy, through trade, manual labor, and its ethos of providing charity for the poor,46 there is no reason to rule out the possibil41 While the term προεστώς frequently refers to civic officials in documentary papyri, it is also used of ecclesiastial and monastic administrators. See PGL, 1151a (s. v. προΐστημι, 6.b.vii). The term refers to monastery officials in some Pachomian sources (Ep. Am. 26; G2, G3, G4 [Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 205,14; 206,4; 284,7; 336,20; 428,17; 431,27; 443,15,18]); in the fourth-century Paieous archive from the Hathor monastery (e. g., P. Lond. VI 1913, 3); and in the papyri from the monastery at Bala’izah (Paul E. Kahle, Bala’izah: Coptic Texts from Deir el-Bala’izah in Upper Egypt [2 vols.; London: Oxford University Press, 1954], 1:32–33). 42 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 16: “The structure of these lines was: addressee(s) in the dative, now lost; names of oil-workers in the nominative, acting through their guild chairman, greeting.” 43 See chapter two. 44 Paral. 15 (Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 138). One xestês = about 0.546 liters (see Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 332). 45 Oil for cooking: G1 64 and Paral. 15 (see previous note); for therapy and bathing: SBo 43–44, 82; Pr. 92–93, 104 (oil for shoes), 105; Paral. 35; S2 fr. 5, § 9. Despite Palamon’s strict regime of eating no oil, he did allow it in his cell for lamps (SBo 10–11; cf. G4 10 [Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 415,1–2]). 46 On the Pachomians’ civic charity and their involvement in the local economy, see SBo 10 (“whatever is beyond our needs we give to the poor”); cf. SBo 145. In SBo 25 (cf. G1 29), Pa-

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ity that its monks could have been involved in some kind of joint venture with oil-workers from a local village. Again, our point is not to argue that G1 must reflect a monastic background, but only to show that its original context and purpose are obscure and more open to alternative explanations than Shelton’s presentation suggests.

Official Accounts and Large Quantities The cover of Codex V yielded cartonnage fragments that the editors labelled as “official accounts” based on references therein to government officials and seemingly large quantities of goods and money.47 Although the precise purpose and original context of these fragments cannot be determined, some of them are formatted like accounts, recording names of persons together with amounts of money or commodities. Those facts alone hardly suggest an “official” setting. But three fragments appear to be organized according to the two administrative districts of the Thebaid, upper and lower, and their respective nomes.48 Moreover, one fragment with “chaff” (ἀχύρου) written across the top refers to the “procurator of the upper Thebaid” (ἐπ̣[ι]τροπῆς Θηβαίδος ἄν̣[ω]),49 and three other fragments record entries for various superintendents (ἐπιμεληταί).50 One fragment chomius builds a church for the villagers and manages its finances. According to Palladius (Hist. Laus. 32.10), the Pachomians at Panopolis raised swine whose meat was butchered and sold so that the proceeds might be given to the needy throughout the “poor but heavily populated” region. In S10 fr. 4, Pachomius vows to “send to the Church of the city which the barbarians have laid waste one hundred measures of corn, with books and other things which they need” (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:455). With regard to the economic activities of Shenoute’s monasteries, Bentley Layton states that “Details of the overall economy of the federation are scarcely evident in the Canons; since the institution comprises several thousand members its economy must have been fairly elaborate” (“Social Structure and Food Consumption in an Early Christian Monastery: The Evidence of Shenoute’s Canons and the White Monastery Federation A. D. 385–465,” Mus 115 [2002]: 33 n. 37). See also Layton, “Rules, Patterns”; Leipoldt, Schenute von Atripe, 136–37. 47 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 3–4, 23, 25. Barns had already mentioned the presence of “official accounts, evidently relating to a wide range of Middle and Upper Egypt; the nomes concerned are specified” (“Preliminary Report,” 11). 48 G22h, G22i, G23c. 49 G22c. Preisigke, Fachwörter, 92, s. v. ἐπιτροπή: “Amt eines Prokurators.” 50 G22g, G26, G27. The term ἐπιμελητής is widely attested as a title for government superintendents, including middlemen responsible for collecting taxes from local officials (sitologoi and apaitetai) and transporting it to higher levels of administration. See Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 157 and 133–38; Oertel, Die Liturgie, 302–8; Naphtali Lewis, The Compulsory Public Services of Roman Egypt (2nd ed.; Papyrologica Florentina 28; Florence: Gonnelli, 1997), 25–26; cf. Preisigke, Fachwörter, 86–87, s. v., ἐπιμελητής: “Beamter der verschiedensten Verwaltungszweige”; E. A. Sophocles, Greek Lexicon of the Roman and Byzantine Periods (From B. C. 146 to A. D. 1100) (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1900), 505a, s. v., ἐπιμελητής: “superintendent, overseer” (e. g. over a harbor, ἐπι τὸν λιμένα).

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records something in artabas (a dry measure of varying capacity) with amounts as high as 6500;51 another something in xestai (a liquid measure) with amounts as high as 10000.52 Another four or five fragments record sums of money with amounts ranging from 1400 to 49000 talents.53 Critics of the theory of the Nag Hammadi Codices’ monastic provenance have emphasized the presence of such “official” accounts among the cartonnage as a counter-balance to the great significance Barns assigned to the monastic papyri. As Veilleux put it, “some of those docments clearly come from a civilian administration … and one wonders how they came into the hands of the monks.”54 The extent of such documents among the cartonnage has also been emphasized. In the introduction to the cartonnage edition, Shelton draws attention to “numerous other fragments” in the cover of Codex V, of which “the great majority appear likewise to be official accounts,” and then goes on to speak of “an extensive series of official accounts.”55 Following this presentation, Veilleux emphasizes “the important number of documents having a clearly administrative character” including “accounts bearing extremely large figures.”56 Such statements lead to the impression that the covers of the Nag Hammadi Codices yielded lots of “official” accounting documents. We would like to point out, however, that the amount of such “official” accounts among the cartonnage as a whole has been exaggerated, and in some cases what appear at first sight to be “extremely large figures” have been misunderstood. There are in fact only three documents,57 and perhaps even fewer, which include the sort of details that point to an official setting (i. e., references to the procurator and superindendents, accounts organized by districts and nomes of the Thebaid), and these were found only in the cover of Codex V. Because the majority of these fragments are presented as thirteen different entries in the edition, under the headings G22a–i and G23a–d, it is easy to overlook the fact that 51 G22 f. On different sizes of artaba, see Dominic W. Rathbone, “The Weight and Measurement of Egyptian Grains,” ZPE 53 (1983): 265–75, esp. 271–72; Pieter W. Pestman, The New Papyrological Primer (2nd ed.; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 49. 52 G22g. 53 G22d, G22e, G22i, G23c, and maybe G24. The transcript of G24 in the edition reads “] … (ταλ.) (μυρ.) . ξ (more than 10060 talents),” but the ink traces visible on the photograph in the Facsimile Edition are not clear. 54 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 279. 55 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 3 and 25 (emphasis added); cf. ibid., 23: “The large quantities of goods involved suggest that these [fragments from the cover of Codex IV] were official and not private accounts, as is also the case with the documents in the cover of Codex V.” 56 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 282 (emphasis added). See similarly Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 250: “tax lists, contracts, shipping papers, etc., many of which were certainly drawn up in a government office” (emphasis added); Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 4: “Berichte, in denen man viel zu große Zahlen findet, um zu vermuten, daß diese Dokumente nur eine Ortsbedeutung gehabt haben könnten.” 57 G22–23, G26, G27.

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most of them belonged originally to a single papyrus roll, as the editors briefly discuss. In fact the editors observe that more fragments from the cover of Codex V might have come from this same roll, although they have been assigned classifications other than G22–23.58 What we find in the cartonnage of Codex V may therefore be “an extensive series” of accounts recording collections made throughout the Thebaid, and related in some way to government officials, yet they come from no more than two or three rolls, and quite possibly from only one. Another necessary clarification concerning the accounting roll from the cover of Codex V (G22–23) is that some of the “extremely large figures” it records, as high as 49000 talents, turn out to be rather mundane amounts of money when properly understood in the context of Egypt’s fluctuating economy. Roger Bagnall and Petra Sijpesteijn’s analysis of currency and inflation in fourth-century Egypt demonstrates that myriads of talents found in documentary papyri from this period can often be quite large in sum, but do not signify very large amounts in terms of wealth. In a preliminary treatment of the issue, Bagnall and Sijpesteijn observe that The papyri of the fourth century present, on the face of it, a spectacle of phenomenal decline in the value of copper currency. This self-evident ‘inflation’, as scholars generally term it, produced in the course of time figures which appear ludicrous and in fact almost incomprehensible; they are especially difficult to understand for the papyrologist who is used to the normal level of prices in the Roman period.59

A few examples from fourth-century tax records further illustrate the point. In P. Oslo Inv. 518, a record of payments made circa 350–365 in the Fayum village of Karanis, individual persons pay large sums of talents comparable to the numbers found in the roll from Codex V. According to the papyrus’ editors, the payments were “presumably for some tax,” though on what is not clear. Aion son of Sarapion pays 45200 talents, Sokrates 24600 talents, Nilammon 30100 talents, and Titoueis 50850 talents.60 In another example the purpose of the tax is more clear. P. Col. VII 127 and 129 record payments made circa 363/4 in Karanis for a tax on wine and meat (127) and for another tax on clothing (129, perhaps the vestis militaris, a levy for military uniforms). Here, Aion pays 14000 talents on wine 58 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 25: “re-examination of the originals may well show that some pieces here assigned other numbers were in fact once part of the same roll.” They propose connections for G24, G25 and G26 in particular. 59 Bagnall and Sijpesteijn, “Currency,” 114. Four years after the edition of the Nag Hammadi cartonnage was released, Bagnall published a detailed monograph entitled Currency and Inflation in Fourth-Century Egypt (Chico, Cal.: Scholars Press, 1985). The timing of this study thus clarifies why Shelton originally considered the amounts of money recorded in documents like G22–23 to be so large, when in fact they are relatively ordinary in the second half of the fourth century. 60 Roger S. Bagnall and Naphtali Lewis, eds., Columbia Papyri VII: Fourth Century Documents from Karanis (Missoula: Scholars Press, 1979), 17, § 126.

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and meat, and 16000 talents on clothing; Heras pays 9800 talents on wine and meat, and 11100 on clothing; Valerius pays even more: 23100 on wine and meat, and 26400 on clothing.61 “We know that these people were of modest means,” observe Bagnall and Sijpesteijn, “and these sums must therefore follow the great change in the value of money which we have indicated for 350 and following.”62 The seemingly large sums of money recorded in G22–23 from the cover of Codex V are therefore relatively mundane when understood in the context of Egypt’s economy in the second half of the fourth century. The figures need not be seen as an indication that this accounting roll was used at a high-level of administration responsible for the collection of whopping sums of money across large areas of Egypt. Instead, they probably reflect smaller collections made on a local level in the second half of the fourth century.63 While there is no way to know how this roll would have been acquired by the person(s) who made the cover of Codex V, its presence there poses no challenge to the theory that they were monks. Critics have assumed that such a document would have been written and stored “in some government office.” But given what we know about the collection of taxes in Egypt under Roman rule, such a roll might just as well have originated in the hands of a private individual appointed to the public task of tax farming, or one of his subordinates. If at some point whoever managed the archive in which it was kept became a monk, or even merely acted as a benefactor, it could have simply been donated to the monastery along with other items. We shall return to this question later in the present chapter.64 Although indications that some of the cartonnage papyri had an “official” origin is limited to fragments from Codex V, and, as we have seen, probably to a single roll, Shelton repeatedly proposed official purposes such as taxation or military administration for many fragments from the covers of Codices IV, VI and VIII as well. Yet the evidence pointing to official business in these cases is

Bagnall and Lewis, Columbia Papyri VII, 20–22. Bagnall and Sijpesteijn, “Currency,” 122. On p. 120, they observe that large sums begin to appear especially in the second half of the fourth century: in the year 346 “a thousand talents … still a substantial sum, and the 10,000 T. advanced in 347 is actually a significant sum. At the end of the decade, amounts in the thousands of talents are becoming routine. … It is about 350 that a new wave of sharply higher prices appears.” 63 Shelton, “Introduction,” 3, suggests that the accounts in this roll might have been recorded sometime before the year 323, based on a theory that the Thebaid was divided into upper and lower administrative districts only until that year. However, as he notes later in the edition (Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 25), the evidence that the division was abandoned in 323 “is very slight.” According to T. C. Skeat, Papyri from Panopolis in the Chester Beatty Library (Dublin: Hodges Figgis & Co., 1964), xvii, the evidence is entirely conjectural. Following Bagnall and Sijpesteijn’s analyses, the large myriads of talents recorded in G22–23 point to a date in the second half of the fourth century. This fact is an important indicator that Codex V itself was probably produced in the second half of the fourth century, or even later. 64 See Acquisition of Cartonnage below. 61 62

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much more tenuous than in the fragments from Codex V, and some details preserved in the fragments from Codex VI may in fact point to a monastery setting. Let us begin by discussing the meager fragments from the cover of Codex IV. In the general introduction to the edition, Shelton draws attention to accounts of wine, wheat and barely from this cover which, in his view, record “such large quantities that taxation or military rations are probably involved” and “were presumably written in some government office.”65 However, it is important to observe that only one fragment from the cover of Codex IV (G17), a record of wine, specifies any quantity, and upon closer examination, precisely how much is far less clear than what is printed in the edition. The editors transcribe the fragment as οἴνου σ(πάθια) Γυι″ and translate “3410 spathia of wine.” This would indeed be a rather large amount of wine, well over 22000 liters.66 The reading of “s(pathia)” as the unit of measure is, however, dubious. Kruit and Worp’s study of references to spathia jars in ancient papyri highlights a number of peculiarities in G17. First of all, the use of sigma as an abbreviation for spathia is unprecedented. Of over sixty papyri in which the spathion jar appears, Kruit and Worp observe that “only here [G17] the abbreviation σ(παθία) is used.”67 That fact alone should call the editors’ transcript into question. But to complicate matters even more, Kruit and Worp observe that such a large amount, 3410, far surpasses any other recorded quantity of spathia, with the next highest amount at 144, and most others between 1–10. Kruit and Worp’s findings therefore make the editors’ reconstruction of σ(πάθια) in G17 quite unlikely. Not only the unit of measure in G17, but also the quantity transcribed in the edition may be faulty. As the editors caution in the preface, The reader is reminded that although some consultation of the originals was possible, the greater part of the editorial work was based on photographs; in particular, the surviving editor of the Greek texts [i. e. Shelton] has not seen the papyri … Details of the transcripts should therefore be judged with due caution.68

When one consults the photograph of G17 in the Facsimile Edition, it is not at all clear that one can easily resolve the ink traces following οἴνου as Γυι″ (3410).69 The amount of wine recorded in this fragment therefore remains obscure, and to conclude that it is an “official account … presumably written in some government office” far exceeds the evidence. Government storehouses were not 65 Shelton, “Introduction,” 3; cf. Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 23: “the large quanities of goods involved suggests that these were official and not private accounts, as is also the case with the documents in the cover of Codex V.” 66 The precise capacity of the spathion jar is unknown and like other ancient units of measure probably varied in different situations. See Nico Kruit and Klaas A. Worp, “The Spathion Jar in the Papyri,” BASP 38 (2001): 79–87, esp. 85–87. According to one hypothesis noted by Kruit and Worp (p. 87), 1 spathion may have equalled about 12 sextarii, or 6.5 liters. 67 Kruit and Worp, “Spathion Jar,” 82 n. 9. 68 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, xvii. 69 Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Cartonnage, plate 9, IV 2c.

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the only places in Upper Egypt where wine was kept; and despite disparaging attitudes toward wine that frequently appear in monastic hagiographies (which at any rate had a prescriptive purpose), Egyptian monasteries kept wine in their storerooms, even in large quantities.70 There is, then, nothing in the cartonnage from Codex IV that points to an “official” setting, or that cannot be interpreted as the account of a monastery administrator. The cartonnage papyri from Codex VI are also described in the edition as stemming from “official” business. Thus Shelton presents one fragment (G53) as “presumably a petition, report, or fragment of correspondence addressed to a strategus.”71 Yet this conjecture is based solely on the partially visible characters […]ι̣σ̣τρα[…] on line 2 which, according to Shelton, “presumably” contained the official’s name “followed by σ̣τρα(τηγῷ) or σ̣τρα(τηγήσαντι), or NN ἐπ]ι̣σ̣ρτα(τήγῳ) or ἐπ]ι̣σ̣τρα(τηγήσαντι).” The reconstruction and subsequent identification of this fragment as a petition addressed to an official are rather conjectural and contribute to a misleading impression of how many documents among the cartonnage relate to official administration.72 Five fragments of a document from the cover of Codex VI are presented in the edition as “name lists and accounts,” to which Shelton tendentiously adds that

70 The monasteries of Pachomius and Shenoute kept at least some wine to serve to the sick, and for the celebration of the Eucharist (which would have required large amounts at the annual Passover gathering); see SBo 118; Pr. 45, 54; Pachomius, Instr. 1.46. For Shenoute’s White Monastery, see Layton, “Social Structure,” 38, 45, 50. At the White Monastery, wine, together with other foodstuffs, was also served to refugees staying at the monastery (see Layton, “Social Structure,” 45). A sixth-century wall inscription from the monastery of Apa Jeremias at Saqqara records 122 jars (ⲗⲁⲕ∕) of wine reserved for various feast days (e. g., for “the day of Michael in summer, 1 jar; the day of Apa Enoch, 5 jars”), with a “large jar” (ⲛⲟϭ ⲗⲁϩⲏ) specified for some feasts; see James E. Quibell and Herbert Thompson, Excavations at Saqqara (1908–9, 1909–10): The Monastery of Apa Jeremias (Cairo: Imprimerie de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1912), 69–71, no. 226 (on the ⲗⲁⲕⲟⲟⲧⲉ and ⲗⲁϩⲏ as units of measure, see Crum, Coptic Dictionary, 140a, 149a). Records of wine also appear in seventh and eighth-century documents from the monastery of Apa Apollo, and as Sarah Clackson observes, “wine played an important role in the monastery’s economy” (Clackson, Coptic and Greek Texts Relating to the Hermopolite Monastery of Apollo [Oxford: Griffith Institute, 2000], 27, 63, 114–21). According to Jennifer Cromwell’s recent report on the monastery of Apa Thomas in the Wadi Sarga (active from the sixth to eighth centuries), approximately 10000 to 20000 liters of wine entered the monastery annually. See Cromwell, “Wine and monks in Christian Egypt,” n.p. [cited 10 July, 2013] Online: http://blog.britishmuseum.org/2013/07/10/wine-and-monks-in-christian-egypt/. See also Seyna Bacot, “La circulation du vin dans les monasteries d’Égypte a l’epoque copte,” in Le commerce dans l’Égypte ancienne (ed. Nicolas Grimal and Bernadette Menu; Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1998), 269–88; Dorota Dzierzbicka, “Wineries and Their Elements in Graeco-Roman Egypt,” JJP 35 (2005): 10. 71 Shelton, “Introduction,” 3; cf. Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 46–47. 72 See similarly Shelton’s reconstruction of G56 (Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 49).

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“again taxation suggests itself as the purpose.”73 Yet in this case, no translations are provided in the edition, and Shelton makes no mention of the fact that the fragments also include at least ten entries in which people are identified as adelphos, “brother,” along with several Christian names (Paul, Makarius, Silvanus, etc.).74 One finds, next to monks’ letters, a similar accounting document in the cover of Codex VII,75 which includes entries for people named Sacharius, Moses, Athana[sius], Silva[nus], Paul, Pachoum, and Sien (i. e., Zion) among others.76 Of course the term adelphos alone is not an indication of a document’s Christian setting,77 but in these cases it is combined with Christian names, found next to a series of Christian and monastic letters, and in the covers of what are clearly Christian codices. Far from being accounts used for the purposes of taxation and “presumably” written in some government office, these documents may just as well be examples of the accounts kept by the oikonomoi and logographoi of the monasteries, mentioned in the Life of Pachomius, which must have been essential for the routine operations of any cenobitic organization. In summary, the cartonnage documents that may stem from “official” government administration are limited to a few instances in the cover of Codex V, and as we have seen, arguably come from a single papyrus roll. The numbers recorded in this roll are not as unusually large as has been previously thought, and it is not difficult to imagine how such a roll could have ended up in the hands of the monk(s) who produced Codex V. In the case of cartonnage from other covers, the evidence regarding many fragments as official documentation has been grossly exaggerated, while simultaneously, clues that point in the direction of a Christian monastic organization, like the one revealed by the monastic correspondence from Codex VII, have been ignored.

Imperial Ordinances? The cover of Codex VIII yielded several fragments (designated G143 and G144) which the editors published under the cautious heading “Imperial Ordinances(?)”. What they actually are, who issued them, and what situation(s) they address remain obscure, however, due to their severely damaged condition. A sense 73 G44a–e (recto) and G45a–e (verso). Shelton, “Introduction,” 3; cf. Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 39: “an account list evidently intended for taxation purposes”; ibid., 41–42: “the impression is that taxation of some sort is concerned.” 74 See adelphos in G44a.2, G44b.4,6,8,9,10, G45b.7,8,11, G45d.4. The names Gregorios and Matheis appear in G49 and G52 from Codex VI respectively. Christian features are also found in small fragments from Codex VII that the editors grouped under the heading “Accounts.” G83 refers to a brother or brothers (ἀδελφο[…]), G87 to a Silvanus, and G91 to adelphoi. 75 G82. 76 Here too, Shelton makes no mention of the Christian names. 77 Cf. Choat, Belief and Cult, 49.

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of their vagueness can only be grasped by reading the translations provided by the editors:78 G143a  … shameless  … they are informers (συ[κο]φ̣ά[̣ ν]τ̣α[̣ ι])79 too  … having robbed  … exact(ly) we have ordered  … of the exactors (ἐξακ̣τ[̣ όρ]ω̣ν)̣   … excuse; for he has much zeal  …  in competition the storehouses  … injustice  … he shall register (ἀναγράψει)80 in the  … year, apportion(ment)  … register (ἀναγραφὴ) will show  … for the province (τῷ ἔθνει)81 under the eyes … G143b  … our judgement  … of the provincials (ἐπαρχιωτ[ῶν])82 that of the  … account (λόγον)83 … own deeds … 84 … intestine (ἐμφυλιο̣ι)̣ 85 … their own … both enemies and … both dangers and … 86 … should be attempted, let them be … apart from the prescribed quantity … the fitting … both in the collections (ταῖς ἀπαιτήσεσιν)87 … the proper … (Fragments G143c–e are damaged beyond translation) G143f … blame … let him be armed against the … for the rest … other … what has been ordered now … us to be present with you … proportion for you … rights (δικαίων) … throwing, having obscured … race (γένους) from the … habitual evil, one’s own … compelling at the … of the return … for we … nothing to those who have claimed nothing in court (ἡμεῖς γὰρ τοῖς μηδὲν ἐκδικηκόσιν οὐδεμίαν)88 … let them stop plotting against the … and neither … greed, senseless … with unworthy insults … those who have not(hing) … (Fragments G143g–l are damaged beyond translation) G144a … stones, ordered … remain … our judgement … public … he should be able to and … debt of the country people (ἀγροίκ̣ω̣ν̣ ὀ̣φέλειαν) … should arm themselves … nothing slack or … common judgement may appear … of all (that is owed?), but he (who goes?) beyond … at once insatiable and energetic … and also discard their … courts (δικαστηρίω̣ν), but in … foolishness devoted himself to theft … it appeared proper to consider … especially when the … of the injustice … such as in the public … type, and stay away from courts (ἀποσχήσεσθε τῶν δικασ̣[τηρίων]) … for … that in the future your customary … has

78 As the editors’ translations can sometimes obscure the semantic range of the vocabulary used, we gloss many of the terms with the Greek text as transcribed in the edition and note alternative translations. For photographs of the fragments, see Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Cartonnage, plates 59–65, VIII 1c–27c. 79 Or “slanderers, false accusers.” 80 Or “record.” 81 Or “the people.” For “province,” see Friedrich Preisigke, Wörterbuch der griechischen Papyrusurkunden (Berlin: Selbstverlag der Erben, 1925), 1:418, s. v., ἔθνος, 3. 82 ἐπαρχιώτης may also refer to a provincial bishop or member of a diocese (PGL, 511; Sophocles, Greek Lexicon, 493). 83 Or “word, reason, speech, treatise.” 84 The editor’s translation omits φυλατ̣τέσθω in line 10. 85 “Kinsmen” would be a more natural translation. 86 The editors’ translation omits τ̣ὰς ἁρπαγὰς (seizures, robberies, rapes, greediness) on line 16. 87 Or “the claims, demands.” 88 The phrase “in court” may be a somewhat expansive translation on the part of the editors, though ἐκδικάζω does often pertain to legal proceedings.

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been hung upon … now very just … contributions by the excessive … in past time … for us, provincials (ἐπαρχιώτας), ventured, men … not clear, always distributed freely … (Fragments b–h are damaged beyond translation)

Although fragment G144h is damaged beyond translation, it does refer to tax collectors (ἐξαχτόρ[ων]) and a magistrate or prefect (πραιπόσιτος),89 to laws (νόμων), and some people or things “most lawless” (ἀνομοτάτων). Already in his preliminary report, Barns suggested that these fragments were copies of imperial ordinances based on their general style: [Codex] VIII contains, besides a few scraps of letters in Greek and Coptic, fairly extensive, though tantalizingly incomplete, remains of two texts in Greek which seem to be without an exact parallel among the papyri. They are evidently copies of imperial ordinances, applying not particularly to Egypt, but to the Empire as a whole. Their style is reminiscent of the letters of Constantine preserved in Eusebius, but they are evidently concerned not with religious matters, but with administrative and fiscal abuses and reforms. They are couched in the most general terms, and there is nothing in them which points to particular occasions or to the authorship of particular emperors; but the mention in one of them of exactores and praepositi indicates a date after A. D. 309. I cannot identify them with any of the extant ordinances of Constantine or his immediate successors in the Roman legal codices.90

In his introduction to the cartonnage from Codex VIII, Shelton draws special attention to the mention of prior directives (προσετάξαμεν), “our decisions,” and use of imperative verbs, all of which, in his view, confirms Barns’ suggestion that these fragments are imperial ordinances. “The authority which issued them,” he conjectures, “stood higher than the exactors and praepositi” and “very probably ranked higher than the governors of provinces. . . . There can hardly be any doubt that Barns is correct in attributing these regulations to emperors.”91 In our view, too little of these documents has survived to conclude with confidence that they are copies of imperial ordinances issued from one or more emperors and pertaining to the whole Empire. References to tax collectors, a praepositos, storehouses, greed, injustice, and courts (δικαστηρίων) could suggest an issue involving fiscal abuses and reforms, as Barns suggested, but again not enough detail or context is preserved to really understand the situation.92 Speaking in the first-person plural, referring to “our judgments,” and using imperatives may have an authoritative tone, but it is not clear who the authority figures in question are, and people other than emperors, including church officials and monastic leaders, write in the same style.93 See PGL, 1126, s. v. πραιπόσιτος: one set in authority, prefect, civil magistrate. Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 11. 91 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 87. 92 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 89 (with reference to G143a in particular). 93 For example, archbishops of Alexandria speak in the first-person plural and use imperative verbs in some of their letters. Athanasius even does so when speaking to the Emperor; see Letter 89 90

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It is not our intention to offer an alternative identification of these fragments, but only to highlight the fact that whatever their original contexts and purposes were, who wrote them, and where, is beyond identification, and other explanations are equally plausible. Moreover, even if they were “imperial ordinances,” or letters issued by a regional authority in Egypt, their presence in the cartonnage of Codex VIII would hardly be a challenge to the theory that this codex was produced by monks. There is no reason to assume that a monastery would not have received copies of such directives either directly from the government or indirectly through its social contacts.94

Recycled Scripture Some of the largest and most interesting fragments found in the cartonnage of the Nag Hammadi Codices stem from a codex that once contained at least parts of the biblical book of Genesis in Sahidic. These fragments of Genesis were found in the cover of Codex VII, together with the Sansnos papyri, and display palaeographical and codicological features that are highly similar to the Nag Hammadi Codices themselves.95 We will discuss these similarities in chapter eight, but here we need to address whether the discovery of these fragments in the cover of Codex VII makes it more or less likely that the codices were made by monks. Would monks have been likely to recycle a scriptural codex by stuffing it into the covers of other codices?96 It is easy to think that such irreverent reuse of a scriptural codex would not be a likely monastic practice. Yet we know of several instances where such recycling by monks did in fact occur. Indeed, pages of scriptural codices were often reused as cartonnage in covers. Bentley Layton draws attention to such fragments as BL Or. 6783 (Psalter), 6799 (Gospels), 7021 (biblical lectionary), and 7597 (Gospel of John) from the British Library alone, and points out that such reuse “in no way implied a judgment upon the merits of the texts being destroyed.”97 We can add to Layton’s examples the cartonnage of the cover of Budge’s Deuteronomy Codex (BL Or. 7594) which includes a to Jovian (ed. Hanns Christof Brennecke, Uta Heil, and Annette von Stockhausen, Athanasius Werke: Zweiter Band: Die “Apologien”: 8. Lieferung [Berlin. Walter de Gruyter, 2006], 352); Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 17 (Third Letter to Nestorius), trans. John I. McEnerney, St. Cyril of Alexandria: Letters (2 vols.; FC; Washington, D. C.: Catholic University of America, 1987), 1:80–92. Shenoute also frequently speaks in the first person plural in his writings. 94 As Goehring has pointed out, three letters issued by the Arab governor Kurrah b. Sharik (r. 709–714) were found at the monastery of Bala’izah in Upper Egypt (“New Frontiers,” 251). See Kahle, Bala’izah, 2:590–92, §§ 180–82. 95 On these fragments of Genesis, see Rodolphe Kasser, “Fragments du livre biblique de la Genèse cachés dans la reliure d’un codex gnostique,” Mus 85 (1972): 65–89. 96 Shelton, “Introduction,” 4; Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 280. 97 Bentley Layton, “Treatise Without Title On the Origin of the World: Appendix Two: The British Library Fragments,” in Nag Hammadi Codex II,2–7 Together with XIII,2*, Brit.

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fragment of Daniel,98 and the fact that we also find similar evidence of Scripture recycled as cartonnage in later periods. A fragment of a ninth-century codex containing Paul’s Epistle to Philemon was discovered in a parchment codex manufactured at the scriptorium of the Touton monastery in the tenth century, and discovered in 1910 in the ruins of the monastery of the Archangel Michael at Phantoou.99 In this case, admittedly significantly later than the Nag Hammadi Codices, there is clear evidence that Egyptian monks reused pieces of Scripture to stiffen the covers of new, even non-scriptural, books. We see no reason why monks of an earlier period could not have done the same. Another interesting case close in time and place to the Nag Hammadi Codices is that of 𝔓75 (P. Bodmer XIV–XV), a papyrus codex containing the gospels of Luke and John that was part of the Dishna Papers discovery.100 When this codex was at some point rebound in antiquity, loose pieces of Luke and John from 𝔓75 itself were used as cartonnage in the new leather cover. Robinson suggests that this was done by Pachomian monks, who rebound the codex in order to preserve it.101 If so, it provides us with another example of the recirculation of Scripture as cartonnage by monks in the area where the Nag Hammadi Codices were used. As we shall see in chapter eight, the Genesis fragments from the cover of Codex VII provide us with evidence of a codex that must have been strikingly similar to the Nag Hammadi Codices in format, dimensions, and palaeography. The similarities make it hard to escape the conclusion, as hinted at by Kasser,102 that they share a common scribal culture and were probably produced in the same milieu, perhaps even in the same monastery. Despite arguments based on linguistic features which attempt to distance the Nag Hammadi Codices from the Lib. Or.4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655 (2 vols.; ed. Bentley Layton; NHS 20–21; Leiden: Brill, 1989), 2:96. 98 H. Idris Bell, “Mr. Bell’s Description of the Papyrus Fragments which Formed the Cover of the Ms. Oriental No. 7594,” in Coptic Biblical Texts in the Dialect of Upper Egypt (ed. E. A. Wallis Budge; London: British Museum, 1912), xiv–xv. 99 Depuydt, Catalogue, 1:635–36 (M613), cf. 1:282–84. 100 On the discovery of this codex and the rest of the Dishna Papers, see the discussion in chapter eight, and Robinson, Bodmer Papyri. 101 James M. Robinson, “Fragments from the Cartonnage of 𝔓75,” HTR 101:2 (2008): 236–37; cf. Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 31–32, 156. Because the way the codex was rebound made it impossible to open it wide enough to read the entire text, Robinson suggests that the monks could no longer read Greek but nevertheless cherished the codex as a relic. Since the codex has been dated to around 200 CE, long before the establishment of the Pachomian koinonia, Robinson proposes that it may have been brought to the Pachomian monastery together with other codices, such as 𝔓66, by Athanasius when he hid there during one of his periods in exile (ibid., 236). The paleographic dating of 𝔓75 may, however, be too early, and the codex may indeed be late enough that it could have been produced by the Pachomians themselves. See Brent Nongbri, “Reconsidering the Place of P.Bodmer XIV–XV (P75) in the Textual Criticism of the New Testament,” JBL (forthcoming); Nongbri, “The Limits of Palaeographic Dating of Literary Papyri: Some Observations on the Date and Provenance of P. Bodmer II (P66),” MH 71 (2014): 1–35. 102 Kasser, “Fragments du livre biblique,” 80.

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milieu and culture in which biblical manuscripts were copied,103 the close similarity between the Genesis fragments and the Nag Hammadi Codices themselves suggests that the people who produced the latter also copied canonical texts. As Barns has suggested, the most natural explanation of all the evidence at hand is that these people belonged to the monastic community witnessed elsewhere in the cartonnage documents.104

A Coptic Homily or Epistle In addition to the fragments of Genesis from the cover of Codex VII, there is another document (C3) which the editors of the cartonnage describe as a homily or epistle, which refers to prophecy, brothers in the spirit, and Israel, and “exhorts its readers to the pursuit of virtue.”105 The scribal hand is a carefully written uncial similar to the Genesis fragments and some of the Nag Hammadi Codices, though not identical with any of them. It may have been copied on a roll since the fragment’s verso is blank,106 though it could perhaps come from a codex if it were its final leaf or one of the rare instances of an uninscribed page.107 In any event, the fragment reads as follows:108 ]ⲛ̄ ϩ︤ⲛ︥ⲥⲛⲏⲩ ϩ︤ⲙ︥ⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁ ⲧ . [ ] brothers in spirit [ ]ⲁⲓⲧⲓⲁ ϩ︤ⲙ︥ⲡⲓⲥⲧⲣⲁⲏⲗ ⲉⲁⲩ . [ ] accusation in Israel having [ ] . ⲧ︤ⲃ︥ⲃⲏⲩ ⲉⲑ︤ⲃ︥ⲃⲓⲏⲏⲩ ⲉⲑⲛ̄ . [ ] being pure, who are humble, who are in [ ] . ⲁⲉⲓⲟⲩⲱϣⲉ ⲱ ⲛ̄ⲥⲛⲏⲩ ϩ[ ] I wished, o brothers [ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉ]ⲣⲓⲥϩⲁⲉⲓ ⲛⲏⲧ︤ⲛ︥ ϫⲉϣ̄ⲱⲡⲉ ⲛ̣̄[ when] I write to you: “Become [ ] … ⲡⲱⲧ ⲛ̄ⲥⲱϥ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲡⲱ[ⲧ ] pursue it and [run ⲡ]ⲱⲧ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲙⲡⲉⲑⲁⲩ ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲡ[ ] flee from evil and [ ⲛ]ⲧⲁⲛⲉⲡⲣⲟⲫⲏⲧⲉⲓⲁ ⲙ̄ⲡⲛⲟ[ⲩⲧⲉ ] which the prophecies of [God ]ⲥⲁ̣ϩ̣ⲟⲩ … … . ⲉⲣⲟⲥ ϩ̣ . [ ] written … to her/it [

The scanty details reconcile with the genre of a literary epistle of the type well known from figures such as Pachomius, Shenoute, and their respective successors. The author refers to himself in the first-person singular (4–5), writes to a group of “brothers,” “you” in the plural (4–5), who are perhaps “brothers in spirit” (1). The theological themes of the fragment, including spiritual brothers, Israel, and prophecy, as well as such popular ascetic topics as humility, purity, and the flight from evil, all fit nicely in a monastic setting. 103

See Funk, “Linguistic Aspect,” 144–45. Barns, “Preliminary Report.” 105 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 132–33. 106 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 133. 107 Compare the versos of NHC V 67 and 85, both of which were left blank. 108 The transcription is made from the photograph in Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Cartonnage, plate 55, VII 100c, and in the final line differs slightly from the one printed in Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 133. 104

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Monks’ Letters and the Pachomian Connection In addition to the fragments of Genesis and the Coptic homily or epistle described above, approximately fifteen or sixteen personal letters written to and/ or by monks were discovered in the cover of Codex VII. As we have already surveyed the pertinent details of what these letters reveal about the lifestyles and dealings of their authors and recipients in chapter two, we limit ourselves here to a brief summary, and then treat the question of their potential relationship to Pachomian monasticism. Although Shelton proposed that the monks witnessed in these letters probably belonged to the class of “unorganized remnuoth” described by Jerome and other ancient authors,109 it seems more likely, upon closer examination of their activities, that they were members of one or more cenobitic communities and its network of contacts in the region where the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced.110 Many of them are addressed to one or two individuals by name, but frequently greet “all the brothers” or “all those with you” as well.111 In general, they show monks engaged in administrative and commercial activities necessary for the practical side of monastery life. So, for example, the author of G67 gives instructions concerning a shipment of grain by boat and pack-animal to “the monastery” (τὸ μονάχιον).112 Although the names of the sender and recipient are lost due to its fragmentary state, two communities separated by some distance are clearly seen when the sender “and those with me” greet the recipient and “the brothers with you.” Over half the letters are addressed to Apa Sansnos, who appears to have been a prominent person in his community and was probably a monastery administrator (oikonomos).113 Sansnos is explicitly identified as a monk in one letter, and as a priest in another,114 and people address him with such reverential titles as Apa, father, lord father, beloved father, beloved brother, and in one case beloved son (presumably by his superior).115 Sansnos appears to have been responsible for a number of practical tasks: he receives people who bear letters of recommendation from the clergy;116 is asked to arbitrate among Christian brothers at odds in a Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 7. We agree with Wipzsycka’s tally of thirteen letters involving monks (“Nag Hammadi Library,” 190–91: G67, G68, G69, G71, G72, G75, G76, G77, G78, C4, C5, C6, C8), and add the following three: G73 (probably to Sansnos), C7 (written by the same Papnoute as C6), and perhaps G79 (in which the sender greets various adelphoi “by name” and uses a nomen sacrum). 111 G67, G68, G69, G77, G79, C3, C4, C5, C8, C15. 112 Compare SBo 39, where grain is delivered to the monastery by boat. 113 Eight letters are addressed to Sansnos (G68, G72, G73, G75, G76, G77, G78, C5) and one letter is written by him (G69). He may have either kept a copy or perhaps never sent it. 114 G72 (monk), G78 (priest). 115 Apa (C8), beloved father (G68), beloved brother (G73, G77, G78), lord father (G75), beloved son (G76). 116 G77, G78. 109 110

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dispute over payments;117 handles money and makes collections;118 helps people find products on the market through his network of trade contacts;119 deals with the acquisition and redistribution of food supplies and livestock;120 and makes shipments of chaff (an important fodder for livestock) via land and boat.121 The fact that Sansnos could oversee shipments as large as ten wagon-loads indicates that he ran a rather organized, professionally equipped, and routine operation.122 Several other documents from the cover of Codex VII probably relate to the same monastic community. The sender of C8 identifies himself as a ⲙⲟⲛⲟⲭⲟⲥ and refers to Apa Sansnos twice along with “all the brothers” with him. In C6, Papnoute writes to “my beloved father Pachome”; and the same Papnoute evidently wrote C7 as well.123 Other letters are clearly written by Christians, if not monks. In G66, Patese writes to his “lord brother” Abaras with “greetings in the Lord (ἐν κυ̅ )” and gives him instructions about sheep sheering, the acquisition of livestock, selling the wool, and making collections and payments. Letters from Chenophres, Horion, and Peteêsis also employ the customarily Christian “greetings in the Lord” and nomen sacrum.124 In addition to the extensive personal correspondence among monks, fragment G82 could be interpreted as a monastery account book, perhaps of the sort we hear about in the Pachomian literature. It records amounts of goods or money collected through, or produced by, several different persons, some with biblical names.125 Two letters show a more personal side of the monks. In C4, Daniel writes to his “beloved father Aphrodisios” to rejoice over the latter’s recovery from illness. With an appropriate quotation of Scripture – “Whom the Lord loves, he is wont to chastise; he scourges every son whom he will receive to himself” (Heb 12:6) – Daniel encourages Aphrodisios to understand his suffering as a trial from God, as well as a sign that God regards him as a son. In C5, Aphrodisios used the other side of Daniel’s letter to write to Sansnos about purchasing wheat and 117

G68. C5. 119 G68, G72. 120 G69, G75; cf. G67, G74. 121 G68, G72; cf. G67, G77. 122 G68. On wagons, see Bagnall, “The Camel,” esp. 5: “wagons are expensive, camels cheaper, donkeys cheapest. The more expensive means of transportation may be more effective if used much of the time, but only if one’s use is great enough to allow the capital invested to be put to work with this sort of efficiency.” 123 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 139–42. Although the contents of C7 are all but lost, Papnoute refers to a certain Paule and Apollo (or Apollo[nios]). On the identity of this Papnoute and “father Pachome” see further discussion below. 124 G70, G71, G74. 125 G82 column 1: “[…] by (διὰ) Eponychos and Pame[…] / […] Sacharias, by Saneis […] / […] by Soisoieis, 1 / […] by Moses, 1 / […] by Orion, 1 / […]athlib, 5 matia”; column 2: “by Athana[sius …] / by Silva[nus …] / by Paule […] / by Bekis […] / by Pachoum […] / by Sien […].” The μάτιον recorded in column one is a measure of one-twelfth an artaba (Preisigke, Fachwörter, 120). 118

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handling some collections and payments on his behalf; his illness had evidently returned, and he ominously exclaims “I do not know what is going to befall me, whether I shall leave the body or live.” As we have seen, critics have downplayed the evidence for a monastic community in the cartonnage by limiting it to the material from the cover of Codex VII and classifying many of the documents from the other covers as “purely secular” or “official.”126 Yet traces of documents written in a monastic, or at least Christian, setting also appear in covers of codices other than Codex VII, and from all of Robinson’s codicological sub-groups.127 Sub-group 3 (Codices I, VII and XI) yields the largest amount, with the extensive monastic correspondence from the cover of Codex VII. But very fragmentary papyri from Codex I and Codex XI might also be related to Christians and monks.128 In sub-group 2 (Codices II, VI, IX, and X), the cartonnage from Codex VI includes a name list (G44–45) which, as we have seen above, seems to be an account recording several Christian names and at least ten individuals who are identified as “brother” (adelphos). Another accounting document preserved in the cover of Codex IX (G146–147) appears to be closely related to G44–45 and is perhaps written in the same hand.129 As for sub-group 1, the cover of Codex VIII yielded five Coptic fragments (C15–19), one of which (C15) is a letter from [Isa]ac, Psai, Ben[jamin] to Mesouer and “all the brothers” with him, again suggesting a monastic community. Given this context, it is tempting to understand the recipient of another letter from Codex VIII (G145), “my father Erigam[---],” as a monastic authority. The evidence for a Christian community in the Nag Hammadi cartonnage is therefore not limited to Codex VII, but comes from the covers of codices from all the codicological

126 Shelton, “Introduction,” passim; Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 279; Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 4–7. 127 I.e., group 1 (Codices IV, V, and VIII), group 2 (Codices II, VI, IX, and X), and group 3 (Codices I, VII, and XI). No cartonnage papyri are extant from the unclassified Codex III. Codices XII and XIII were discovered without covers. On the sub-groups, see our discussion in chapter eight. 128 G4 and G153 respectively. The recipient of G4 (Codex I) is addressed with the reverential title “lord […]” (τῷ κυρίῳ τ̣ῷ α[…]), which according to the editors could be restored as τῷ κυρίῳ τ̣ῷ ἀ[γαπητῷ ἀδελφῷ], “[beloved] lord [brother]”; Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 21), thus echoing the titles found in the monastic correspondence from Codex VII (C4, G66, G75; cf. G74, G153). Similarly G153 (Codex XI) is addressed “to my lord brother P[---].” According to the address on the verso, the recipient resided in Chenoboskion (Sheneset), which was both a village and the seat of a Pachomian monastery. 129 According to the editors, G146 and 147 are probably from the same document, which is itself “written in a hand very similar to, and perhaps identical with, that of 44 and 45” and both refer to someone named “brother Phaeris” (G45, G147) (Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 103); see similarly Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Cartonnage, xv. The cartonnage from Codices VI and IX may therefore have been drawn from a common pool of scrap papyri, which would add yet another link between them together with their shared paleographic style and codicological construction.

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sub-groups.130 That this was a monastic community seems clear from the more well-preserved documents. In his preliminary report, Barns suggested that these monks belonged to a Pachomian monastery. This was based on a number of factors: the proximity of the codices’ discovery to the homeland of Pachomian monasticism in the villages of Pbow, Tabennesi, and Chenoboskion (named in a few of the cartonnage papyri);131 the fact that several people in the papyri share the same names as Pachomian authorities known from the Vita traditions; and, perhaps most importantly, the letter from Papnoute addressed to “my beloved father Pachome” (C6). As Barns observed, Papnoute was in fact the name of the chief administrator at Pbow during Pachomius’ lifetime.132 Barns may have slightly overstated the case by claiming that the Pachomians were the only “orthodox” monastic organization in the region,133 although it does seem to have been the most populous. Nevertheless, his arguments from the codices’ proximity to Pachomian monasteries, and especially Papnoute’s letter to Pachome (C6), remain quite compelling. The suggestion of a Pachomian provenance of the monastic cartonnage letters, and by extention the Nag Hammadi Codices themselves, is quite likely in our view, but has elicited heavy criticism from researchers who want to distance the “heretical” codices from the Pachomians. Resistance to this hypothesis has largely taken the form of highlighting differences between the lifestyles of monks like Sansnos in the cartonnage letters and that of the Pachomians. Ewa Wipszycka, for example, has strongly asserted that “Pachomian monks were completely isolated from any contacts with ‘the world’ and did not undertake such economic activities that are attested by the letters from the covers.”134 Although she simultaneously admits that there was a “group within the authorities of the congregation that dealt with organising the production and trade (and this was done for the monasteries’ needs),”135 she does not explain why, in her view, a monk like Sansnos could not have been one of these authorities. Sansnos and his “brothers” certainly lived at the right time and in the right place to be affiliated with the Pachomians, and as we have seen, their activities fit nicely with the profile of

130 Compared with M. A. Williams’ scribal sub-groups (A: I, VII, and XI; B: IV, V, VI, VIII, and IX; C: II and XIII), both sub-groups that yielded cartonnage (A and B) are represented. On Williams’ scribal sub-groups, see our discussion in chapter eight. 131 G1 (Codex I), G153 (Codex XI); maybe G31 (Codex V). 132 Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 13–14. 133 Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 13. See chapter two on the monastic life in the area. 134 Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 182–83. In contrast, Rousseau can state with confidence that “The chief certainty … is that the monasteries were not cut off from society around them” (Pachomius, 173). 135 Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 183.

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oikonomoi responsible for the acquisition and redistribution of goods, managing finances, and overseeing livestock and food supplies.136 It is somewhat puzzling to see Wipszycka emphasize how “completely isolated” the Pachomians were, since just pages later she cautions that “Writings about monks describing them as people isolated from the world … must be seen as an ideal picture, ‘réalité narrative’ and not as ‘réalité vécue.’”137 In the latter passage she is of course speaking about monks other than Pachomians, yet she does not explain why the Pachomians should be seen as an exception to her otherwise keen insight into monastic réalité. Indeed, in other publications, Wipszycka has discussed how the economic activity of the Pachomians brought them into regular contact with people beyond the monastery wall. In her 2009 magnum opus, she draws attention to “The work that the monks performed beyond the walls of their monastery and which obligated them to enter into contact with the people of the ‘world.’”138 The points of contact she underscores here dovetail nicely with what James Goehring has demonstrated so well – that a picture of Pachomian monks totally withdrawn from society is fiction, and one that does not even reconcile with the details furnished by their own monastic rules and hagiographical literature. Instead, the Pachomians appear to have been well connected with the economy of the surrounding towns 136 On the Pachomian oikonomoi, see G1 26, 28, 59, 79, 83; SBo 71, 145. Shipments of grain to a Pachomian monastery by boat (SBo 39; G1 39) further reconciles with logistics we hear about in the cartonnage letters (G67). 137 Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 189, echoing her seminal study of the close connection Egyptian monks had with the cities and towns; see Wipszycka, “Le monachisme,” 1–44, and on the Pachomians in particular 10–12 (monasteries in the city of Alexandria), 33 (monasteries near Panopolis, Ptolemaios and Hermopolis), and 35. 138 Wipszycka, Moines, 525: “Le travail que les moines effectuaient hors de murs de leur monastère et qui les obligeait d’entrer en contact avec des gens du ‘monde.’” Although her argument here is that early Pachomians, before the death of their founder, supported themselves primarily by farming, and not by the manufacture and sale of goods, she nevertheless hypothesizes that they must have hired themselves out as day-laborers and leased plots of land from local landlords (519–26) because, she asserts, there would have been no arable land in Egypt that they could have claimed freely as their own (523). While we disagree with the certainty of the latter premise, we do agree that the Pachomians regularly engaged in economic activities outside the monastery. A papyrus published by Wipszycka records the payment of land taxes by a representative of the Pachomian monastery at Tabennesi for the year 367/68 (P. Berol. 11860); see Wipszycka, “Les terres de la congrégation Pachômienne dans une liste de payements pour les apora,” in Le Monde Grec: Pensée, littérature, histoire, documents: Hommages à Claire Préaux (ed. Jean Bingen, Guy Cambier, and Georges Nachtergael; Université Libre de Bruxelles: Faculté de Philosophie et Lettres 62; Brussels: L’Université de Bruxelles, 1975), 625–36, esp. 634. On the economic activities and property ownership in early Egyptian monasticism in general, see Mariachiara Giorda, “Monastic Property in Late Antique Egypt,” Coptica 8 (2009): 1–19; Judge, “Fourth-Century Monasticism”; S. R. Llewelyn, “Monastic Orthodoxy and the Papyri of the Nag Hammadi Cartonnage,” in New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity: A Review of the Greek Inscriptions and Papyri Published in 1980–81 (ed. S. R. Llewelyn and R. A. Kearsley; NewDocs 6; Sydney: Macquarie University, 1992), 182–89.

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and villages and conducted commercial dealings throughout Egypt even as far north as Alexandria.139 Wipszycka’s opposition to the Pachomian identity of Apa Sansnos and his monastic brothers echoes the objections previously set forth by Shelton, who similarly regarded “possession of money and other private property, interest in secular concerns, and apparently free contact with the daily world, in particular with women, as speaking against a Pachomian background.”140 Drawing attention to Proteria’s letter to Sansnos and Psatos, in which she asks them to find chaff for her donkeys, Shelton remarks that “a normal member of a Pachomian organization would not have been in a position to fulfill this request and it is almost unthinkable that he would have received correspondence from a woman – or indeed a man – on the subject, as the point of Pachomian coenobitic life was to avoid just such secular concerns.”141 As we have seen, this view of the Pachomians is a misleading caricature, especially in the case of monastery administrators who were appointed to handle practical affairs. Shelton’s description of the idealized, withdrawn lifestyle of “a normal member” of the Pachomian federation merely sidesteps the main point – that Sansnos, who is called both father and priest, would have been no normal member, but evidently held an administrative position. Communication with women was probably not an ordinary part of daily life for Pachomian monks; yet their own literature describes situations in which monastery authorities might come into contact with women, even in person.142 The fact that Sansnos was a priest has also been seen as a challenge to his Pachomian affiliation. Goehring comments that “if indeed Sansnos the monk functioned as a priest to the degree suggested in the texts, the connection with the Pachomians seems less likely.”143 This view is based on passages in the Pachomian literature which have been interpreted to the effect that Pachomius did not allow priests to join his movement.144 According to the Life of Pachomius, there were no clerics in the community in the early years when the brothers numbered only about a hundred, and to celebrate the Eucharist they would either go to the village church or invite local priests to the monastery. We are told that Pachomius did not want to have clerics in his monasteries lest their special office lead to jealousy and strife. Taken at face value, this might suggest that Sansnos the monk and priest was probably not a Pachomian. However, the same passage 139 Thus the necessity of rules for how monks should conduct themselves while in the villages (Pr. 90, cf. 56–57, 84, 86). S1 14 describes the monks hiring themselves out as day-laborers in the fields of local farmers. For a detailed discussion see Goehring, “The World Engaged” and “Withdrawing from the Desert.” 140 Shelton, “Introduction,” 6 n. 11. 141 Shelton, “Introduction,” 7. 142 SBo 27, 37, 41; G1 32, 134; Pr. 52, 119. 143 Goehring, “Provenance,” 248–49 and 246 n. 70. 144 SBo 25, 81; G1 27.

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Fig. 16. Letter of Papnoute to Father Pachome (cartonnage fragment C6 from Nag Hammadi Codex VII).

goes on to say that if a priest wanted to become a monk, then Pachomius would in fact receive him as long as he submitted to the monastic rules and hierarchy.145 Therefore while we cannot be certain that Sansnos and his monastic brothers 145 SBo 25; G1 27. This point is also acknowledged by Shelton, “Introduction,” 8 n. 18. See also Rousseau, Pachomius, 169–70; Ewa Wipszycka, “Les clerks dans les communautés monastiques d’Égypte,” JJP 26 (1996): 135–66 (reprinted with slight modifications in Wipszycka, Moines, 437–69).

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belonged to a Pachomian monastery, the arguments against the possibility are not well founded, and in some cases seem to be motivated primarily by an inclination to distance the “heretical” Nag Hammadi Codices from the Pachomians.146 In our view, the key piece of evidence linking the cartonnage documents to the Pachomians remains Papnoute’s letter to “my beloved father Pachome” found among the monastic correspondence in the cover of Codex VII. The most well preserved lines are as follows:147 1 ⲙ̣ⲡⲁⲙⲉⲛⲣⲓⲧ ⲛ̄ⲓⲱⲧ̀ ⲡⲁϩⲱⲙⲉ

ⲡⲁⲡⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ ϩⲛ̄ ⲡϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ ⲭⲉⲣⲉ ϩⲁⲑⲏ ⲛ̄ϩ̣[ⲱ]ⲃ ⲛⲓⲙ ϯϣⲓⲛⲉ ⲉⲣⲟⲕ ⲙ̄ⲡⲟ̣[ⲟⲩ ϯϣⲓ]ⲛⲉ ⲉⲡⲁⲥⲟⲛ ⲏ . [ 5 [.] . [ⲛϯⲙ]ⲡϣⲁ ⲡⲁⲙⲉⲛ̣ⲣⲓⲧ̣ [ⲛⲓⲱⲧ …]148 . ⲉϣⲓⲛⲉ ⲉⲣⲱⲧⲛ̄ [    ⲓ]ⲱ̣ⲧ ⲙⲁⲕⲁⲣⲓ̣ ϯⲛⲟ̣ . [ [     ] . ⲧ̣ ⲙ̄ⲙⲉⲣⲓⲧ̣ ⲧⲓ̣ …

To my beloved father Pachome, Papnoute, greetings in the Lord. First of all, I greet you [today. I greet] my brother Ê[---] [… I] am [not] worthy, my beloved [father …] to greet you [ fa]ther Macari(us), I … [ ] … beloved … …

As Barns pointed out in his preliminary report, Papnoute was the name of Pachomius’ chief administrator (oikonomos) at Pbow, and brother of Theodore, Pachomius’ second in command.149 The letter also refers to a “[fa]ther Macari(us)” (line 7), and although that name is one of the most common among Christians, we do know of a contemporary father Macarius in the Pachomian federation who eventually became the abbot of Phnoum.150 Thus the fragment very well 146 Shelton also objects to a specifically Pachomian setting of the monastic letters on the basis of the situation described in G68, where Sansnos is asked to intervene in a dispute over payments (τῶν ἐκφορίων) and to make a certain Peter stop harrassing Appianus “through Papnoutios’ people.” According to Shelton, Pachomians did not rent out their land, and “the picture of Pachomian monks harassing slow-paying tenants is in any case bizarre” (“Introduction,” 10 n. 21). However, the term τῶν ἐκφορίων need not be interpreted as rent payments in particular, but can refer to any sort of payment; and the use of harassment, even violence, by Egyptian monks during this period is well documented. Shenoute, for example, is famous for having burned down pagan temples (although the scale of his violent activities is disputed, and may have been exaggerated; see Stephen Emmel, “Shenoute and the Christian Destruction of Temples in Egypt: Rhetoric and Reality,” in From Temple to Church: Destruction and Renewal of Local Cultic Topography in Late Antiquity [ed. Johannes Hahn, Stephen Emmel, and Ulrich Gotter; RGRW 163; Leiden: Brill, 2008], 161–201). In another situation, Archbishop Dioscorus asked Shenoute to protect a priest named Psenthaesios “and the prudent monks who are with him,” who had used violence to root out heretics in the area around Panopolis (Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 68; Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 371). Given the wide-spread use of violence as a means to an end in late antique Egypt, we would not rule out the likelihood that some Pachomian monks, although portrayed as kind and humble in their hagiographic literature, could have been guilty of harassment when it came to making collections. 147 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 139–40. 148 Probably [ⲛϯⲙ]ⲡϣⲁ ⲡⲁⲙⲉⲛ̣ⲣⲓⲧ̣ [ⲛⲓⲱⲧ ⲁⲛ]. 149 On Papnoute (Paphnutius) the “great oikonomos” of Pbow, see SBo 38, 119; G1 65, 79, 106, 114, 124. 150 SBo 134; G1 121.

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may come from an autograph letter sent to the famous abbot Pachomius from his administrator Papnoute, and in turn lends further plausibility to the notion that the monks witnessed in the cartonnage documents belonged to the Pachomian federation. Critics have nevertheless expressed scepticism over the identification of Papnoute and Pachome in this letter with the famous abbot and his administrator. According to Shelton, “Pachomius was among the commonest of Egyptian names” and “as there are otherwise no clear traces of the Pachomian order in these texts, one may be sceptical about the identification of the man here.”151 Shelton is certainly correct that Pachomius was a fairly common name in Egypt; in fact “another Pachomius” is mentioned in the Life of Pachomius among the administrators of the federation.152 What Shelton does not take seriously, however, is that it could hardly have been “common” for the average person named Pachomius to have been a monk, to have been sent a letter by a subordinate named Papnoute, to have been greeted as “my beloved father,” along with other brothers, and revered as a superior (“[I] am [not] worthy, my beloved [father …]”) – and all this at the same time and in the same region in which the famous abbot Pachomius and his oikonomos Papnoute lived.153 Such a coincidence is not impossible, but certainly improbable. Shelton nevertheless closes his introduction to the cartonnage volume with the firm conclusion that “There are no certain traces of classical Pachomian monasticism in the cartonnage.”154 But when it comes to weighing historical “certainties,” the combined evidence from this fragment can, in our view, be most easily explained as a letter sent to the famous abbot Pachomius. One can only wonder if there would be so much scepticism concerning the identification of the addressee if the fragment had not been found in the cover of a Nag Hammadi codex.155 Critics have attempted to deflate the significance of the letter to father Pachome by shifting the focus of discussion away from the facts discussed above and onto the reconstruction of the address on the letter’s damaged verso, which reads [ ] . ⲁⲡⲣ̣[.] . ⲏⲧ[. .] ̣̄ⲉⲓⲱⲧ [ ].156 The editors observe that the text could 151

Shelton, “Introduction,” 11. G1 26, 79. 153 One might add that Coptic was abbot Pachomius’ native language in which he conducted correspondence. See Hans Quecke, Die Briefe Pachoms: Griechischer Text der Handschrift W. 145 der Chester Beatty Library (TPL 2; Regensburg: Friedrich Pustet, 1975). 154 Shelton, “Introduction,” 11. 155 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 281–82, repeats Shelton’s arguments and adds that it would be unlikely for Papnoute the administrator to write to Pachomius the abbot since the two lived in the same monastery at Pbow. The strain on this argument becomes immediately apparent, however, when he goes on to admit that Pachomius and other monastery officials frequently traveled (cf. G1 59, 60, 61, 83, 118), a point which he then must qualify with the assertion that such trips “were short and rapid” (282). 156 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 140. The edition prints an apostro152

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be restored as [ⲧⲁⲁⲥ] ⲙⲡ̣ⲁⲡⲣ̣[ⲟ]ⲫ̣ⲏⲧ[ⲏⲥ] ⲛ̣̄ⲉⲓⲱⲧ [ⲡⲁϩⲱⲙⲉ], “[Deliver] to my fatherly pr[oph]et [Pachome].”157 Since some Egyptian abbots were indeed called prophets, Shenoute being a notable example, Barns suggested that if the reconstruction were sound, it would further confirm that the letter was addressed to none other than the famous abbot Pachomius.158 Shelton expressed scepticism over this point as well. Although he readily admitted that the abbot Pachomius may have been called a prophet, he rejected the restoration of C6 on the basis that the specific phrase “my fatherly prophet” (ⲡⲁⲡⲣⲟⲫⲏⲧⲏⲥ ⲛ̄ⲉⲓⲱⲧ) is not attested elsewhere. Yet he concedes, in a footnote, that “the reverse phrase … ⲡⲁⲉⲓⲱⲧ ⲙ̄ⲡⲣⲟⲫⲏⲧⲏⲥ (“my prophetic father”) is common enough.”159 His scepticism of the reading ⲡⲣ̣[ⲟ]ⲫ̣ⲏⲧ[ⲏⲥ] ⲛ̣̄ⲉⲓⲱⲧ would thus appear to be little more than a technicality, and he offers no alternative reconstruction of the visible ink traces. In contrast to Shelton, Veilleux accepted Barns’ reconstruction of “prophet” in the address, but nevertheless maintained that the title would not apply to the famous abbot Pachomius who, he maintained, is never called a prophet in “the whole of Pachomian literature.” This assertion is not quite true, however, as Theodore does praise Pachomius as “a just man and prophet” in the Bohairic Life.160 While no interpretation of this letter to “my beloved father Pachome” should be based on reconstructed text, the reading of the damaged verso remains only a tangential issue in the question over Pachome’s identity. The unequivocal facts remain that the letter is addressed to a monastic father named Pachome by a subordinate named Papnoute, that it comes from the time and place of the famous abbot Pachomius and his oikonomos Papnoute, and that it is written in Coptic, the language in which Pachomius conversed and conducted personal correspondence. The identification of people mentioned in papyri with famous figures known from literary sources has certainly been based on much less evidence than this.161 It seems quite probable, then, as Barns suggested, that fragment C6 is from an autograph letter written to the famous abbot Pachomius himself. The presence of the letter to Pachome among the extensive monastic correspondence in the cartonnage documents provides a direct connection between phe on both instances of the tau (ⲧ⳿), which we omit here as they are not visible in the Facsimile Edition (97c↑). 157 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 141; cf. Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 13. 158 Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 13. 159 Shelton, “Introduction,” 11 n. 22. 160 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 981; SBo 194 (Lefort, Vita Bohairice Scripta, 189,13; trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 242). 161 For example, the identification of an anchorite named John, witnessed in a small fourthcentury dossier, with the famous John of Lycopolis based on the name John (which is very common) and the time and place from which the letters come. See Choat, “Archive of Apa Johannes,” 178 and our discussion in chapter two. Wipszycka readily accepts the identification of the two Johns (Moines, 83), but not of abbot Pachomius and the Pachome of C6 (“Nag Hammadi Library,” 181–82).

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those monks and the Pachomians. It is not clear how they were related, or how their papyri eventually came to be mixed up together as cartonnage. But in the absence of evidence to the contrary, the simplest explanation would be that the recipients of the letters such as Apa Sansnos and his brothers, and perhaps some of the senders too, belonged to the Pachomian federation. At some point, their letters and other documents, including monastery accounts and fragments from literary texts, were recycled as cartonnage in the covers of some of the Nag Hammadi Codices, most well preserved in the cover of Codex VII, but as we have seen, leaving traces in some of the other covers as well (and especially so if some of the more ambiguous documents and accounts found in I, IV, V and VI stem from monastery industry). Of course not all the cartonnage papyri appear to have been written by, or necessarily received by, monks. But it would not be difficult to hypothesize how monks who produced the covers could have come into possession of the seeming diversity of papyri that we have been surveying in this chapter. It is to this issue that we now turn.

Acquisition of Cartonnage Critics of the monastic hypothesis acknowledge the fact that many of the cartonnage documents originated among monks, yet maintain that monks need not have been responsible for producing the covers since anyone could have acquired all the scraps from a common source, such as a dump or commercial waste-paper vendor. As we have seen, Shelton classified the papyri under a wide diversity of headings (contracts, deeds, private accounts, official accounts, personal correspondence, imperial ordinances, petitions to officials, etc., though sometimes the classifications exceed the evidence), and thus concluded that, “It is hard to think of a satisfactory single source for such a variety of documents except a town rubbish heap.”162 Wipszycka offers a similar single-source explanation. She proposes that the cover makers could have purchased all the papyri from a “waste paper trader” to whom some anchorites, as she describes Sansnos and his brothers, had previously sold-off their scrap papyri to raise a little money. (Alternatively, she suggests the scraps might have been returned to the monks’ families after they died, and then sold off.) “We know quite well that a waste paper trade existed in antiquity,”

162 Shelton, “Introduction,” 11, repeated by Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 282. Veilleux also observes that while Barns may have posited a monastic background for too many of the documents, Shelton “rejected that possibility too categorically” (“Monasticism and Gnosis,” 279). “But when all is said and done,” he concludes, “it remains that some of those documents clearly come from a civilian administration, as, for example, the taxation accounts, and one wonder how they came into the hands of the monks” (ibid.).

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she asserts, and “the mixture of texts … could not emerge in any other way.”163 Yet as Roger Bagnall has clarified, there is in fact no evidence for such a trade in antiquity, and private recycling was the norm.164 And even if we were to entertain a single-source explanation, why should monks be ruled out from among the people who could ultimately have acquired the papyri to make book covers? But why seek “a single source” for the mixture of papyri in the first place? There is no reason to posit that whoever made the covers would have acquired all the papyri from one place or through one person. Far from challenging the monastic hypothesis, the diverse assemblage of documents found in the cartonnage actually makes a good deal of sense as the by-product of a cenobitic organization, which, as we have seen, generated its own documents from within (accounts, personal correspondence, literary texts), received letters, and must have acquired other documents from outside, for instance when new members joined, sometimes bringing property with them and donating it to the monastery. That such donations were fairly common is implied by John Cassian’s report that Egyptian monasteries were frequently troubled by brothers trying to get their property back when they decided to quit the monastic life.165 An anecdote in the Pachomian Vita praises a large and memorable donation made by Petronius’ wealthy father, Pshenthbo. When he joined the monastery, he donated to it “everything he had,” including sheep, goats, cattle, camels, donkeys, boats, wagons and “all sorts of stuff” (σκεύη παντοῖα),166 as well as the monastery of Thbew itself, which Petronius had previously built on his family’s estate.167 It is no surprise that Pshenthbo’s donation was recorded in the Vita tradition, given its extravagance.

163 Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 188–89. That the cartonnage documents may have been bought as waste-paper was first suggested by Kasser, “Fragments du livre biblique,” 67. 164 Roger S. Bagnall, Early Christian Books in Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 58. It is telling that in Wipszycka’s comprehensive review of Bagnall’s book she offers no defence of her hypothesis. See Wipszycka, “Books, Literacy, and Christian Communities: On Two Recent Books by Roger S. Bagnall,” JJP 40 (2010): 249–66. 165 Cassian, Inst. 4.4. Cassian also claims that Pachomian monasteries were immune to this problem because they never took property from new members. But his information on this exception seems overly idealized, and perhaps simply misinformed, as the Pachomian sources themselves speak of new members surrendering at least some of their property to the monastery’s storehouse (e,g, G1 39). Pr. 49 stipulates that a new member’s clothing “shall be given to those in charge of this matter and brought to the storeroom”; cf. Leg. 15. According to Cassian (Inst. 4.6), they kept the neophyte’s clothing in case he failed the probationary testing and had to be sent away. On Cassians’ sojourn in Egypt, the quality of his information about Egyptian monasticism, and his motivations (writing to an audience in Gaul), see Columba Stewart, Cassian the Monk (OSHT; New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 7–12 and 133–40; on the Institutes, see Owen Chadwick, John Cassian: A Study in Primitive Monasticism (2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), 37–49. 166 Or “all sorts of gear” (as Veilleux translates), though τὸ σκεῦος can refer to any objects generally in the neuter plural. 167 SBo 56, G1 80.

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But many other new members must have donated property too,168 and papyri from their own private archives might have been included.169 It would thus be easy to explain how even those “official accounts” from the cover of Codex V ended up in a monastery workshop, if they had been in someone’s private archive and later donated to the monastery along with other goods. Shelton insisted that these documents would have come from a government office, but we know that official documents, especially those related to taxation, were often kept in private family archives since in Roman Egypt the burden of collection was often imposed as a public liturgy on private individuals, usually wealthy landowners of high standing.170 As Pieter W. Pestman observes, “family archives are usually kept by persons exercising some official duty and they often contain official documents too.”171 One can imagine that Petronius’ father Pshenthbo, a landowner and “man of rank” according to the Bohairic Life,172 would have been the kind of person who had some official documents in his private archive, like the accounting roll from the cover of Codex V (G22–23). One could also think of official documents coming in to the monastery through someone like Saouina, a friend of Pachomius known from the Arabic Life, who worked as an estate manager of local city elites, and eventually joined the monastery himself.173 Finally, there remains the possibility, already suggested by Goehring, that some documents of an official nature might have been sent to the monasteries, or left there, by visitors from civic

168

39).

For example, the neophyte who brought and donated two blankets to the monastery (G1

169 Although old papyri would not have been very valuable, and so were often simply discarded, book-binders clearly made use of it. It may also be the case that some neophytes brought their archives with them when they joined the monastery, not to donate, but to keep for future reference should the need arise. 170 Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 57, 133–34, 157–60; Lewis, Compulsory Public Services; David J. Thomas, “Compulsory Public Service in Roman Egypt,” in Das Römisch-Byzantinische Ägypten. Akten des internationalen Symposions 26.–30. September 1978 in Trier (ed. Günter Grimm, Heinz Heinen, and Erich Winter; Aegyptiaca Treverensia 2; Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1983), 35–39; and Oertel, Die Liturgie, passim. 171 Pestman, New Papyrological Primer, 51; cf. Peter van Minnen, “House-to-House Enquiries: An Interdisciplinary Approach to Roman Karanis,” ZPE 100 (1994): 241: “the office of tax collector in Roman Egypt was a so-called liturgy, performed by the wealthier members of a community and operated out of their own homes.” For a detailed study of different types of archives from Egypt, see Vandorpe, “Archives and Dossiers,” 216–55, who also observes that official documents are often found in private archives of wealthy families or their estate managers (ibid., 231–34) 172 SBo 56. 173 Emile Amélineau, Monuments pour servir à l’histoire de l’Égypte chrétienne au IVe siècle: Histoire de Saint Pakhôme et de ses communautés (AMG 17; Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1889), 594–95. For further details about estate managers like Saouina in fourth-century Egypt, see Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 158–59 (Papnouthis and Dorotheos) and Vandorpe, “Archives and Dossiers,” 233–36.

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or military administrations, or from other people who may have stayed there temporarily.174

Cover-Makers and Scribes Finally, there remains the question concerning the relationship between those who produced the covers of the Nag Hammadi Codices and the scribes who copied the texts. In Barns’ view, it seems unlikely that the writing of the codices and their binding should have been the work of two different establishments; and even more unlikely that the waste papyrus used to pack and strengthen the covers should have had no connection with the binders. The contents of the texts from the covers must therefore be vitally relevant to the provenance of the codices themselves.175

Not all researchers have agreed with Barns however. In Wipszycka’s attempt to distance the Nag Hammadi Codices from monks like Sansnos witnessed in the cartonnage, she suggests that even if monks had made the covers, the texts themselves could have been copied by someone else since covers were frequently reused on different quires, and “only the sizes had to be roughly similar.”176 According to this scenario, the covers might originally have been produced for other quires and texts, at different times and places, and could even have been reused over and over again on different quires before they were finally used to bind the quires of the Nag Hammadi Codices. While Wipszycka’s suggestion is of course possible, no evidence in the codices points to reuse, such as the cutting and retooling we see in the case of the reused cover of Codex Papyrus Berolinensis 8502.177 As James Robinson observes, “To be sure, the copying of the texts and the binding of the quires in their covers do not necessarily reflect the same situation. But no indications have been identified suggesting that covers produced for earlier quires were secondarily reused for the quires that have survived …”178 And as Wipszycka points out, the dimensions 174 Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 250. A very interesting papyrus pertaining to the Pachomians, P. Grenf. II, 95, evidently from the sixth century, mentions troops actually quartered in the Pachomian monastery at Pbow. See A. S. Hunt and C. C. Edgar, Select Papyri II: Non-Literary Papyri (LCL 282; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1963), 492–93, § 388; Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 283 n. 57. We know that Shenoute’s White Monastery would harbor refugees in times of crisis. See Stephen Emmel, “The Historical Circumstances of Shenute’s Sermon God Is Blessed,” in ΘΕΜΕΛΙΑ: Spätantike und koptologische Studien Peter Grossman zum 65. Geburtstag (ed. Martin Krause and Sofia Schaten; SKCO 3; Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1998), 81–96. 175 Barns, “Preliminary Report,” 11–12. 176 Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 188. 177 For the latter, see Krutzsch and Poethke, “Der Einband.” 178 Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Cartonnage, xi.

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of the Nag Hammadi covers correspond closely to those of the quires,179 as is evident from the following table:180 Codex I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII

open cover width 32,9–33,4 31,8–32,3 34,5–35,0 30,0–30,5 28,5 30,2–30,8 35,5–36,0 31,6–31,7 29,8–30,8 27,0–27,3 34,0

single leaf width 13,1–14,0 13,8–15,8 14,1–15,7 13,3–13,4 11,3–13,4 12,9–14,9 15,2–17,5 12,0–14,7 13,6–15,2 11,4–12,2 13,7–14,3 [19,0] 13,9

cover height 29,7–30,0 28,6 26,0–26,1 23,8–24,2 24,0 27,7–28,0 29,0 24,0–24,3 25,9–26,6 26,7–26,9 28,6

leaf height 30,0 28,4 25,5 23,7 24,3 27,9 29,2 24,2 26,3 26,0 28,2 [25,5] 27,2

Given the absence of evidence pointing to rebinding, the most natural explanation for the close correlation in dimensions is that the covers were originally designed for the present quires. In summary, we have no way of knowing how the diversity of documents found among the Nag Hammadi cartonnage was assembled and acquired by those who made the covers. It is of course possible that someone other than monks could have gathered them all from a common source, as Shelton and Wipszycka maintain. But given the absence of evidence to shed light on the issue, it becomes a matter of weighing historical possibilities and plausibilities. While there is no evidence to support Shelton and Wipszycka’s claim for the possibility that the documents were collected from a dump, or were purchased from a waste-paper trader, there is a good deal of evidence in the cartonnage itself that points unequivocally to the activities of a monastic community. Together with the fact that the covers bind Christian theological treatises written in Coptic – the language most prominent among the monks of Upper Egypt  – and bear colophons resonant with monastic terminology (see chapter seven), a monastic setting for the assemblage of the cartonnage from various sources, the production of the covers, and the copying of the codices themselves seems to be the most plausible way of explaining the available evidence.

179

Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 186. The table is based on those in James M. Robinson, “The Construction of the Nag Hammadi Codices,” in Essays on the Nag Hammadi Texts: In Honour of Pahor Labib (ed. Martin Krause; NHS 6; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 185. Robinson’s data is also reproduced in Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 186. All measurements are in centimeters. 180

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Conclusion While Khosroyev has argued that the Nag Hammadi cartonnage documents hardly provide us with anything like the information we gain concerning the monastic life from such sources as the Melitian “archives” discussed above,181 we believe, on the contrary, that the Nag Hammadi cartonnage documents provide us with important clues concerning the monastic environment in which the codices were produced. As we have shown in chapter two, a wealth of information about the monastic life on the Dishna plain and its surroundings can be gleaned from a careful study of these documents, especially from the letters related to the monk and presbyter named Sansnos. In the present chapter we have argued that the variety of cartonnage documents may suggest that those who made the covers acquired papyri from different channels, and not necessarily from a single source such as a town dump or a hypothetical waste-paper trader. Yet even if one were to entertain some form of the rubbish-heap hypothesis, there is no reason to suppose that those who gathered the papyri could not have been monks. In our view, the fact that one finds so many documents pertaining to a monastic community among the cartonnage papyri makes it more probable that the people who collected them were members of that community. After all, the contents of the books are by and large Christian theological treatises, and as we shall see in chaper seven, the scribal features and colophons strongly indicate a monastic milieu. We have also seen that the diversity of documents found in the cartonnage does not pose a challenge to the hypothesis of a monastic provenance. Fragments pertaining to commercial issues, or recording large quantities of goods, are not uncharacteristic of the practical side of monastery life. Despite idealized portrayals of Egyptian monks being completely isolated from the world, we know that they lived around and within cities and villages, and participated in the local economy. Ironically, the portrait of the withdrawn desert monk appears more prominently in the writings of some modern historians than in the ancient hagiographical sources. Other documents may have originated in contexts unrelated to monasticism, but could still have found their way into a monastery. We have also seen that there would be nothing unusual about monks recycling fragments of Scripture, such as the fragments of a Genesis codex found in the cover of Codex VII, as we know from other cases that monks did reuse old biblical manuscripts in this way. The monastic community witnessed in many of the cartonnage documents, most prominently from the cover of Codex VII, but showing traces here and there in other covers too, would be the most likely setting in which the Nag Hammadi Codices themselves were produced and read. As we have seen, Pap181

Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 73–74.

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noute’s letter to his “beloved father Pachome” from the cover of Codex VII suggests that these monks were affiliated with the Pachomian federation. In chapter nine we will further consider what kind of monastic community produced the Nag Hammadi Codices, with a discussion of the most prominent alternatives, the Pachomian hypothesis being one of them. But first, in the following chapter, we will deal with the more general question of the circulation of apocrypha in Egyptian monasteries.

Chapter 6

Apocryphal Books in Egyptian Monasteries No woman should enter your cell, and you should not read apocrypha … – Apa Sopatrus1

While prominent ecclesiastical authorities, both contemporary with the Nag Hammadi Codices and throughout the following centuries, strongly opposed the reading of apocryphal books, not everyone shared their critical attitudes. We shall see in this chapter that while there were attempts to censor apocrypha in the churches and monasteries of Egypt, there were also voices, sometimes pseudonymous, arguing in favor of a more discerning and open-minded approach. While some called for an outright ban on all apocryphal texts, others believed that they could be read for edification in a way simultaneously critical and sympathetic, by distinguishing those parts that were beneficial from those that were deemed less so. Despite persistent attempts at censorship, apocryphal books and traditions that elaborated upon the ambiguities of Scripture remained integral parts of early Christian traditions and book collections for a long time, and in Coptic Christianity, as we shall see, they remained important well into the middle ages.

Censors and Sympathizers The most famous censor of apocryphal books in fourth-century Egypt is Athanasius, patriarch of Alexandria (d. 373), who in his Thirty-Ninth Festal Letter of 367 called for a moratorium on the reading of such books and set forth a fixed canon of Scripture for the Egyptian Church.2 Athanasius wrote this famous letAp. Patr., Sopatrus 1 (Migne, PG 65:414). For the Greek text of Athanasius’ Thirty-Ninth Festal Letter, see Périclès-Pierre Joannou,  Les Canons des pères grecs (vol. 2 of Fonti: Discipline générale antique (IV e–IX e s.); Rome: Tipographia Italo-Orientale “S. Nilo,” 1963), 71–76. For the Coptic text, see Louis Théophile Lefort, S. Athanase: Lettres festales et pastorales en copte (CSCO 150, Scriptores Coptici 19; Leuven: L. Durbecq, 1955), 16–22, 58–62; René-Georges Coquin, “Les lettres festales d’Athanase (CPG 2102): Un nouveau complement: Le manuscript IFAO, copte 25,” OLP 15 (1984): 133–58; David Brakke, “A New Fragment of Athanasius’s Thirty-Ninth Festal Letter: Heresy, Apocrypha, and the Canon,” HTR 103:1 (2010): 47–66, whose translation we follow below. The most thorough study of Athanasius’ festal letters is Alberto Camplani, Atanasio di Alessandria: Lettere Festali (Milan: Paoline, 2003), see 498–518 on Ep. fest. 39. 1 2

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ter amidst heated theological and political conflicts, not only with the Arians, but also the Melitians, whom he criticized for teaching from apocryphal books and even fabricating pseudepigrapha in the names of the apostles.3 In response to what appears to have been a rather positive attitude toward apocryphal books among at least some Egyptian Christians, the Alexandrian patriarch set forth a closed canon which included only those writings which he considered to be “divinely inspired” (θεόπνευσθα) witnesses to the teachings of Christ.4 Athanasius did not, however, prohibit all non-canonical writings, for he also listed seven books outside his canon which he deemed “useful” for the instruction of catechumens, namely the Wisdom of Solomon, the Wisdom of Sirach, Esther, Judith, Tobit, the Didache and the Shepherd of Hermas. The so-called “apocryphal books,” on the other hand, he explicitly condemned as “an invention of the heretics, who write these books whenever they want and then generously add time to them, so that, by publishing them as if they were ancient, they might have a pretext for deceiving the simple folk.”5 According to Athanasius, one need not go beyond the boundaries of the holy scriptures to find truth, since they are complete and perfect for instruction. While Athanasius has become famous as the first to canonize precisely the twenty-seven writings of the New Testament recognized by Christians today, it is worth noting that rather than limiting the canon per se, he seems to have been more concerned with limiting the number of writings included in the category of books “useful” to read for the instruction of newcomers. There is little reason 3 On the social context of Athanasius’ career, see Timothy D. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius: Theology and Politics in the Constantinian Empire (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993); Brakke, Athanasius. On Ep. fest. 39 in particular, see Brakke, “Canon Formation and Social Conflict in Fourth-Century Egypt: Athanasius of Alexandria’s Thirty-Ninth Festal Letter,” HTR 87:4 (1994): 395–419; Brakke, “Scriptural Practices in Early Christianity: Towards a New History of the New Testament Canon,” in Invention, Rewriting, Usurpation: Discursive Fights Over Religious Traditions in Antiquity (ed. David Brakke, Jörg Ulrich, and Anders-Christian Jacobsen; ECCA 11; Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2012), 263–80; and Brakke, “A New Fragment.” 4 Brakke, “Canon Formation,” 397. 5 Athanasius, Ep. fest. 39.21. On Athanasius’ three classes of texts, see the insightful discussion by François Bovon, “Beyond the Canonical and the Apocryphal Books, the Presence of a Third Category: The Books Useful for the Soul,” HTR 105:2 (2012): 125–37. The term “apocryphal” is an important one in Athanasius’ letter, but what did he mean by it? Did he regard it as a term used positively by his opponents for books which offer “secret” teachings, or is it to be understood as his own negative branding of what he considered spurious writings? The trouble is that the key passage in this regard in the 39th Festal Letter is only preserved in Coptic, a language in which the passive voice is rendered by the third person plural. Thus Athanasius may either refer to the apocrypha as “the writings that are called apocrypha,” or “the writings that they (i. e., his opponents) call apocrypha.” These writings he also associates squarely with heresy. David Brakke has recently argued that Athanasius’ 39th Festal Letter and its scriptural canon were probably intended to undermine not only “a general spirituality of free intellectual inquiry and its academic mode of authority, but also the specific false doctrines to which he believed such a spirituality gave rise” (“A New Fragment,” 56).

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to suspect that Athanasius’ opponents were not in basic agreement with him regarding which books should be considered as the most authoritative scriptures. Where there clearly was disagreement, however, was on the question of which books could be read in addition to Athanasius’ canon, and here many of his opponents seem to have had a more permissive attitude. Athanasius’ Spanish contemporary, Bishop Priscillian of Avila, presents us with a good example of the kind of attitude that we might expect many of Athanasius’ opponents to have held in this matter. Priscillian expressed a rather different attitude toward apocrypha than Athanasius, and defended the benefits of reading them in his own Book on Faith and Apocryphal Writings.6 Priscillian certainly regarded the canonical books as authoritative Scripture, but he did not limit authority to the canon. On the contrary, he argued that apocryphal texts were profitable in addition to the canonical ones if read with discretion and discernment. Indeed, he points to extra-canonical books cited in the canonical texts themselves to defend their usefulness and validity. If the prophets and evangelists read such books, he asked, why should such readings be banned?7 Indeed, for Priscillian, it was the canonical texts themselves that mandated the use of apocrypha,8 and he argues that “If we want to condemn all that [the saints] read, we certainly condemn what is related in the canon as well.”9 Furthermore, Priscillian maintained that it would simply be lazy to limit one’s readings to the canon and not search beyond its borders into other books: How, I ask, can we be guilty for reading a few passages from these works when we are much more at fault for the fact that we do not read all the things which were prophesied by God? However, I have no doubts that anyone among those who love slander rather than faith will say: “Look for nothing further! It is sufficient that you read what is written in the canon.” Certainly with his words I would easily rise to the inborn character of human nature, which seeks rest rather than work.10 6 For Latin text and English translation, see Marco Conti, Priscillian of Avila: The Complete Works (OECT; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 82–99. Priscillian was eventually executed on charges of sorcery between 385 and 387; see Henry Chadwick, Priscillian of Avila: The Occult and the Charismatic in the Early Church (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976). 7 Priscillian cites the reference to a prophecy of Enoch in Jude 14–15; the reference to Enoch in Heb 11:5; the reference in Tobit 4:13 to Noah, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as prophets; the references in Luke 11:50–51 and 1 Kings 19:10 to prophets who have been killed; the allegedly prophetic words quoted at Matt 2:14–15; Paul’s quotation of non-canonical words of God in Acts 20:35; the quotation of non-canonical words of God in Dan 13:5 and Ezek 38:14+17; references in 2 Chr 9:29, 12:15, 13:22, 20:34, 25:26, 28:26, and 33:18–19 to prophets and books not in the canon; and the reference in Col 4:16 to a letter to the Laodiceans that is not in the canon (Conti, Priscillian, 82–99). See also the discussion in Virginia Burrus, “Canonical References to Extra-Canonical ‘Texts’: Priscillian’s Defense of the Apocrypha,” SBLSP 29 (1990): 60–67; Burrus, The Making of A Heretic: Gender, Authority, and the Priscillianist Controversy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 64–65. 8 See Burrus, Making of a Heretic, 3. 9 Priscillian, Book on Faith and Apocryphal Writings 263–64 (trans. Conti, Priscillian, 99). 10 Priscillian, Book on Faith and Apocryphal Writings 184–89 (trans. Conti, Priscillian, 92–95).

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Even those authorities who outright prohibited apocryphal books could admit that they also contained beneficial sections. Thus Athanasius exhorted his audiences “to decline such books, even if a useful word is found in them,”11 since in his view the objectionable passages ruined whatever good they might contain. In stark contrast, Priscillian believed that the beneficial passages outweighed the more controversial, and that the reading of apocrypha was worth the trouble as long as the reader could separate the wheat from the chaff with a critical mind. For Priscillian it was not the canonical borders as such that safeguarded interpretation, but the holiness of the interpreter, and his adherence to orthodoxy.12 He does concede, however, that the reading of apocrypha “must not be entrusted to unskilled ears, lest, since a large number of writings were falsified by the heretics, while they look for the work of God in the words of the saints after the name of the prophets has been called, they may rush into the pit of heretical falsity.”13 Nevertheless, Priscillian certainly put far more faith in the individual readers and their powers of hermeneutical discernment than did censors like Athanasius and those who later followed in his footsteps.14 We find a similar defense of extra-canonical traditions in Egypt. In a Coptic homily on Christ’s passion and resurrection attributed to a certain Evodius of Rome, the alleged author, a pseudepigraphical figure known only in the Coptic tradition, is represented as one of Jesus’ followers during his earthly ministry and as the apostle Peter’s successor as archbishop of Rome. What we have in Evodius’ homily is a fascinating case in which an apocryphal text self-consciously defends the benefits of its own non-canonical nature, and offers a reasoned argument against the criticism of non-canonical traditions leveled by critics such as Athanasius. We do not know when this homily was originally composed, but it must have been sometime before the eighth century, the probable date of its earliest

11 Athanasius, Ep. fest. 39.23 (Brakke, “New Fragment,” 62). Similarly, when bishop Serapion of Antioch wrote to the church in Rhossus to condemn their reading of a Gospel of Peter, he judged that “while most of it accords with the genuine teaching of the Savior, some parts have been added” (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 6.12). 12 For similar arguments in defence of the reading of apocrypha by other authorities, including Zeno of Verona, Philastrius of Brescia, and Ambrosiaster, see H. Chadwick, Priscillian of Avila, 24–25. On the ongoing discussion of the usefulness of apocrypha in the west, see also Els Rose, Ritual Memory: The Apocryphal Acts and Liturgical Commemoration in the Early Medieval West (c. 500–1215) (MLST 40; Leiden: Brill, 2009), 23–78. 13 Priscillian, Book on Faith and Apocryphal Writings 253–55 (trans. Conti, Priscillian of Avila, 97). 14 Andrew S. Jacobs, “The Disorder of Books: Priscillian’s Canonical Defense of Apocrypha,” HTR 93:2 (2000): 135. Priscillian and his followers were also accused of manufacturing apocrypha. Indeed, Augustine charges the Priscillianists of being even worse than the Manichaeans when it came to their use of apocrypha. See Augustine, De haeresibus, c. 70.2; Epistula 237. On the heresiological association of apocrypha with the Priscillianists, see also Rose, Ritual Memory, 45–48.

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extant manuscript, and it was evidently copied and circulated in Egyptian monasteries and churches well into the middle ages.15 In the homily Ps.-Evodius describes Jesus’ resurrection, incarnation and his trials before the Sanhedrin and Pilate, adding along the way many details not told in the canonical gospels. Then, well into the sermon, Evodius anticipates accusations that he is adding apocryphal embellishments to the words of the gospels, and replies that he will explain himself using an example.16 He goes on to liken canonical Scripture to the garments of a king. Although the king may choose to use a garment made of undyed fabric, he says, the fabric becomes much nicer “when worked upon and dyed in colorful mixtures.” It is the same way with the canonical texts when they are expanded upon, as long as he who does so “acts according to their words and reveals them.” Evodius claims that such a procedure illuminates the words of the canonical gospels themselves, and can only make them better.17 In fact, according to Evodius, the king will not find fault if beautifully crafted plaits are added to his garments, but he will commend those who have added them exceedingly, so that everyone might praise the garment because of the plaits which are on it. Thus the Lord Jesus will not find fault with us if we add a few embellishments to the holy gospels, but he will commend us all the more and bless those who will bear fruit through them.18

Not content with the metaphor of the garment alone, Evodius also likens the canonical Scriptures to gold, explaining that “if you mix it with topaz, it shines all the more, so that no darkness occurs at all in the place in which it will be put. Thus, when the embellishment of the words of the Holy Spirit, through the teachers,19 is added to the holy gospels, they shine forth exceedingly and cast 15 Evodius of Rome, Homily on the Passion and the Resurrection. The text has been preserved in three medieval manuscripts: one associated with the Church of John the Baptist at Thinis in Upper Egypt (GIOV.AM) dated to the seventh or eighth century; one from the Monastery of the Archangel Michael at Phantoou in the Fayum (MICH.BR), dated by colophon to 855; and one from the White Monastery (MONB.OI) from sometime between the ninth and twelfth centuries. The Thinis manuscript was published by Francesco Rossi, I Papiri copti del Museo Egizio di Torino (2 vols., 10 fascs.; Turin: Loescher, 1887–92), 2.4.7–39. The Phantoou manuscript was published by Paul Chapman, “Homily on the Passion and the Resurrection Attributed to Euodius of Rome,” in Homiletica from the Pierpont Morgan Library (ed. Leo Depuydt; CSCO 524, Scriptores Coptici 43; Leuven: Peeters, 1991), 79–106, with English translation in the companion volume, Homiletica from the Pierpont Morgan Library (ed. Leo Depuydt; CSCO 525, Scriptores Coptici 44; Leuven: Peeters, 1991), 83–114, which we follow below. The White Monastery manuscript remains unpublished. 16 Evodius of Rome, Homily 40. 17 Evodius of Rome, Homily 41. 18 Evodius of Rome, Homily 42. 19 The reference to teachers is interesting in light of Athanasius’ rejection of the authority of human teachers and the application of the term “teacher” to anyone but Christ (Ep. fest. 39). See also SBo 189, where Theodore, in the middle of a speech praising Athanasius’ letter, ironically contradicts it by stating that the Lord “raises up in each generation, and in ours as well, perfect teachers (ϩⲁⲛⲣⲉϥϯⲥⲃⲱ … ⲉⲩϫⲏⲕ) in whom he dwells” (Veilleux, Vita Bohairice Scripta, 176).

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forth lightning.”20 The purpose, he explains, is not to supersede the canonical books, but to embellish and explain them. However, Evodius emphasizes that the embellishments must not be at the expense of the garment or the gold itself. It is an absolute necessity that all four canonical gospels are also preached, and that the theology is sound, or as Evodius puts it, that “the oneness of the Trinity” is preached.21 The Nag Hammadi Codices fit well within the scope of this ongoing conflict over authentic religious teaching and the use of apocrypha as an interpretive supplement to Scripture. Some scholars have suggested that if the Nag Hammadi Codices belonged to a Pachomian monastery, their removal and burial might have been in direct response to Athanasius’ letter of 367.22 After all, according to the Bohairic Life of Pachomius, the patriarch’s letter was received favorably by the Pachomian monks at Pbow, translated into Coptic, and set in the monastery “as a law for them.”23 Yet it is important to remember that we do not know when the codices were actually manufactured or buried. Some of them, if not all, may have been produced after Athanasius letter of 367, and may have continued to be read well into the fifth century if not later.24 In fact, a great deal of evidence, both actual manuscript discoveries and testimonies of ancient authors, shows that Egyptian monks continued to read all sorts of apocryphal books for centuries after Athanasius’ lifetime. His prohibition of apocrypha can therefore be seen as the beginning, rather than the end, of a long drawn-out conflict between ecclesiastical and monastic censors, on the one hand, who sought to suppress apocrypha and control reading practices in churches and monasteries, and, on the other, clergy and monks who found such books edifying and continued to read and copy them. We shall see that while manuscript evidence, dating from the seventh to the twelfth centuries, directly attests to the persistence of apocryphal books in monastery collections, literary sources show that the circulation of apocrypha and other “heretical” books (e. g., of Origen) in monasteries was already recognized as a problem by the early fifth century. Given the popularity of apocryphal writings as supplements to Scripture, it is no surprise that one finds examples of them in Egyptian monastery book collections from late antiquity and well into the middle ages. In fact, one of the earliest manuscripts of Evodius’ homily, which as we have seen defends the interpretation and elaboration of Scripture through extra-canonical traditions, was itself discovered in a collection of books from Shenoute, for his part, refers to Athanasius himself as “the great teacher of faith” (I Am Amazed, 319 [HB 22]; Cristea, Schenute, 144). 20 Evodius of Rome, Homily 44. 21 Evodius of Rome, Homily 44. 22 E. g., Wisse, “Gnosticism and Early Monasticism,” 436–37. 23 SBo 189 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:232). See below for further discussion of this passage. 24 See our discussion of dating the Nag Hammadi Codices in chapter 1.

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the Monastery of St. Michael the Archangel in the Fayum, and two more copies have been identified, one from the White Monastery and another associated with the church of St. John the Baptist in Thinis.25 Before discussing discoveries of apocryphal books in manuscripts from Egyptian monasteries, however, we must briefly address the picture of monastery book collections as furnished in book lists or “catalogues,” that is, lists of book titles found in documentary sources.

Book Lists In a recent article concerning “Gnosticism and Manichaeism in the Papyri,” Cornelia Römer uses documentary book lists to address whether the Nag Hammadi Codices may have belonged to a monastery. According to Römer, The question remains whether the monks of a monastery would have been open minded enough to keep these texts in their library – or, rather, sophisticated enough to appreciate the codices’ contents. When we look at catalogues of monastic libraries as they are preserved in papyri from late antiquity (Otranto 2000), we find that these lists contain only volumes of the Old and New Testaments, legends of saints, and writings of the church fathers but no works whose titles might reveal heretical content.26

The so-called catalogues to which she refers are the seven Greek documentary sources included in Rosa Otranto’s anthology of Christian papyri which refer to books, all dated on palaeographical grounds between the fourth and ninth centuries.27 Yet as Römer correctly points out, such book lists provide a very limited perspective on which books were actually held in monastery collections, for they “may have omitted titles not considered appropriate for reading by adherents of the orthodox beliefs of the official Christian church,” or, more likely in her opinion, “later libraries had been cleansed of everything not orthodox.”28 Although Römer leaves the monastic origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices as an open question, the fact that she limits her discussion of monastery collections to Otranto’s Greek documentary sources, and does not consider the full range of evidence available, may leave the reader with the impression that controversial books were not kept in monasteries. This misleading impression is reinforced 25 On the eighteen Thinis (or Tin) manuscripts, now in Turin, see esp. Tito Orlandi, “The Turin Coptic Papyri,” Aug 53:2 (2013): 501–30, which is a significantly updated version of his earlier article “Les papyrus coptes du Musée égyptien de Turin,” Mus 87:1–2 (1974): 115–27. The codices were obtained by Bernardino Drovetti in Egypt and shipped to Turin in 1821; the texts were haphazardly published by Rossi, I Papiri copti. Orlandi assigns these manuscripts to the seventh and eighth centuries. 26 Cornelia Römer “Manichaeism and Gnosticism in the Papyri,” in The Oxford Handbook of Papyrology (ed. Roger S. Bagnall; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 628. 27 Rosa Otranto, Antiche liste di libri su papiro (SusEr 49; Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2000), 123–44. 28 Römer, “Manichaeism and Gnosticism,” 628.

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later in the article when she assumes the categorical distinction between Christians and Gnostics, describing them as “competing and conflicting groups,” and positing that the common scribal practices evident in their manuscripts can be explained on the basis that both groups paid the same scribes to copy their texts.29 We agree with Römer that such book lists cannot be considered complete and reliable indices for what monasteries kept on their shelves. In the first place, it is not clear that all seven documents incluced in Otranto’s anthology in fact come from monasteries. Only two of them are clearly associated with a monastery,30 whereas the rest come from private individuals31 or churches,32 or are unprovenanced.33 Furthermore, some of these documents give a more nuanced picture of the varied contents of book collections than Römer’s conclusion suggests. One list includes an apocryphal Memoirs of Pilate among other hagiographical works,34 and another records an unknown book entitled Introduction to the Knowledge of the Holy Resurrection.35 What the actual contents of these books were is impossible to know, though the latter title is reminiscent of the Treatise on the Resurrection and the Interpretation of Knowledge discovered in the Nag Hammadi Codices (NHC I,4 and XI,1). Another list, dated palaeographically to the fourth century, and from an unknown provenance (maybe a church or monastery), records several canonical books and the Shepherd of Hermas, all on parchment, but also “parchments of Origen” (δέρμ(α) Ὡρι̣γ̣έ[νους]) and specifically his commentary on John (δέρμ(α) Ὡριγένους ε̣ἰ̣ς̣ Ἰ̣ω[̣ άννην]).36 Following the outbreak of the Origenist controversy at the turn of the fifth century, Origen’s 29 Römer, “Manichaeism and Gnosticism,” 632. On the practices of the scribes of the Nag Hammadi Codices, see chapters seven and eight below. 30 P. Prag. 87 and 178. No book titles are in fact inventoried in P. Prag. 178, but only “various books, parchments and papyri: 5” (βιβλία διάφορ(α) βεβρ(άϊνα) καὶ χάρτινα  ε̣´ [Otranto, Antiche liste, 131]). 31 P. Oxy. 4365: “To my dearest lord sister in the Lord, greetings. Lend Ezra, since I have lent you the little Genesis. Farewell from us in God.” The “little Genesis” probably refers to the book of Jubilees (cf. Epiphanius, Pan 39.6,1). 32 P. L. Bat. 25,13; P. Grenf. II,111. No book titles are recorded in P. Grenf. II,111, but only “21 parchment books, and 3 papyri” (βιβλία δερμάτι(να) κα´, ὁμοί(ως) χαρτία γ´ [Otranto, Antiche liste, 129–30]). 33 P. Ash. 3; P. Vindob. Gr. 26015. 34 P. Vindob. Gr. 26015 (7–8th c.): [ὑπο]μνημ(ά)τ(ων) Πιλάτου (Otranto Antiche liste, 134). 35 P. Prag. 87 (6–7th c.): τὸ τῆ(ς) γνώ(σεως) ἐσαγόντων τῆ(ς) ἁγί(ας) ἀναστατε(ως) (Otranto, Antiche liste, 132). The document also lists Psalms, Daniel, and a book of the four Gospels (which has been crossed out), an anonymous church history and patristic works by Theodotus of Ancyra, Basil of Caesarea, Didymus the Blind, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Apophthegmata Patrum. See Herwig Maehler, “Bücher in den frühen Klöstern Ägyptens,” in Spätantike Bibliotheken: Leben und Lesen in den frühen Klöstern Ägyptens (ed. Harald Froschauer and Cornelia Eva Römer; Nilus: Studien zur Kultur Ägyptens und des Vorderen Orients 14; Wien: Phoibos, 2008), 42; Harrauer, “Bücher in Papyri,” 69–70. 36 P. Ash. 3 (Otranto, Antiche liste, 126). The papyrus was first published by Colin H. Roberts, “Two Oxford Papyri,” ZNW 37 (1938): 184–88; see also Maehler, “Bücher,” 40–41; Harrauer, “Bücher in Papyri,” 67.

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writings were certainly considered contraband by many ecclesiastical authorities including the Alexandrian archbishops Theophilus and Disoscorus, and monastic authorities such as Shenoute and the redactor of the Greek Life of Pachomius.37 Already before the Origenist controversy, Epiphanius of Salamis vehemently opposed Origen’s “mortally dangerous exegesis” and criticized its popularity among the monks of Egypt.38 Epiphanius’ concern finds support in the books recorded on the list previously mentioned, as well as the sixth-century manuscripts of Origen’s writings discovered near the monastery of Arsenios at Tura.39 While Otranto and Römer limit their analysis to Greek sources, a number of Coptic books lists have also been discovered.40 Unfortunately, the earliest Coptic list dates no earlier than the seventh century, and therefore sheds no light on monastery collections in the earlier period when the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced. The list is preserved on a limestone ostracon from an otherwise unknown monastery of Elijah, presumably in the Thebaid, and records no less than eighty books, mostly on papyrus (66), but some on parchment (14), including books of the Old and New Testaments, lectionaries, liturgical books, Pachomian rules, hagiographical texts (including Lives of Pachomius and Shenoute), as well as historical and patristic writings.41 The only secular item on the list is a book on medicine. The list also includes a few titles that were probably apocryphal expansions of biblical narratives, such as discourses of John the Baptist (ⲟⲩϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ ⲛ̄ⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲁⲡⲁ ⲓ̈ⲱϩⲁⲛⲛⲏⲥ ⲡⲃⲁⲡⲧⲓⲥⲧⲏⲥ), and a treatise on his martyrdom (ⲧⲙⲁⲣⲧⲩⲣ ⲛ̄ⲁⲡⲁ ⲓⲱϩⲁⲛⲛⲏⲥ ⲡⲃⲁⲡⲧⲓⲥⲧⲏⲥ).42 As we have seen, however, such lists provide only a limited perspective on which books actually circulated in monasteries, not only in earlier centuries, but even in their own day. Indeed, manuscript discoveries from late antiquity and the medieval period demonstrate that monastery collections held more apocryphal books than appear on these lists.

37

On which see further below. Epiphanius, Pan. 64.3.8–4.1; cf. 63.1.4. 39 Koenen and Müller-Wiener, “Zu den Papyri.” 40 For a complete overview of Coptic monastic book lists, see Maehler, “Bücher,” and Harrauer, “Bücher in Papyri,” which surveys all known book lists in documentary texts from Egypt, not only from monasteries, and not only on papyrus as indicated by its title. 41 IFAO 13315, first published by Urbain Bouriant, “Notes de Voyage: 1. Catalogue de la Bibliothèque du Couvent d’Amba Hélias,” Recueil de Travaux 11 (1889): 131–38, and again by René-Georges Coquin, “Le catalogue de la bibliothèque du couvent de Saint-Élie ‘du rocher’ (ostracon IFAO 13315),” BIFAO 75 (1975): 207–39. See also Harrauer, “Bücher in Papyri,” 72; Maehler, “Bücher,” 43–44. See also Winlock and Crum, Monastery of Epiphanius, 1:196–208. 42 Bouriant, “Notes de Voyage,” 135; cf. Winlock and Crum, Monastery of Epiphanius, 1:203, 205. 38

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Manuscript Discoveries Although ecclesiastical and monastic authorities from Athanasius onward attempted to suppress the production and reading of apocryphal books, they evidently failed to do so, for a significant number of such books have been preserved from medieval collections of Egyptian monasteries. These collections include the mostly Bohairic codices from the Monastery of Macarius at Scetis (Lower Egypt), dating to as late as the fourteenth century;43 manuscripts from the White Monastery near Panopolis, dating between the ninth and twelfth centuries;44 codices from the Monastery of Mercurius at Edfu near Thebes, dating to the tenth and eleventh centuries;45 codices discovered in 1910 at the ruins of the monastery of the Archangel Michael at Phantoou in the Fayum, dating to the ninth and tenth centuries;46 and papyrus codices from the Monastery of Apa Apollo at Bala’izah, just south of Asyut, probably dating no later than the eighth century.47 Although these manuscript discoveries do not tell us which books might have circulated in monasteries of the fourth and fifth centuries, when the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced, their significance lies in the fact that they show that apocryphal books continued to be read and copied in Egyptian monasteries well into the middle ages. As Frank H. Hallock once put 43 Hugh G. Evelyn White, The Monasteries of the Wadi ’n Natrûn: Part I: New Coptic Texts from the Monastery of Saint Macarius (The Metropolitan Museum of Art Egyptian Expedition; New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1926). The majority of the manuscripts were taken to the Vatican Library already in the early eighteenth century by Joseph Simon Assemani, and additional fragments were acquired subsequently. For an overview of the library’s contents, see ibid., xxix–xxxvi; for the history of its acquisition, ibid., xxxvi–xlii. 44 The contents of the White Monastery library were removed piecemeal from the late eighteenth century onwards. See Tito Orlandi, “The Library of the Monastery of Saint Shenute at Atripe,” in Perspectives on Panopolis: An Egyptian Town from Alexander the Great to the Arab Conquest: Acts from an International Symposium Held in Leiden on 16, 17 and 18 December 1998 (ed. A. Egberts, B. P. Muhs, and J. van der Vliet; PLB 31; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 211–31; Stephen Emmel and Cornelia Eva Römer, “The Library of the White Monastery in Upper Egypt,” in Spätantike Bibliotheken: Leben und Lesen in den frühen Klöstern Ägyptens (ed. Harald Froschauer and Cornelia Eva Römer; Nilus: Studien zur Kultur Ägyptens und des Vorderen Orients 14; Wien: Phoibos, 2008), 5–14; Emmel, Shenoute’s Literary Corpus. 45 Robert de Rustafjaell, The Light of Egypt: From Recently Discovered Predynastic and Early Christian Records (London: Kegan Paul, 1909). The texts were published in quick succession by E. A. Wallis Budge in Coptic Apocrypha in the Dialect of Upper Egypt (vol. 3 of Coptic Texts: Edited with Introductions and English Translations; London: British Museum, 1913); Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms; Budge, Miscellaneous Texts. 46 Depuydt, Catalogue, 1:xlv–liii (Introduction), lviii–lxix (Hamuli mss in Morgan Library), lxxxii–lxxxix (Hamuli mss outside the Morgan Library), ciii–cxii (Monastery of St. Michael at Phantoou), and cxii–cxvi (Touton scriptorium). See also Stephen Emmel, “The Library of the Monastery of the Archangel Michael at Phantoou (al-Hamuli),” in Christianity and Monasticism in the Fayoum Oasis: Essays from the 2004 International Symposium of the Saint Mark Foundation and the Saint Shenouda the Archimandrite Coptic Society in Honor of Martin Krause (ed. Gawdat Gabra; Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 2005), 63–70. 47 Kahle, Bala’izah.

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it, “The large number of Sahidic fragments … testify to the great popularity of this type of literature in the early Coptic Church. Bohairic versions indicate that this popularity continued into a later period, to a time when the apocrypha had become almost unknown in the West.”48 With respect to the Monastery of Macarius at Scetis, Hugh G. Evelyn White observed that although its medieval library has not been thought of as a source of apocrypha, it evidently once contained several apocryphal books, traces of which we still possess: We now know that works of this class were well represented in the Library, since we possess fragments of a Christian Apocryphon on Adam, of an Apocryphal Gospel, of a Descent into Hades, of an Apocalyptic Gospel, of the Mysteries of Saint John, and of the Apocryphal Acts … These are probably but a few poor relics of a once considerable group – a group (as pointed out above) from which the Abyssinians may have derived some of their apocrypha.49

The apocryphal texts preserved among this monastery’s collection50 include a treatise on Christ’s descent to the underworld, where he preaches to the souls of the damned and resurrects Adam, Eve and others; a post-resurrection dialogue between Jesus and his disciples concerning eschatological topics of the antichrist, the second coming, judgment day, and Christ’s millenarian reign on earth; an expanded gospel narrative on the Passion and the two thieves crucified with Jesus; several apocryphal Acts of the Apostles (e. g., the travels of John, the death of John, the preachings of Philip, Peter, and Bartholomew); martyrdoms of Matthew, Mark, and Luke; a fragment from the Mysteries of Saint John; and several treatises on the Archangel Michael and the Virgin Mary, respectively, including pseudo-Evodius’ homily on the death of Mary. Among the unique works is an apocryphon with interpretations and expansions of Genesis, perhaps copied in the twelfth or thirteenth century.51 The medieval parchment manuscripts preserved from the collections of the White Monastery, dating between the ninth and twelfth centuries, provides another example of the persistence of apocryphal books among Egyptian monastics. Indeed, Tito Orlandi has remarked that the White Monastery’s library represents a southern parallel to that of St. Macarius’ monastery in the north.52 Among the manuscripts that can firmly be traced back to the White Monastery’s collections, Orlandi has catalogued several apocrypha including the Apocalypse Frank. H. Hallock, “Coptic Apocrypha,” JBL 52:2/3 (1933): 163. Evelyn White, Monasteries of the Wadi ’n Natrûn, xxxi. 50 On the extent of the collection, see Evelyn White, Monasteries of the Wadi ’n Natrûn, xxix–xxxvi. 51 The preserved section, about two pages of a codex, concerns Adam, Cain and Abel, and the Passion of Christ at Golgotha, and plays on the popular Adam-Christ typology. See Evelyn White, Monasteries of the Wadi ’n Natrûn, 3–6. 52 Orlandi, “Library,” 227. 48 49

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of Elijah, Apocalypse of Zephaniah, Gospel of Bartholomew, the History of Joseph the Carpenter, the History of Stephen the Protomartyr, the Passion of John the Baptist, and quite a few extra-canonical Acts of the apostles – of Paul, John, Mark, Simon, Philip, Matthew, Andrew, Bartholomew, James, Thomas, James son of Zebedee, and Judas Thaddaeus.53 The White Monastery also held copies of pseudo-Evodius’ homilies on the Passion (see above), the Virgin Mary, and the Apostles, as well as a very interesting treatise entitled the Investiture of St. Michael the Archangel, which purports to have been written by John the Evangelist himself, and narrates non-canonical dialogue and interaction between Jesus and his disciples (and the disciples of the disciples).54 Another important collection of parchment manuscripts, consisting of some forty-eight codices from the ninth and tenth centuries, was discovered in 1910 among the ruins of the Monastery of Saint Michael the Archangel at Phantoou in the Fayum.55 These codices include biblical books from the Old and New testaments, a lectionary, antiphonal hymns, liturgical readings, hagiographies, and many homilies pseudonymously attributed to famous Christian patriarchs. Yet one also finds several apocryphal books, namely a Jeremiah apocryphon,56 a Testament of Isaac together with the Life of Stephen the Protomartyr,57 pseudoEvodius’ homilies on the Virgin Mary and the Passion,58 and the Acts of John (purportedly written by Prochoros the archdeacon named in Acts 6:5).59 One codex in the collection includes apocryphal passion narratives of various apostles (James son of Zebedee, Philip, Batholomew, Thomas, Matthew, James son of 53 For detailed information see the Corpus dei Manoscritti Coptici Letterari (CMCL) database established and managed by Tito Orlandi (http://www.cmcl.it/). 54 The fragments of the Investiture of St. Michael the Archangel deriving from a White Monastery codex remain unpublished, but was the subject of a thesis by David Tibet, “The Investiture of the Archangel Michael: A Diplomatic Edition of the Coptic Text of P. IFAO ff. 145–148” (MA thesis, Macquarie University, 2009). A complete text is preserved in a ninthcentury Sahidic manuscript from the Monastery of Saint Michael the Archangel in the Fayum (see further below). 55 The collection is also known by the name “Hamuli manuscripts” because of its proximity to the modern village of al-Hamuli. For overviews of this collection and its discovery, see Depuydt, Catalogue; Emmel, “Library”; Henri Hyvernat, A Checklist of Coptic Manuscripts in the Pierpont Morgan Library (New York: Privatly printed, 1919), xiii–xviii; Henri Hyvernat, “The J. P. Morgan Collection of Coptic Manuscripts,” JBL 31:1 (1912): 54–57. Facsimiles of all the Hamuli manuscript codices in the Pierpont Morgan Library’s collection have been made available in Henri Hyvernat, Bibliothecae Pierpont Morgan codices coptici photographice expressi (56 vols.; Rome: 1922). 56 Depuydt, Catalogue, § 173 (Codex M578), whose title reads “These are the things omitted (ⲛⲉⲡⲁⲣⲁⲗⲩⲡⲟⲙⲏⲛⲟⲛ) from Jeremiah the Prophet, in the peace of God, amen.” See K. H. Kuhn, “A Coptic Jeremiah Apocryphon,” Le Muséon 83 (1970): 95–135, 291–350. 57 Depuydt, Catalogue, § 172 (Codex M577); K. H. Kuhn, “The Sahidic Version of the Testament of Isaac,” JTS 8 (1957): 225–39; Kuhn, “An English Translation of the Sahidic Version of the Testament of Isaac,” JTS 18 (1967): 325–36. 58 Depuydt, Catalogue, § 158 (Codex M596); § 170 (Codex M595). 59 Depuydt, Catalogue, § 102 (M576).

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Alphaeus, Judas Thaddaeus, Simon, Matthias, James the Lord’s brother, and Mark).60 In addition, several treatises in medieval monastery collections present themselves as homilies of well-known “orthodox” theologians such as John Chrysostom and archbishop Timothy of Alexandria, and therefore appear innocuous at first sight. Yet on closer inspection, many of these texts contain embedded parts of otherwise unattested apocryphal works, many of which ultimately lay claim to apostolic authorship. In these pseudonymous homilies, the preacher often claims authority for the content of his sermon by explaining how he himself visited Jerusalem and read such teachings there in books he found at the “library of the apostles.”61 One of these homilies, for example, pseudepigraphically attributed to archbishop Timothy of Alexandria,62 concerns Abbaton, the Angel of death in the Coptic tradition.63 The Discourse on Abbaton is an intriguing text that 60 Depuydt, § 93 (Codex M635). This codex was acquired for the Pierpont Morgan Library by Francis Willey Kelsey in 1916, but likely comes from the same discovery as the other Phantoou manuscripts (as it is catalogued in the CMCL database) given its provenance in the Fayum, time of acquisition, and overall appearance. See Depuydt, Catalogue, 1:183 and lxxv (image in vol. 2, plate 385). 61 On this topos in Coptic manuscripts, see Joost L. Hagen, “The Diaries of the Apostles: ‘Manuscript Find’ and ‘Manuscript Fiction’ in Coptic Homilies and Other Literary Texts,” in Coptic Studies on the Threshold of a New Millennium: Proceedings of the Seventh International Congress of Coptic Studies, Leiden, 27 August – 2 September 2000 (2 vols.; ed. Mat Immerzeel and Jacques van der Vliet; OLA 133; Leuven: Peeters, 2004), 1:349–67. Pseudepigraphical homilies of this sort are known from the Monastery of St. Michael at Phantoou, including Ps.Chrysostom’s Encomium of the Four Living Creatures (Depudyt, Catalogue, § 96; ed. and trans. in Depuydt, ed. Homiletica from the Pierpont Morgan Library [2 vols.; CSCO 524–25, Scriptores Coptici 43–44; Leuven: Peeters, 1991]), and Ps.-Archelaus of Neapolis, Encomium on St. Gabriel Archangel (Depuydt, Catalogue, § 164; M583); and from the Monastery of Mercurius at Edfu, including Ps.-Timothy of Alexandria, Discourse on Abbaton (Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 225–49 [ed.], 474–96 [trans.]); Ps.-Timothy of Alexandria, Discourse on the Archangel Michael (attested in manuscripts from the monasteries at Edfu and Phantoou); Ps.-Athanasius, Testament of Our Holy Fathers, the Three Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob (attested in a Bohairic manuscript from the monastery of Macarius in Wadi Natrun; cf. Hagen, “Diaries,” 349–50). The fragments of the texts known in modern scholarship as the Gospel of the Savior (as published by Charles W. Hedrick and Paul A. Mirecki, Gospel of the Savior: A New Ancient Gospel [California Classical Library; Santa Rosa, Cal.: Polebridge Press, 1999]) may well be fragments of such a text, or perhaps of a text like the Investiture of Michael the Archangel. On the so-called Gospel of the Savior, see Joost L. Hagen, “Ein anderer Kontext für die Berliner und Straßburger ‘Evangelienfragmente’: Das ‘Evangelium des Erlösers’ und andere ‘Apostelevangelien’ in der koptischen Literatur,” in Jesus in apokryphen Evangelienüberlieferungen: Beiträge zu außerkanonischen Jesusüberlieferungen aus verschiedenen Sprach- und Kulturtraditionen (ed. Jörg Frey and Jens Schröter; WUNT 254; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 339–71; Alin Suciu, “Apocryphon Berolinense/Argentoratense (Previously Known as the Gospel of the Savior): Edition of P. Berol. 22220, Strasbourg Copte 5–7 and Qasr el-Wizz Codex ff. 12v–17r with Introduction and Commentary,” (PhD diss.; Université Laval, 2013). 62 This is most probably a reference to Timothy II Aelurus, who was archbishop of Alexandria in the period 457–477. 63 The Coptic text can be found in Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 225–48.

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embeds an apocryphal narrative in a seemingly orthodox homily, and is attested in one of the eleven Coptic manuscripts from the tenth to eleventh century that derive from a Monastery of Mercurius at Edfu.64 This particular text is found in a codex dated by its colophon to 981.65 The text is presented by its incipit as a homily delivered by archbishop Timothy on Abbaton the angel of Death. In the homily itself, Ps.-Timothy relates a trip he made to Jerusalem to celebrate Easter. While in Jerusalem he enquired about a book written by the apostles on the subject of the investiture of Abbaton. This book was then acquired for him at the library of the apostles. The major part of the homily is simply an extended quotation of this fictitious book, which again is framed as a post-resurrection dialogue between the apostles and Christ on the topic of Abbaton. Perhaps most interesting among the apocryphal books from the Monastery of St. Michael at Phantoou is a complete Sahidic copy of a text that is in many ways quite similar to the Discourse on Abbaton, namely the Investiture of St. Michael the Archangel. Unlike the Abbaton text, however, this one is not embedded in a homiletic framework, but is simply attributed to John the Evangelist directly.66 The Phantoou manuscript is in fact found in a codex together with another book of angel mythology, the Investiture of St. Gabriel the Archangel, which is itself attributed to Stephen the archdeacon and protomartyr (Acts 6–7) who, according to the incipit, “received it from the holy apostles.”67 The Investiture of St. Michael the Archangel is an especially interesting case of Coptic apocrypha since it claims to have been written by the apostle John and records extra-biblical teachings on creation and the angels which Jesus delivered to his disciples on the Mount of Olives during his earthly ministry.68 After Jesus teaches his disciples on the mount for eight days, about the creation of heaven and earth and the “aeons of light,” the narrative segues into a dialogue in which Peter asks about the nature of human suffering and injustice, whether they be caused by Man or the devil. In response, Jesus delivers a lengthy discourse about the fall of the devil from his original glory as chief of the archangels, and his replacement by the great On the discovery of these codices, see Rustafjaell, Light of Egypt, 3–9. The manuscript in question is MERC.AU. For the colophon, see Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 248–49. 66 As noted above, this text is also partly attested in fragments of a codex from the White Monastery. 67 Depuydt, Catalogue, § 111 (Codex M593); text and German translation by C. Detlef G. Müller, Die Bücher der Einsetzung der Erzengel Michael und Gabriel (2 vols.; CSCO 225–26, Scriptores Coptici 31–32; Leuven: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1962). Pages of yet another copy of the treatise on Michael, in the Fayumic dialect, are also extant in the Pierpont Morgan collection; see Depuydt, Catalogue, § 271 (Codex M614); text in Müller, Die Bücher der Einsetzung. 68 The incipit reads “These are the glorious words of our Lord Jesus Christ, filled with profit, which he spoke to his disciples and holy apostles on the Mount of Olives, after he told them about the creation of heaven and earth, and how he created man in his likeness and image, and how he established Michael the Archangel on the twelfth day of Hathor. The holy John the Evangelist, beloved by God, has interpreted them, by the peace of God. Amen.” 64 65

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archangel Michael who possesses wonderful powers of intercession between Man and God. Afterwards he goes on to show the apostles the punishment of sinners, and at the end of the narrative, the apostles embark on an ascent through the several gates of heaven, guided by Jesus and Michael, at the climax of which they receive the commission to evangelize the world.69 We need not summarize the entire narrative here, but one fascinating feature is that the treatise calls the devil by the name “Saklatabôth,” a clear amalgamation of the names Saklas and Yaltabaôth given to the malicious world ruler in some of the Nag Hammadi texts such as the Apocryphon of John.70 Another tradition shared between the manuscripts from the Monastery of St. Michael at Phantoou and the Nag Hammadi Codices is the rare name of “Lithargoel” and its association with spiritual medicine. In the Acts of Peter and the Twelve Apostles (NHC VI,1), Jesus goes by that name while disguised as a physician holding a “chest of medicine” (ⲛⲁⲣⲧⲟⲥ [νάρθηξ] ⲙ̄ⲡⲁϩⲣⲉ), and is accompanied by a young disciple with “a pouch full of medicine” (ⲅⲗⲟⲥⲥⲟⲕⲱⲙⲟⲛ ⲉϥⲙⲉϩ ⲙ̄ⲡⲁϩⲣⲉ). In this treatise’s version of the “Great Commission,” Jesus gives the medicine to the disciples and commands them to serve as “physicians of the soul.”71 The Investiture of St. Gabriel the Archangel from Phantoou shares some of this unique imagery. There, the figure of “Litharkoel” appears as a special angel, who likewise holds a “chest full of medicine” (ⲛⲁⲣⲇⲁⲓⲝ … ⲉϥⲙⲉϩ ⲙ̄ⲡⲁϩⲣⲉ) and proclaims that he “gives medicine to every soul.”72 The nature of the relationship between the apocryphal Investiture texts and those Nag Hammadi tractates, with post-resurrection dialogues and stories about Lithargoel and Saklas-Yaldabaôth, remains obscure, but the shared traditions suggest that these texts circulated in the same Christian literary culture. Those who first composed the Investiture texts might even have read and drawn elements from such texts as the Apocryphon of John and the Acts of Peter and the Twelve Apostles directly. We know that the Apocryphon of John was still being read and copied at least as late as the sixth century, and evidently in a monastery setting too, as witnessed by the copy in Papyrus Berolinensis 8502, which was owned by an abbot named Zacharias (see below). Müller, Die Bücher der Einsetzung, 57. Müller, Die Bücher der Einsetzung, 6. After the devil’s demotion, his name is abbreviated to “Saklam” (ibid. 12). On the name “Saklatabôth” and its parallels, see Jan Dochorn, “Mythen von der Einsetzung des Erzengels Michaels in koptischen Literatur,” in Christliches Ägypten in der spätantiken Zeit: Akten der 2. Tübinger Tagung zum Christlichen Orient (7.–8. Dezember 2007) (ed. Dmitij Bumazhnov; STAC 79; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 23–42, esp. 28–29; Dochhorn, “Der Sturz des Teufels in der Urzeit: Eine traditionsgeschichtliche Skizze zu einem Motiv frühjüdischer und frühchristlicher Theologie mit besonderer Berücksichtigung des Luzifermythos,” ZTK 109 (2012): 3–47, esp. 46. 71 Acts Pet. 12 Apost. 8.14–19, 9.30–32, 10.31–11.26. 72 Müller, Die Bücher der Einsetzung, 71. Cf. Hans-Martin Schenke, “Acts of the Peter and the Twelve Apostles,” in New Testament Apocrypha (2 vols.; rev. ed.; ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher, trans. R. McL. Wilson; Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2003), 2:418–19. 69 70

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The Investiture of Michael first appears in our sources around the end of the sixth century, in a sermon by the Coptic bishop John of Parallos. John joined the monastery of St. Macarius in Scetis (Wadi Natrun) at an early age, but later left the monastery to become an anchorite. In 576 he was ordained as bishop of Parallos, in the eastern Delta, by archbishop Peter IV of Alexandria. John vehemently opposed heresy, and in his sermon On Heretical Books attacked the use of extra-canonical writings which elaborated on the creation of the world, the archangels, and the fall of the devil.73 He refers explicitly to a book entitled the Investiture of Michael, along with other “blasphemous” books called the Preaching of John, the Laughter of the Apostles, the Teachings of Adam, and the Counsel of the Savior.74 Such books were evidently circulating among other members of the clergy, for the sermon’s incipit explicitly states that they are read “in the churches of the orthodox,” and John criticizes his opponents for daring to call these books Scripture (graphê) while teaching them to simple-minded folk throughout the villages and cities.75 John proclaims that he too honors the archangel Michael for the gracious intercession he performs on behalf of humanity, but he does not condone extra-canonical myths about his origins and rise to greatness, or his veneration on a holy day (the Twelfth of Hathor), as found in the Investiture of Michael. Like Athanasius before him, John maintains that everything one needs to know has already been revealed in the canonical Scriptures, so that there is no need for additional texts to fill in the gaps or explain ambiguities. Yet as one can see from the extant medieval manuscripts of the Investiture, his campaign against such apocryphal books was largely unsuccessful. The Investiture of Michael and other books attributed to the apostles continued to be produced and read for hundreds of years after John’s lifetime, and the Twelfth of Hathor remains the day of St. Michael’s feast in the Coptic Orthodox Church today. Indeed, it is interesting to note that our only copy of John’s sermon comes from the White Monastery, which also held a copy of the Investiture of Michael.76 Another large collection of manuscripts was discovered at the site of the Monastery of Apa Apollo at Bala’izah, located about 30 km south of Asyut (ancient Lycopolis). The monastery evidently flourished between the seventh and eighth centuries, as shown by numerous documentary sources relating to its economic 73 Coptic text and French translation in Arnold van Lantschoot, “Fragments coptes d’une homélie de Jean de Parallos contre les livres hérétiques,” in Miscellanea Giovanni Mercati, vol. 1: Bibbia – Letteratura Cristiana Antica. (Studi e Testi 121; Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1946), 296–326. 74 John of Parallos, On Heretical Books 48 (Lantschoot, “Fragments coptes,” 303). The Laughter (ⲡⲥⲱⲃⲉ) of the Apostles may be a misunderstanding for the Teaching(s) (ⲥⲃⲱ, ⲥⲃⲟⲟⲩⲉ) of the Apostles. 75 John of Parallos, On Heretical Books 47, 49 (Lantschoot, “Fragments coptes,” 302, 304). 76 John of Parallos, On Heretical Books is partly preserved in fragments of White Monastery codex MONB.CM.

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affairs (receipts, contracts, etc.). Some of the literary manuscripts found there may even be older than the eighth century, as suggested by their editors, though paleographic dating of literary hands remains very questionable.77 The collection includes biblical texts from both testaments, homilies, hagiographies, apophthegmata, some monastic rules, liturgies, prayers, encomiums for priests and bishops, martyrologies, homilies on the Virgin Mary, fasting, the archangel Michael, and the Passion, as well as fragments of “magical” amulets (phylacteria), a horoscope (in Bohairic), and a so-called “apocryphal gospel” concerning the fall of Satan.78 The most interesting fragment for the current discussion is one that has been designated by scholars as a “Gnostic treatise.”79 The so-called “Gnostic” treatise from the Monastery of Apollo appears to be an apocryphal dialogue between John and, presumably, Jesus, concerning the allegorical interpretation of topics in Genesis, including Adam, the five trees of Paradise, the story of Cain and Abel, Noah’s ark, and Melchizedek the priest (already understood through the Hebrews tradition as an “eternal” priest).80 Its interpretation of the five trees of paradise as a sealing with “five powers” has been compared to the Apocryphon of John’s baptism of five seals, as have its purported interlocutors, John and Jesus, its overall interest in allegorical exegesis of Genesis, and key terms such as sige, pleroma, gnosis, and mysterion (though these are of

See Kahle, Bala’izah, 1:15–16 for the location of the monastery and date of the documents. Kahle, Bala’izah, 1:403–4 (frg. 27). Here, God or Jesus (it is unclear) delivers a discourse to his holy angels, to whom, he says, he has revealed “all my mysteries from the beginning of creation until now.” He then proceeds to explain to them that just as the Devil’s arrogance was the occasion of his fall, “arrogance is the mother of every sin,” and “he who will not humble himself among you is a devil.” Compare with frg. 47 (Kahle, Bala’izah, 1:462–65), a treatise concerning the Devil’s fall from the ranks of the angels. 79 Kahle, Bala’izah, 1:473–77 (frg. 52, dated paleographically to the fourth century, though such an early date is highly questionable). For an image, see Kahle, Bala’izah, plate 1. The fragment was first published by Walter E. Crum, “A Gnostic Fragment,” JTS 44 (1943): 176–79. 80 Translation of Bala’izah frg. 52 (ours): “(Jesus is speaking to John): ‘[…] The rational power, before it had been revealed, was not named this, but rather ‘silence,’ since all those in the paradise of heaven were pure in silence. Therefore those who shall receive from it (the rational power) become rational, since they have known the entirety, and they are sealed with the five powers in silence. Behold, I have explained to you, John, about Adam and paradise and the five trees, through a noetic sign.’ Now after I heard these things, I John said, ‘I have made a good start; I have perfected knowledge with a hidden mystery and symbols of the truth, having been compelled by your love. Yet now, I want to ask you to explain, according to your will, about Cain and Abel, namely how did Cain murder Abel? And not only this, but he was asked ‘Where is Abel your brother?’ by he who spoke with him. But Cain denied it, saying ‘I’m not his keeper, am I?’ [… (8 fragmentary lines, after which Jesus is again speaking)] ‘into the […] of the perfect fullness. Behold, I have explained to you, John, about Noah and his ark [… (5 fragmentary lines, after which John is speaking again)]. ‘Now [I want] to [ask you to] explain [to me] concerning Mel[chizedek]. Was it not said [of him] that he has [no father or] mother, his race [was never mentioned], nor does he have a beginning or end of life, like the son [of] God, being an eternal priest? And furthermore, it was said of him that […]” 77 78

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course common Christian words, and not “Gnostic”).81 Extant is one complete leaf from a parchment codex (enumerated 41–42) and fragments of two more pages, thus raising the possibility that the text was much longer than what has been preserved. Unfortunately, little remains of Jesus’ allegorical interpretations, except that the five trees of paradise represent, in a “noetic allegory,” a sealing with five powers. In any event, what we have here is an apocryphal dialogue between John and Jesus (or some other authoritative biblical exegete), with interpretations of Scripture that overlap with themes found in the Nag Hammadi Codices, and which unambiguously comes from a monastery in Upper Egypt, as late as the eighth century, whose monks also read the Bible and much “orthodox” literature. Finally, there is the case of one intriguing and highly relevant codex commonly known by the misnomer “the Berlin Gnostic Codex” (Berolinensis Gnosticus), which, though unprovenanced, evidently belonged to an Egyptian abbot in the sixth century or later.82 Codex Papyrus Berolinensis 8502 (P. Berol. 8502), as it is properly called, shares two of its four tractates with the Nag Hammadi Codices, namely the Apocryphon of John (NHCs II,1, III,1, IV,1) and the Wisdom of Jesus Christ (NHC III,4). In addition to these two treatises, the codex also contains two texts that are not found among the Nag Hammadi Codices, namely an Act of Peter, attested only in this manuscript, and the Gospel of Mary, of which significant parts have also been preserved in Greek fragments of a codex discovered at Oxyrhynchus. While the first few pages of the Gospel of Mary are lost, otherwise P. Berol. 8502 is very well preserved.

81 Thus the fragment was included in an appendix to Michael Waldstein and Frederik Wisse, The Apocryphon of John: Synopsis of Nag Hammadi Codices II,1; III,1; and IV,1 with BG 8502,2 (NHMS 33; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 195. 82 While the leaves of the codex have been dated on palaeographic grounds to the late fourth or early fifth century by Carl Schmidt (Die alten Petrusakten im Zusammenhang der apokryphen Apostellitteratur nebst einem neuentdeckten Fragment [TUGAL 9:1; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1903], 2; cf. Till and Schenke, Die gnostischen Schriften, 6–7), the evidence of its leather cover complicates the picture. Not only was a fragment of a Christian letter of recommendation in Greek, discovered in the cartonnage of the cover, assigned by Kurt Treu to the late third or early fourth century based on its genre (“Christliches Empfehlungsschreiben,” 53–54), but the cover itself has been reused, and its original form, when it was used as the cover of another codex, has been dated by Myriam Krutzsch and Günter Poethke to a time no earlier than the sixth century (“Der Einband,” 40). The cover was clearly taken from a larger codex and later adapted to fit P. Berol. 8502 (ibid., 37–40. For pictures of the cover, see ibid., table 5 and 6. For a drawing of the original cover, see ibid., 38). If Krutzsch and Poethke are right in their assessment that the original cover was manufactured no earlier than the sixth century, and only later retooled to fit P. Berol. 8502, this would suggest a later date for P. Berol. 8502 itself, at least closer to the seventh century. Apart from extra holes in two of the right-hand side leaves (131/132 and 135/136), probably for the purposes of repair, there is no evidence that the leaves have been rebound, which indicates that the current reworked cover was the first and only cover of this codex (cf. Krutszch, “Beobachtungen,” esp. 292, 352).

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What is most interesting for the current discussion is that an owner’s mark was rather hastily engraved into its front cover, which reads ⲍⲁⲭⲁⲣ ⲁⲣⲛ ⲁⲃⲃⲁ, “Zacharias, arch-presbyter, abbot.”83 Although the leather cover had evidently been used to bind a different quire (or quires) previously, and was later trimmed to fit the current block of pages, the inscription was apparently added after the resizing took place, thus indicating that the Apocryphon of John, etc., belonged to Abbot Zacharias. The inscription is thus a clear indication that this codex belonged to an abbot in the sixth, seventh, or eighth century, and testifies to the continued use of books with contents like the Nag Hammadi Codices in Egyptian monasticism long after the time of Athanasius’ 39th Festal Letter. In concluding this section, we do of course acknowledge that there are different types of apocrypha. With the exception of Codex Papyrus Berolinensis 8502, the manuscripts we have been surveying here, all found in monastery collections from the sixth to fourteenth centuries – from the Monastery of St. Macarius in the Wadi Natrun, the White Monastery in Sohag, the St. Mercurius Monastery in Edfu, the Monastery of St. Michael the Archangel at Phantoou, the Monastery of Apollo at Bala’izah – do not contain the same texts as those found in the Nag Hammadi Codices, which were manufactured significantly earlier (the fourth and fifth centuries). As we have shown in chapter four, however, the Nag Hammadi texts themselves cannot be so easily characterized as one “type” of apocrypha, but include a wide range of genres, and treat topics that continued to be of interest to monastic readers in later generations (e. g., Genesis interpretation, angelology, asceticism, spiritual progress, to name only a few examples). The apocryphal books found in much later medieval collections reflect what remained after centuries of controversy and intermittent attempts at censorship. Though not identical with the texts from Nag Hammadi, they certainly would not have been the kind of reading material approved by Athanasius and other ecclesiastical censors, but would have attracted biblical exegetes with attitudes similar to those of Priscillian and the pseudo-Evodius homilies. The fact that such apocrypha continued to be copied nearly a millennium after Athanasius’ famous prohibition attests to their religious significance and persistence among Coptic monks. It stands to reason that in earlier periods an even wider variety of apocrypha circulated in monasteries (as indicated by the evidence of P. Berol. 8502 and the fragment from Bala’izah), and that such books were gradually purged from monastery collections depending on the ideologies of individual abbots and how dedicated they were to censorship. Indeed, as we shall see, this scenario is suggested by the evidence we have for apocryphal books in monasteries of the fourth and fifth centuries in literary sources from the Pachomians, Shenoute, and archbishop Dioscorus. 83 Krutzsch and Poethke, “Der Einband,” 39. For the reading of ⲁⲣⲛ as “archpresbyter,” Krutzsch and Poethke refer to the judgment of Walter Beltz (ibid., n. 11).

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The Pachomian Federation What do we know about Pachomian monastic libraries? What kind of books did they have and where did they keep them?84 Nowhere in the Pachomian sources do we find references to a centralized library, in the sense of a room or building dedicated to books. Rather, collections of books were kept in each individual house, and were under the direct supervision of the housemaster and his second.85 The books were kept in a wall niche (τὸ θυρίδιον, fenestra, ϣⲟⲩϣⲧ),86 which was also the designated place for at least some other items under the supervision of the housemaster and the second, such as a pair of tweezers.87 Monks were not to be negligent with the books they took from the niche, but were to close them properly (and perhaps return them to the niche) before going on to other activities.88 While they were available from the niche during the day, it was the responsibility of the house’s second to take them from the niche and lock them up at night (the Latin version of the rule adds that he shall count them as well).89 Where they were secured at night is not clear, though it may have been in a cell where the housemasters and seconds locked away surplus clothing.90 Again, there is no reference to a central library where all the books would be taken by 84 For previous discussions of books in Pachomian monasteries, see Heinrich Bacht, Das Vermächtnis des Ursprungs: Studien zum frühen Mönchtum 1 (Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 1972), 203–4; Scholten, “Buchbesitz,” 145–52. 85 G1 59; Pr. 82. 86 For further references to niches in monastic sources, and archaeological evidence, see Scholten, “Buchbesitz,” 146 n. 18; Carl Wendel, “Der antike Bücherschrank,” in Kleine Schriften zum antiken Buch- und Bibliothekswesen (Köln: Greven Verlag, 1974), 64–92 and plate 3; James E. Quibell, Excavations at Saqqara (1906–1907) (Service des Antiquités de l’Égypte; Cairo: Imprimerie de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1908), plates 45, 55, 59; C. C. Walters, Monastic Archaeology in Egypt (Modern Egyptology Series; Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1974), 106. 87 Pr. 82: “No one shall have in his own possession little tweezers for removing thorns he may have stepped on. Only the housemaster and the second shall have them, and they shall hang in the niche in which books are placed” (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:160, modified). 88 Pr. 100: “No one shall leave his book unfastened when he goes to the synaxis or to the refectory” (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:162). This rule also indicates that the Pachomians possessed books that resembled the Nag Hammadi Codices in their physical construction, with a strap on the cover for fastening it shut. See Robinson, “Construction.” 89 Coptic Pr. 101: “As for the books in the niche, the second shall bring them forth in the evening, every day, and shall secure them” (ⲛ̄ϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ ⲇⲉ ⲙ̄ⲡϣⲟⲩϣⲧ̄ ⲉⲣⲉⲡⲙⲉϩⲥⲛⲁⲩ ⲛⲁⲧⲁⲩⲟⲟⲩ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲓⲣⲟⲩ[ϩⲉ ⲙ̄]ⲙⲏⲏⲛⲉ ⲛϥ̄[ⲱ]ⲧϩ ⲉⲣⲱⲟⲩ; Louis Théophile Lefort, Œuvres de S. Pachôme et de ses disciples [CSCO 159, Scriptores Coptici 23; Leuven: L. Durbecq, 1965], 31). Jerome’s Latin version reads “The codices in the niche, that is, in the house’s box, are put back in the evening; they shall be under the control of the second who shall count them and, according to custom, lock them up” (codices qui in fenestra, id est in risco parieties, reponuntur ad vesperum, erunt sub manu secundi qui numerabit eos et ex more concludet; Boon, Pachomiana Latina, 41). 90 G1 59: “In each house, the housemaster or the second keeps all the surplus clothes locked in a cell until the brothers need them … The books, which were in a niche, were also under the care of these two” (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:338, modified).

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the seconds of each house. This decentralized system is reflected in another Pachomian text, the so-called “Prophecy of Apa Charour,” which addresses the rise of negligence in the Koinonia after Pachomius’ death. There Charour laments the fact that the monks have niches full of books, but do not read them.91 The Pachomian sources suggest that the monastery leadership felt the need to control the circulation of books inside the monastery. We have already seen that the second of each house was responsible for securing the books at night. The rules also stipulate that monks could borrow books from other houses, but only for a period of one week, after which they had to be returned to their “place.”92 Lending was not, however, to be conducted between the rank-and-file monks themselves, but was to be handled by the housemaster and his second, and any book exchange between monks on their own initiative was prohibited.93 Such rules clearly indicate that efforts were taken to control the circulation of books among the monks. Given the Pachomians’ decentralized system, with different book collections in each of the houses, it would not have been easy for the abbot himself to have complete control over which books were read and by whom. The housemasters and their seconds would have had the most direct control over which books were kept in the houses and their circulation among other houses. As we shall see below, this decentralized system may also have been used in the monasteries of Shenoute, in which further efforts were taken by the abbot to supervise and censor reading material. As for the contents of the books, we know that the Pachomians read and studied Scripture (referred to frequently throughout the Lives and rules),94 but there are indications that they possessed other books, and that they composed new ones themselves. Certainly some texts were written by Pachomians for the

91 The Prophecy of Apa Charour, M586, 99 (Lefort, Œuvres, 101): ⲛ̄ϣⲟⲩϣⲧ ⲉⲩⲙⲉϩ ⲛ̄ϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ, ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲛⲱϣ ⲁⲛ ⲛ̄ϩⲏⲧⲟⲩ. Apart from this prophetic text, Charour is known only from Ep. Am.

25, where he is said to have died sometime before Theodore (James E. Goehring, The Letter of Ammon and Pachomian Monasticism [PTS 27; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1986], 147–48, 175). On Charour, see Lefort, Œuvres, xxx–xxxi, 100–4. Veilleux chose not to include this text in his translation of Pachomiana because much of its terminology remains obscure, and because in his opinion, the text “is not representative of the pachomian spirit” (Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 3:9). 92 Pr. 25: “If they seek a book to read, let them have it; and at the end of the week they shall put it back in its place for those who succeed them in the service” (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:149). 93 Leg. 7: “If someone unbeknownst to these two [i. e., the housemaster and second] goes to another house, or to a brother from another house, to borrow a book to read, or any other object, and is convicted of this, he shall be rebuked according to the order of the monastery” (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:182); cf. G1 59. 94 For example, Pr. 140: “There shall be no one whatever in the monastery who does not learn to read and does not memorize something of the Scriptures, at least the New Testament and the Psalter” (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:166).

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practical purposes of record keeping,95 but they also wrote down their monastic rules and the instructional treatises of the Pachomian leaders Pachomius, Theodore, and Horsiesios. According to the Bohairic Life, when Pachomius’ sister Maria established the nunnery at Tabennesi, he wrote down for her the rules of the brothers in a book.96 The Greek Life also says that Pachomius and his disciples wrote their own books about spiritual matters and scriptural exegesis. Pachomius, it says, would often teach the word of God to the brothers, and some of them “wrote down many of his insights about the Scriptures” (ἔγραψαν πολλὰ περὶ αὐτοῦ νοήματα τῶν γραφῶν); furthermore, upon request by the spiritual men (πνευματικοὶ) of the Koinonia, Pachomius himself composed “a book of spiritual writings” (βιβλίον … γραμμάτων πνευματικῶν) that would lead the brothers to perfection.97 The boundaries of the Pachomians’ book collections are difficult to assertain, but the literary sources themselves, though anachronistic and idealized, suggest that other books, including biblical apocrypha, were also read in their monasteries. One famous anecdote recounts how Pachomius hated Origen immensely, and ordered his monks not to read Origen’s writings. Once when he discovered a book of Origen in his monastery, he promptly destroyed it by throwing it in the river.98 This story is likely to be anachronistic in its blanket rejection of Origen and his writings,99 and Samuel Rubenson is probably right in supposing that “the strong anti-Origenist statements reflect a situation after the [Origenist] controversy in 399.”100 Was the story merely fabricated by the redactor of 95 As G1 59 states, “the entire governance of the monastery is written in the book of the administrators” (πᾶσα ἡ τοιαύτη κυβέρνησις ἐν τῷ βιβλίῳ γέγραπται κατὰ μέρος τῶν οἰκονόμων; Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 41). While Veilleux suggests this “book of the administrators” might have been the Pr., it could also have been the kind of account book we hear about elsewhere in the Pachomian sources. Hors. Reg. 29 prescribes that the administrators “have everything recorded in the place of the administration, from small to big, clearly and legibly” (ⲉⲧⲣⲉϩⲱⲃ ⲛⲓⲙ ϣⲱⲡⲉ ⲉϥⲥⲏϩ ϩⲙ︥ⲡⲙⲁ ⲛ̄ⲧⲟⲓⲕⲟⲛⲟⲙⲓⲁ, ϫⲓⲛⲟⲩⲕⲟⲩⲓ̈ ϣⲁⲟⲩⲛⲟϭ, ⲉⲩⲟⲩⲟⲛϩ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ, ⲉⲩⲟ ⲛⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓⲛ; Lefort, Œuvres, 90); and SBo 147 describes a monk named Akulas as “the accountant who wrote on behalf of the administrator over all the monasteries of the Koinonia” (ⲡⲗⲟⲅⲟⲅⲣⲁⲫⲟⲥ ⲉⲧⲥϩⲁⲓ̈ ϩⲁⲣⲁⲧϥ̄ ⲙ̄ⲡⲟⲓⲕⲟⲛⲟⲙⲟⲥ ⲉⲧϩⲓϫⲛⲧⲕⲟⲓⲛⲱⲛⲓⲁ ⲛ̄ⲛ̄ⲥⲟⲟⲩϩⲥ̄ ⲧⲏⲣⲟⲩ [Lefort, Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 193]). On Pachomian stewards and their record keeping activity, see also G1 26, 28, 59, 79, 83; SBo 71; Pr. 27; Fidells Ruppert, Das pachomianische Mönchtum und die Anfänge klösterlichen Gehorsams (MüSt 20; Münsterschwarzach: Vier-Türme-Verlag, 1971), 320–28. 96 SBo 27: ⲁϥⲥϧⲏⲧⲟⲩ ⲉⲟⲩϫⲱⲙ (Lefort, Vita Bohairice Scripta, 27). 97 G1 99 (Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 66–67). Veilleux suggests this was an account of Pachomius’ visions (Pachomian Koinonia, 1:418, n. 5 on G1 99). 98 G1 31. 99 Compare SBo 189; G1 31; Paral. 7. On the anachronistic nature of these sources, see Goehring, “New Frontiers”; “Monastic Diversity”; “Pachomius’s Vision of Heresy,” 161; Rubenson, “Origen in the Egyptian Monastic Tradition”; Rubenson, “Reading Origen,” 45: “We have to remind ourselves that most of the literary sources reflect what later generations and outsiders wanted the memory of the first generation of monks to convey.” 100 Rubenson, “Reading Origen,” 46; cf. Rubenson, “Origen in the Egyptian Monastic Tradition”; Goehring, “Monastic Diversity,” 75–76.

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the Greek Life in order to underscore Pachomius’ allegiance to Alexandrian orthodoxy at a time when it had turned against Origen? Or does it also suggest that writings of Origen were in fact read in Pachomian monasteries before the eruption of the controversy? The latter view would square nicely with the criticism of Epiphanius, writing in the 370s, that Origen’s teachings were prominent among the monks of Egypt;101 and of course from the standpoint of Alexandrian orthodoxy prior to Theophilus and the controversy of 399, Origen was still regarded as a respectable source of religious teaching. In any event, the fact that the redactor of the Greek Life chose to include the story shows that he himself, while harboring a disdain for Origen, nevertheless assumed it was believable that Origen’s writings could be found in Pachomian monasteries in the earliest generation of the Koinonia, if not in his own time. Critical attitudes toward apocryphal books also appear in the Pachomian biographical tradition, a fact which suggests, at the very least, that their redactors (from the late fourth century onward) saw the presence of apocrypha as a real problem that needed to be addressed. One passage from the so-called Third Sahidic Life of Pachomius (S3), not included in Veilleux’s three-volume translation of the Pachomian corpus, provides a rather close link with one of the Nag Hammadi texts in particular. In what appears to be a sermon on interpretations of Genesis, the unidentified preacher (perhaps Pachomius or Theodore) warns against “a book among those the heretics have composed, to which they have given the name of the saints,” and refers specifically to the erroneous teaching that Cain was conceived by the devil.102 Although this tradition about Cain appears in several ancient and medieval sources,103 the only known book in which it is found that is actually attributed to a “saint” is in fact the Gospel of Philip from Nag Hammadi Codex II.104 Why would the redactor of the Pachomian text address this issue unless books like these were actually circulating in the monasteries? The concern that monks were being led astray by reading apocryphal books features prominently in the Bohairic Life as well. There, Pachomius’ successor Epiphanius, Pan. 64.4.1; cf. Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism, 140–46, 190. S3c (Lefort, Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 334 = AT-NB 9312, 146): “Now, then, let us guard against its/his blasphemy which we have heard is written in a book among those the heretics have composed, to which they have given the name of the saints (though they are the ones who composed it) so those who read it will believe in their error. For it is said that it is written in that book that after Eve was deceived and ate from the tree, she gave birth to Cain through the devil.” 103 Louis Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews (2nd ed.; trans. Henrietta Szold and Paul Radin; 2 vols.; Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 2003), 2:101–2; James L. Kugel, Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as It Was at the Start of the Common Era (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998), 147–48, 157. The tradition is also reported by Epiphanius as among the teachings of the so-called Archontics (Pan. 40.5.3–7; 40.6.5–9). 104 Gos. Phil. 61.5–10: “First, adultery happened, and afterwards, murder. And he was begotten in adultery, for he was the son of the serpent. Therefore he became a murderer like his father too, and he killed his brother” (Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 488–89). 101 102

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Theodore is remembered for promoting among the monks at Pbow a copy of Athanasius’ Festal Letter of 367, in which the archbishop defined the biblical canon and prohibited the reading of apocrypha. Theodore delivers a sermon to the monks, explaining that they should keep to the “waters of life” as defined by Athanasius’ canon, and avoid those “waters of deceit and wells filled with bitterness which some have dug to their own destruction.” He then repeats Athanasius’ assertion that heretics have “fabricated for themselves what are called apocryphal books, claiming for them antiquity and giving them the names of saints.” After his exhortation, Theodore had the patriarch’s letter translated into Coptic and installed “as a law” in the monastery.105 One could of course interpret this story to mean that apocryphal books were never read by Pachomian monks, and that Theodore did nothing more than formalize a policy of orthodoxy that was already observed among them. Yet the details of the account suggest otherwise, that Theodore was implementing a new policy of censorship into the monastery’s reading habits, and not merely institutionalizing what was already de facto the norm. The Bohairic Life has Theodore explain Athanasius’ letter to the monks in therapeutic terms, as “healing for our souls,” thus implying that at least some of the brothers had previously been led astray by such books. He admonishes them to “be vigilant and take care not to read the books” lest they fall into disobedience, and not to lead others astray so that they read them too. At the end of the story, “each one returned to his cell marvelling at what they had heard.”106 According to this story, the new prohibition on apocrypha was clearly not business as usual at Pbow.107 Of course the story may tell us more about the redactor’s own concerns than about Theodore and the actual events of 367. The fact that the redactor included it indicates that some Pachomian monks were in fact reading apocrypha, not only in earlier generations of the Koinonia, but later too, in the redactor’s own time. When that might have been we do not know, but as we have seen above, apocryphal books continued to be read in Egyptian monasteries well into the middle ages, and continued to be a source of controversy. As Robinson puts it, the story in the Bohairic Life suggests that, at least from the viewpoint of the redactor, “a house-cleaning was required.”108

SBo 189 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:230–32). SBo 189 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:231). 107 See Joest, Die Pachom-Briefe, 51. 108 Robinson, Nag Hammadi Codices, 2; cf. Leslie W. Barnard, “Athanasius and the Pachomians,” in Studia Patristica XXXII: Papers Presented at the Twelfth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 1995: Athanasius and His Opponents, Cappadocian Fathers, Other Greek Writers After Nicea (ed. Elizabeth A. Livingstone; Leuven: Peeters, 1997), 9. 105 106

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Shenoute and the White Monastery Federation As we have seen above, while we have an abundance of medieval manuscripts that can confidently be assigned to the White Monastery, nothing remains of the monastery’s book collections from the earliest centuries. The earliest extant fragments of codices from the White Monastery, on parchment, probably date no earlier than the ninth century, and the latest probably belong to the twelfth.109 The nature of the White Monastery’s book collections in the fourth and fifth centuries must therefore be based on the writings of Shenoute himself. What Shenoute reveals is, as Orlandi has put it, “a very cultivated environment, where many people read and discussed important works of spirituality, of history, and of theology,” all of which “presupposes the possession of many books, and a cultural activity around them.”110 While all the surviving medieval manuscripts of the White Monastery’s collections are in Coptic,111 it is highly probable that in the fourth and fifth centuries the monastery also held many books in Greek.112 An indication of the contents of the White Monastery’s book collection in its early phases can be seen, Orlandi suggests, in the Dishna Papers, with their “mixture of Greek, Latin, and Coptic texts, and of classic-pagan and christian literature.”113 In any event, the importance of books and reading in Shenoute’s monasteries is well attested not only by the abbot’s pervasive use of scriptural quotations and allusions, but also his references to the use of papyri and books 109 As Emmel and Römer put it, “the library of the White Monastery was one of the largest book collections that ever existed in Egypt,” though what survives dates no earlier than the ninth century (Emmel and Römer, “Library,” 10–11). In Orlandi’s estimation, by the eleventh century the library must have contained over 1000 books, “an astonishing number compared with the largest western libraries of the same time, which seem to have kept 300 to 500 codices” (Orlandi, “Library,” 225). In addition to its scattered remains of manuscripts, we learn something about the monastery’s medieval holdings through lists of books that was inscribed on the walls of the church in the twelfth or thirteenth centuries, published by W. E. Crum, “Inscriptions from Shenoute’s Monastery,” JTS  5 (1904): 552–69 (553 on the dating). These inscriptions, which have now unfortunately disappeared (cf. Emmel, Shenoute’s Literary Corpus, 1:94), were found in niches in the north apse of the church, on the walls between this and the central apse, and in niches in a small room connected to the north apse (Crum, “Inscriptions,” 552). Although the inscriptions are medieval, it is worth noting that they recall references in the Pachomian texts to books being kept in niches. One thing we see from these inscriptions is that the White Monastery held at this time at least twenty copies of the Life of Pachomius (Crum, “Inscriptions,” 556), which clearly illustrates the continued importance of the literary memory of the Pachomian koinonia for the monks of the White Monastery. 110 Orlandi, “Library,” 224. 111 There are, however, also some remains of bilingual Greek-Coptic manuscripts. 112 Emmel and Römer, “Library,” 10–11. Shenoute was probably able to read and write in both Greek and Coptic and to translate texts between the two languages. Thus in Dioscorus’ Ep. Sin. the archbishop asks Shenoute to translate the letter with its memorandum to the local bishops from Greek into Coptic so that it would be understood by everyone (Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 68 [Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 371]). 113 Orlandi, “Library,” 227. On the Dishna papers, see the discussion in chapter eight.

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(ⲭⲁⲣⲧⲏⲥ and ϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ),114 and by his own literary output, a significant selection of which he organized into nine volumes of Canons and stipulated that they be read on specific occasions.115 At the end of Canon 1, he commands that the monks should read the canon four times a year, whether they want to or not.116 On the basis of Shenoute’s various references to books and reading, some scholars have inferred that the White Monastery had a central library. Bentley Layton has argued that a library and scriptorium seem presupposed in Shenoute’s references to the acquisition, copying, and distribution of books;117 and Stephen Emmel has similarly suggested that Shenoute’s strong command of Coptic and the Bible indicates he probably spent considerable time reading and copying books in the monastery’s library and scriptorium.118 However, while there is no doubt that references to the copying, reading, lending, and control of books in Shenoute’s federation presuppose their widespread presence and frequent use,119 it is by no means certain that they imply the existence of a central library in the sense of a room or building dedicated to books. Shenoute never refers to a library or scriptorium in any of his writings.120 Although Orlandi has proposed that Shenoute did not explicitly refer to a library because its existence was obvious,121 it may well be that during Shenoute’s time, instead of a central library, there was a more decentralized system of collections and lending, which as we have seen, seems to have been the arrangement in the Pachomian koinonia too. In the White Monastery federation, books were evidently kept in each house under the surveillance of the housemasters and ultimately the abbot himself. Books were also

114 Orlandi, “Library,” 212; Emmel and Römer, “Library,” 11. On the use of Scripture in Shenoute’s texts, see Janet A. Timbie and Jason R. Zaborowski, “Shenoute’s Sermon The Lord Thundered: An Introduction and Translation,” OrChr 90 (2006): 91. On the making of books, see, e. g., Shenoute, Canon 1: “It is in the 26th year of our first father who died, which is also the 16th year of our other father who died after him, that we have transcribed all those words that are written in the papyri published during [all] this time, into [this] book” (YW 209; Munier, Manuscrits coptes, 115–16 [our translation is based on Stephen Emmel’s collation and correction of the Coptic text of YW 209]). 115 Shenoute’s corpus is divided into nine volumes of Canons (ⲕⲁⲛⲱⲛ), eight volumes of Discourses (ⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ), and a significant number of collected letters (ⲉⲡⲓⲥⲧⲟⲗⲏ). On the organization of Shenoute’s corpus, see Emmel, Shenoute’s Literary Corpus, 3–5. 116 Shenoute, Canon 1, YW 211 (Layton, Canons of Our Fathers, 100). 117 Layton, “Rules, Patterns,” 49. 118 Emmel, “From the Other Side,” 96. 119 Cf. Maehler, “Bücher,” 39–47. 120 No remains of a library at the White Monastery have been identified. The small “secret” chamber connected to the north apse of the church where discarded manuscripts from the medieval period were kept at the time when they were eventually sold off, and which contained niches where lists of books had been inscribed in the twelfth or thirteenth century, does not seem large enough to have served as a central library by itself. 121 Orlandi “Library,” 212.

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sent around among the different monasteries of the federation, and presumably among the houses within each monastery.122 The kind of books kept in the collections of Shenoute’s monasteries in the fourth and fifth centuries is unknown, but the fact that the archimandrite polemicizes against apocryphal books and their use and promulgation by certain people in leading positions in the Christian congregations that he was familiar with, suggests that he regarded such books as a threat to the members of his own congregations. This problem is a major focus of one of Shenoute’s most polemical treatises, entitled I Am Amazed, which he wrote sometime between the councils of Ephesus (431) and Chalcedon (451).123 Unlike Priscillian and Ps.-Evodius, who saw apocryphal books and traditions as a way of elaborating upon Scripture, Shenoute linked them directly to the promulgation of heresy. He argues that since both Paul (Gal 1:8) and Athanasius rejected apocryphal books, other Christians should do so as well.124 In his attacks on non-canonical literature, he aligns himself with former Alexandrian patriarchs, quoting not only from Athanasius’ Festal Letter of 367,125 but also from Theophilus’ Festal Letter of 401,126 where apocryphal books are condemned together with the teachings of Origen.127 In I Am Amazed, Shenoute is not simply making a general argument against apocryphal books unrelated to his immediate context, but addresses the specific problem of heretical teachers within the local Christian congregations, and perhaps within his own monasteries as well. He declares that it is worse when 122 Shenoute refers to sending his canons back and forth between the monasteries in Canon 1, YW 211 (Munier, Manuscrits coptes, 117). 123 I Am Amazed was first brought to the attention of modern scholars by Orlandi, “Catechesis Against Apocryphal Texts.” Orlandi published the first edition of the text in his book Shenute Contra Origenistas: Testo con Introduzione e Traduzione (Unione Accademica Nazionale: CMCL; Rome: C. I. M., 1985). An updated and corrected version of this edition is available on Orlandi’s CMCL website. In print, Orlandi’s edition has now been superceded by Cristea, Schenute. We cite I Am Amazed with Orlandi’s enumeration, as adapted by Cristea, as well as the specific White Monastery manuscripts (the text is partly attested in manuscrips DD, DQ, DR, DS, DT, HB, XE, XN, YU, YM). On Shenoute’s opposition to apocryphal books, see also Lundhaug, “Shenoute’s Heresiological Polemics.” 124 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 308 = HB 18–19 = XE 143 (Cristea, Schenute, 140–41). 125 Shenoute invokes the authority of the former patriarch, stating that “the great teacher of faith, Apa Athanasius, said in his writings, ‘I have written these things concerning the heresies, but especially the miserable Melitians, who pride themselves on those (books) that are called secret (apocryphon)’” (Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 319 = HB 22; Cristea, Schenute, 144–45). In another treatise, Shenoute similarly explains that he has “learned about the error of many heretics from his letters” (Who Speaks Through the Prophet, ZM 44 = FR–BN 1314 f. 158; read from a photograph kindly provided by Stephen Emmel). 126 Shenoute seems to quote Theophilus’ letter almost in its entirety. See Cristea, Schenute, 231–40; Stephen Emmel, “Theophilus’s Festal Letter of 401 as Quoted by Shenoute,” in Divitiae Aegypti: Koptologische und verwandte Studien zu Ehren von Martin Krause (ed. Cäcilia Fluck, Lucia Langener, and Siegfried Richter; Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 1995), 93–98. 127 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, DS 221 (Emmel, “Theophilus’s Festal Letter,” 95).

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Christians deny key tenets of the orthodox faith than when pagans do so, and while it should be clear to all good Christians that no one should listen to the godless pagans, it is far more serious when heresy is propounded by Christians, especially by authorities in the congregations.128 According to Shenoute, “Truly fatherhoods of this sort, or seniorities, can greatly defile the hearts of many people in many places of Christ.”129 It is significant that Shenoute specifies a problem with wayward “fatherhoods” (ϩⲉⲛⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲉⲓⲱⲧ) and “seniorities” (ϩⲉⲛⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲛⲟϭ) since both of these terms commonly refer to monastic and ecclesiastical superiors. Indeed, both terms can refer to abbots.130 Shenoute adds that one should tell such people to refrain from defiling the souls of god-fearing people with “evil teachings,” even if they should refuse to “purify the souls of godless men” as befits their status as leaders in the community.131 The evil teachings Shenoute refers to are those found in apocryphal books. Juxtaposing them with canonical Scripture, Shenoute argues that while the latter draw from “the spring of the water of life,” only “empty words” are contained in the “broken wells” of the apocrypha.132 Shenoute emphasizes that “those who are fervent in the Holy Spirit” (cf. Acts 18:25) speak words emanating from canonical Scripture, and do not need “books that are foreign to it.”133 Like Athanasius in his Festal Letter of 367, Shenoute sought to refute all apocrypha, and did not list individual books by name. The only one he mentions specifically, entitled The Gospel of Jesus the Son of God, the Offspring of the Angels, is not one of the texts contained in the Nag Hammadi Codices or any other known manuscript.134 Nevertheless, there is no doubt that Shenoute had texts in mind that do find parallels in the Nag Hammadi Codices. These texts describe “other worlds” (ϩⲉⲛⲕⲉⲕⲟⲥⲙⲟⲥ) apart from this one,135 as well as things unknown to the prophets,136 and “hidden from the Scriptures” (ⲛⲉⲑⲏⲡ ⲉⲛⲉⲅⲣⲁⲫⲏ).137 He explicitly contrasts “the knowledge of the Scriptures and their teaching of those who know them” with “the knowledge of those who say that there is another knowledge that is hidden from the Scriptures, or which the Scriptures have not revealed.”138 He is adamant that there is no reason to seek out apocrypha to fill Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 375–76 = HB 37 = YU 33–34 (Cristea, Schenute, 160–61). Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 376 = YU 33–34 = HB 37 (Cristea, Schenute, 161). 130 On the terms ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲉⲓⲱⲧ and ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲛⲟϭ, see Crum, Coptic Dictionary, 86b–87a and 251 respectively, and the discussion in chapter seven, below, on the colophon at the end of NHC VII. 131 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 377 = HB 37–38 = YU 34 = DD 125 (Cristea, Schenute, 161–62). 132 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 378–79 = YU 34 = HB 38 = DD 125 (Cristea, Schenute, 162). 133 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 381 = YU 34 = HB 38 = DD 126 (Cristea, Schenute, 163). 134 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 309 = HB 19 = XE 144 (Cristea, Schenute, 141): ⲡⲉⲩⲁⲅⲅⲉⲗⲓ̈ⲟⲛ ⲛⲓ︤ⲥ︥ ⲡϣⲏⲣⲉ ⲙ̄ⲡⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ ⲡⲉϫⲡⲟ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲛ̄ⲛⲁⲅⲅⲉⲗⲟⲥ. 135 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 103 = DQ 15; 314 = HB 20 (Cristea, Schenute, 138, 143). 136 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 103–4 = DQ 15; 360 = HB 33 (Cristea, Schenute, 138–39, 155–56). 137 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 359–60 = HB 32–33; 363 = HB 34 (Cristea, Schenute, 155, 156). 138 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 363 = HB 34 (Cristea, Schenute, 156). 128 129

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in the gaps left by the canonical Sciptures,139 and condemns as blind and destined for hell all those who write (or copy) apocrypha, who memorize them, and who put their faith in them.140 Shenoute clearly objected to the fact that other Christians, including those in leadership roles (the “fatherhoods” and “seniorities”) were in fact reading and teaching from extra-canonical literature in order to supplement and interpret Scripture. As for himself, Shenoute warns that apocryphal books contain “demonic teachings” (ϩⲉⲛⲥⲃⲱ ⲛ̄ⲇⲁⲓ̈ⲙⲱⲛⲓⲟⲛ).141 Echoing Athanasius’ Festal Letter of 367, Shenoute maintained that even if apocryphal books contained some beneficial parts, the demonic teachings and “erring spirits” (ϩⲉⲛⲡ︤ⲛ︦ⲁ︥ ⲛ̄ⲥⲱⲣ︤ⲙ︥) in them nullify the good, making such texts nothing but harmful and dangerous.142 Shenoute clearly perceived the potential threat of heretical writings also circulating in his own monasteries, and so established rules governing the acquisition and copying of texts in general. According to Canon 1, although books were kept in the individual houses, under the direct supervision of the housemasters, their ultimate ownership and control rested with the abbot himself, “the leader or father of these congregations.”143 An intriguing reference in Canon 5 describes monthly inspections of the monastery’s houses by the abbot, and specifies that he will inspect both the cells and the niches of each house.144 Another rule from the same canon also stipulates the abbot’s responsibility to control and censor writings entering the monastery from the outside: If we need to examine or copy books that we do not have, we shall not be permitted to seek them outside without (the permission of) the Elder. Nor if we are brought books from outside that are appropriate to read, or letters, shall we give them to anyone among us unless we have informed him of them. Nor shall anyone among us read them at all without having spoken with him first, for perhaps indeed there are words in them that are not appropriate for a person to hear, so that they shall not trip themselves up on them. For some have written many words that are hurtful, but others have written many words that are profitable.145

Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 311 = HB 20 = XE 144 (Cristea, Schenute, 143). Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 101 = DQ 14 (Cristea, Schenute, 138). 141 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 312 = HB 20 = XE 144 (Cristea, Schenute, 143); cf. Epiphanius, Pan. 63.3.4. 142 Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 384 = HB 39 (Cristea, Schenute, 164). The first part of this passage is also in DD 126 (Cristea, Schenute, 165), but the rest is lost with the missing DD 127. 143 Shenoute, Canon 1, YW 210 (Layton, Canons of Our Fathers, 98). 144 Shenoute, You, God the Eternal, XS 336 (Johannes Leipoldt, Sinuthii Archimandritae: Vita et Opera Omnia [3 vols.; CSCO 41, 42, 73, Scriptores Coptici 1, 2, 5; Paris: Imprimérie nationale, 1906–1913], 4:58): “Twelve times a year the Elder shall go into all the houses of the congregation, once a month, and search all the cells within them and every niche (ϣⲟⲩϣⲧ) and every vessel that receives their share that is put into them, so that he may know whether they have more than the established limit or whether one has done an impious act, having taken anything into his cell against the established rule.” 145 Shenoute, You, God the Eternal, XS 385–86 (Leipoldt, Sinuthii, 4:72). Canon 5 seems, on 139 140

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The Elder referred to in the canon was the highest authority in each of Shenoute’s three monasteries, and it was he or she who had the authority to decide which books and letters could be brought in, and who would be allowed to read them.146 Any decision to search for, acquire, and copy reading materials thus had to be cleared by the Elder. According to Shenoute, such regulations were necessary because of the potentially dangerous nature of the contents of certain writings, and from the language he uses it is evident that what he has in mind are texts of dubious orthodoxy. Another rule, preserved in Canon 1, deals with the production and distribution of books in the monasteries, and specifically prohibits monks from making books in secret and giving them (or perhaps selling them) to “people of the world” (ϩⲉⲛⲕⲟⲥⲙⲓⲕⲟⲥ) without the permission of the father of the monastery.147 These rules indicate the importance of controlling not only the reading habits in Shenoute’s monasteries, but also the circulation of books which Shenoute deemed harmful. To what extent these rules were observed, and to what extent monks endulged in subterfuge, we do not know, but the fact that Shenoute felt the need to formulate them clearly shows that he took seriously the need for censorship of controversial books within his own monasteries. If there was no centralized library, as the evidence seems to suggest, it would have made the Elder’s task all the more difficult.

Dioscorus of Alexandria Shenoute’s attack on the use of illicit books in I Am Amazed may in fact be a direct response to the situation confronted in a letter sent to him by archbishop Dioscorus in the 440s.148 Dioscorus did not address the letter exclusively to Shenoute, for its main section is actually constituted by a memorandum which Shenoute is asked to translate into Coptic and pass on to three local bishops.149 the basis of its preserved parts, to have contained only one text, You, God the Eternal. See Emmel, Shenoute’s Literary Corpus, 575–76. 146 For the hierarchical organization of Shenoute’s monasteries, see Layton, “Rules, Patterns”; Layton, “Ancient Rules,” 75–77; Layton, “Monastic Rules.” On the female Elder (ⲧϩⲗⲗⲱ), see Rebecca Krawiec, “The Role of the Female Elder in Shenoute’s White Monastery,” in Akhmim and Sohag (ed. Gawdat Gabra and Hany N. Takla; vol. 1 of Christianity and Monasticism in Upper Egypt; Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2008), 59–71. 147 Shenoute, Canon 1, XC 8 + YW 10 (Layton, Canons of Our Fathers, 96): “Cursed is he who will make something in secret and give (or ‘sell’ [ⲛ︤ϥ︥ⲧⲁⲁϥ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ]) it to people of the world against the judgment of our current father, whether book or garment or shoes or skin or girdle or any other thing, and who gives (or ‘sells’) them secretly to the brothers (or ‘siblings’), or who gives them in friendship, he shall be cursed.” 148 See chapter two above. 149 See Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 68 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 371). The names of the three bishops are Sabinus, Gennadius, and Hermogenes. As Thompson has pointed out, Sabinus is probably the bishop of Panopolis mentioned in the Coptic acts of the council of

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Dioscorus orders Shenoute to help combat the circulation of heretical books not only in “the monasteries of Panopolis,” but also in the cities and monasteries in the rest of the Thebaid.150 The specific problem addressed by Dioscorus concerns the promulgation of what he identifies as the teachings of Origen. He singles out an expelled priest, and probably monk, named Elijah because of his Origenist teachings, and banishes him from Panopolis, as well as from any other city, monastery or cave in the Thebaid.151 In addition, the archbishop specifies two especially troublesome monasteries in Panopolis that supposedly held “books and many treatises by the pest Origen and other heretics,” which he orders the local bishops to “scrupulously seek after.” When they find such books they are to condemn them and send them to him.152 Two monasteries are singled out, one called “the camp’” (ⲡⲁⲣⲉⲙⲃⲟⲗⲏ),153 and the other “the former temple in (Panopolis).”154 Elijah seems to have been rather closely affiliated with “the camp.” Although the end of Dioscorus’ letter is lost, along with Shenoute’s reply, what survives demonstrates that controversy over both Origen’s teachings and the distribution of heretical books in Upper Egypt continued around the middle of the fifth century. Of course, as we have seen, despite the efforts of figures like Dioscorus and Shenoute, and of Athanasius before them, apocrypha and other “heretical” books continued to be read and copied in Egypt for centuries.155

Ephesus of 431 (“Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 369–70; see also Urbain Bouriant, Actes du Concile d’Éphèse [Mémoires publiés par les membres de la Mission archéologique française au Caire; Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1892],  71, 131; Klaas A. Worp, “A Checklist of Bishops in Byzantine Egypt (A. D. 325–c. 750),” ZPE 100 [1994]: 304, 315). Gennadius was probably the bishop of Hermopolis Magna who was present with Dioscorus at the council of Ephesus in 449 (Worp, “Checklist of Bishops,” 300, 311), while Hermogenes might have been the bishop of Rhinocoroura mentioned in the Coptic acts of the council of Ephesus (Bouriant, Actes du Concile d’Éphèse, 68, 79; Worp, “Checklist of Bishops,” 306, 311). 150 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 67 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 371). 151 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 67–68 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 371); cf. Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism, 238. 152 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 73 (Munier, Manuscrits coptes, 148–49). Literally “write their ” (ⲥϩⲁⲓ̈ ⲙ̄ⲡⲉⲩⲕⲁⲑⲉⲙⲁ). The emendation of ⲕⲁⲑⲉⲙⲁ to ⲕⲁⲑⲉⲙⲁ (καtάθεμα) was suggested by Enzo Lucchesi, “Chénouté a-t-il écrit en grec?” in Mélanges Antoine Guillaumont: Contributions à l’étude des christianismes orientaux (ed. René-Georges Coquin; COr 20; Geneva: Cramer, 1988), 207 n. 10. 153 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 71 (Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 373); Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 72 (Munier, Manuscrits coptes, 147). 154 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 73 (Munier, Manuscrits coptes, 148). 155 On the connection between monks associated with the teachings of Origen and the use of apocrypha, see the discussion in chapter nine.

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Conclusion The many prohibitions against reading apocryphal literature, from Athanasius in the fourth century to John of Parallos in the late sixth, as well as the several manuscript discoveries of apocrypha from medieval monastic book collections demonstrate that monks continued to read and copy such books long after Athanasius established his biblical canon. The hermeneutical perspectives defended by theologians like Priscillian and Ps.-Evodius, of elaborating upon Scripture through apocryphal texts and traditions, may provide us with a model for understanding the monastic community that read the Nag Hammadi Codices in Upper Egypt. Crucially, this model also raises the possibility that the readers of the Nag Hammadi Codices could have been more sympathetic towards Alexandrian orthodoxy than scholars have been accustomed to expect. As we argued in chapter four, many of the Nag Hammadi texts allude to, cite and interpret the biblical canon, not least on points where it is silent or leaves room for ambiguity on theological questions (e. g., the origins of evil or the angels). This brings us to the question of why the Nag Hammadi Codices were eventually buried. Was it because they were simply no longer needed? Or were they hidden away for future use? The fact that the codices were evidently placed in a sealed jar suggests that whoever buried them took care to preserve them for posterity, and perhaps intended to retrieve them at a later time.156 Furthermore, the fact that no canonical texts were found in the jar may indicate that the codices were hidden due to a purge of heretical books. Athanasius’ famous Festal Letter of 367 need not be seen as the purge in question, since controversy over heretical books in monasteries continued for centuries. They could have been hidden away during one of the later purges of heretical books from the monasteries of Upper Egypt, such as the one set in motion by Dioscorus’ letter in the 440s, or even later.157

156 On the practice of burying books in jars, see Colin H. Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief in Early Christian Egypt (Schweich Lectures 1977; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 6–9. 157 See Janet A. Timbie, “The State of Research on the Career of Shenoute of Atripe,” in The Roots of Egyptian Christianity (ed. Birger A. Pearson and James E. Goehring; SAC; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 270. Jon Dechow already suggested the link between Shenoute’s I Am Amazed and the burial of the Nag Hammadi Codices, but overlooking the references in I Am Amazed to the council of Ephesus (held in 431) he dated I Am Amazed to 401, based on its inclusion of a translation of Theophilus’ Festal Letter of that year (Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism, 233).

Chapter 7

The Colophons Since you have asked me to send you an apocryphon … – Apocryphon of James1

We will now close in on the Nag Hammadi Codices themselves and focus on the information provided by their scribes in the form of colophons and scribal notes. These provide us with invaluable information for contextualizing the production and use of the Nag Hammadi Codices. Being the actual words of the scribes, the colophons are arguably the most direct evidence we have for the people who copied the texts, and here too we will see that the evidence is consistent with a Christian monastic culture.

The Scribe and His Superior: Codex VII An especially important colophon, which provides us with some insight into the social context of the Nag Hammadi Codices, can be found on the last inscribed page of Codex VII, set apart from the end of the Three Steles of Seth by horizontal strokes. It reads: ⲡⲉⲓ̈ϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ ⲡⲁϯⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ ⲡⲉ ⲡϣⲏⲣⲉ ⲡⲉⲛⲧⲁϥⲥⲁϩ︤ϥ︥· ⲥⲙⲟⲩ ⲉⲣⲟⲓ̈ ⲡⲓⲱⲧ ϯⲥⲙⲟⲩ ⲉⲣⲟⲕ ⲡⲓⲱⲧ ϩ︤ⲛ︥ⲟⲩⲉⲓⲣⲏⲛⲏ ϩⲁⲙⲏⲛ2

This book belongs to the fatherhood. It was the son who copied it. Bless me, father. I bless you, father. In peace. Amen.

While unique among the Nag Hammadi Codices, colophons like this are quite common in later Coptic monastic manuscripts,3 where scribes often request blessings for the work they have done.4 Although it has been argued that “this Ap. Jas. 1.8–10. Steles Seth 127.28–31; Coptic text in James M. Robinson and James E. Goehring, “The Three Steles of Seth: Text and Translation,” in Nag Hammadi Codex VII (ed. Birger A. Pearson; NHMS 30; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 420. 3 The colophons of the monastic codices listed in Lantschoot, Recueil des colophons, abound with similar expressions to what we find in the colophons of Nag Hammadi Codices VII and II. 4 See, e. g., the colophon of M595, a ninth-century homiletic miscellany from the monastery of the Archangel Michael at Phantoou, where we find the statement: ⲥⲙⲟⲩ ⲉⲣⲟⲓ ⲕⲱ ⲛⲁⲓ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲛⲁⲉⲓⲟⲧⲉ ⲉⲧⲟⲩⲁⲁⲃ (“bless me, forgive me, my holy fathers”) (Depuydt, Catalogue, 1:350; 1 2

The Scribe and His Superior: Codex VII

Fig. 17. Nag Hammadi Codex VII.127 with colophon.

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book” (ⲡⲉⲓ̈ϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ) refers only to the last text of the codex, the Three Steles of Seth,5 we would argue on the basis of its contents that it is more likely that it refers to Codex VII as a whole,6 and that it is Codex VII, which the scribe has just finished copying, that belongs to “the fatherhood” (ϯⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ). As we shall see, the colophon provides us with important insights into not only the scribe, who refers to himself as a “son” (ϣⲏⲣⲉ), but also the intended owner of the codex, “the fatherhood,” for whom the scribe was copying. The most likely setting, we will argue, is a monastic one. Alexandr Khosroyev, however, proposes a different interpretation. Arguing that the colophon was not composed by the scribe of Codex VII, but was copied from an exemplar, he contends that the language of “the fatherhood,” “the son,” or “this book” do not reveal anything about the social context of the scribe. Khosroyev argues that “this book” does not refer to Codex VII, but to an earlier codex in the chain of transmission of the Three Steles of Seth (or simply to that text alone).7 Moreover, he argues that since the term “fatherhood”8 appears a number of times in the second tractate of Codex VII, the Second Treatise of the Great Seth, where it is used as a theological term for God,9 the “fatherhood” mentioned in the colophon should be understood in the same way.10 Khosroyev’s interpretation involves a complicated set of assumptions. In order to explain the fact that the term “fatherhood” is not mentioned at all in the four texts that follow the Second Treatise of the Great Seth he suggests two possible scenarios. He proposes that the term “fatherhood” might indeed have been present in the Three Steles of Seth as well, in one of the slightly damaged parts towards the end of the manuscript.11 Secondly, he suggests that the colophon origiLantschoot, Recueil des colophons, 1:18). Many more examples can be found in Lantschoot, Recueil des colophons. 5 See, e. g., Layton, Gnostic Scriptures, 158; Hans-Martin Schenke, “Die drei Stelen des Seth (NHC VII,5),” in Nag Hammadi Deutsch (2 vols.; ed. Hans-Martin Schenke, Hans-Gebhard Bethge, and Ursula Ulrike Kaiser; GCS Neue Folge 8, Koptisch-Gnostische Schriften 2; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2001, 2003), 2:627 (Schenke refers to it as a “Pseudo-Kolophon”). 6 See, e. g., Wisse, “Gnosticism and Early Monasticism,” 435; Paul Claude, Les Trois Stèles de Seth: Hymne gnostique à la triade (NHC VII,5) (BCNH.T 8; Québec: Les presses de l’Université Laval, 1983), 116; Scholten, “Buchbesitz,” 161; Michael A. Williams, “Interpreting the Nag Hammadi Library as ‘collection(s)’ in the History of ‘Gnosticism(s)’,” in Les textes de Nag Hammadi et le problème de leur classification (ed. Louis Painchaud and Anne Pasquier; BCNH.É 3; Québec: les Presses de l’Université Laval, 1995), 19. 7 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 94–97; Khosroyev, “Bemerkungen über die vermutlichen Besitzer der Nag-Hammadi-Texte,” in Divitiae Aegypti: Koptologische und verwandte Studien zu Ehren von Martin Krause, (ed. Cäcilia Fluck, Lucia Langener, and Siegfried Richter; Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 1995), 203–4. 8 See Crum, Coptic Dictionary, 87a. ⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ corresponds to the Greek πατρότης (See PGL, 1053), and could be used as a reference to monastic and ecclesiastical authorities. 9 Treat. Seth 54.15; 61.29, 34–35; 66.29; 67.2–3. 10 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 94–97. 11 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 96; Khosroyev, “Bemerkungen,” 201–4.

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nally belonged to a codex at a previous stage of the transmission of the Second Treatise of the Great Seth in which it was copied together with the Apocalypse of Peter and the Three Steles of Seth, and perhaps, he suggests, together with other, theologically similar texts in which the term “fatherhood” may have appeared. Accordingly, he maintains that the colophon was simply copied together with the text that it directly followed in this hypothetical codex, the Three Steles of Seth.12 Nothing in Khosroyev’s complicated explanations is necessary to interpret the colophon in Codex VII, however, nor are his propositions warranted by the evidence. Not only is it highly unlikely that the term “fatherhood” actually occured in any of the few and rather small lacunae in this very well-preserved manuscript, but his elaborate transmission-scenario would only be necessary if one were to presuppose that the colophon could not be the work of the scribe of Codex VII himself. A more economical explanation would be to regard the colophon as comments composed by the scribe of Codex VII. The “son” who copied the codex would then refer to the scribe himself, and the “father” and “fatherhood” would refer to his superior in the community, probably the abbot of his monastery.13 The colophon thus provides us with a glimpse into the milieu and devotion of the scribe and the intended owner of Codex VII. Despite Khosroyev’s claim to the contrary,14 the term “fatherhood” is well attested as a reference to monastic leadership and occurs in a wealth of Coptic literary sources,15 as well as documentary papyri and ostraca.16 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 96; Khosroyev, “Bemerkungen.” Cf. Scholten, “Buchbesitz,” 161–62. 14 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 95: “Es ist zu bemerken, daß der Terminus ⲙⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲓⲱⲧ in monastischen Schriften selten bezeugt ist.” 15 See, e. g., the Panegyric of Makarius of Tkow, where Papnoute the archimandrite is addressed as “your fatherhood” ⲧⲉⲕⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲉⲓ̈ⲱⲧ (15.1; David W. Johnson, A Panegyric on Macarius, Bishop of Tkow, Attributed to Dioscorus of Alexandria [CSCO 415, Scriptores Coptici 41; Leuven: Peeters, 1980], 116). The anchorite Apa Phib is referred to in this way in the Life of Apa Phib (see Tim Vivian, Words to Live By: Journeys in Ancient and Modern Egyptian Monasticism [CS 207; Kalamazoo, Mich.: Cistercian Publications, 2005], 219, 221); Apa Isaac also addresses his master, Apa Aaron, as ⲧⲉⲕⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ in Hist. mon. U. 40b (Budge, Miscellaneous Texts, 474). In addition to claiming that the term “fatherhood” (ⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ/πατρότης) rarely refers to monastic leaders, Khosroyev argues that in I Am Amazed Shenoute uses this term to refer to “gnostics,” and not monks (“Bemerkungen,” 204). However, it is clear from the context in which Shenoute uses the term that he is in fact referring to monastic and ecclesiastical leaders. Shenoute certainly accuses these leaders of heresy, but the reason why he singles out “seniorities” (ⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲛⲟϭ) and “fatherhoods” (ⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ) for chastisement is not because these terms have specific heretical or “Gnostic” connotations, but precisely because these people were community leaders in trusted positions, whom Shenoute felt to be a greater threat to the orthodoxy of the Christians in Upper Egypt than even the pagans and the Jews (see, Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 370–76 = HB 36–37, esp. 376 = HB 37). Khosroyev does not take into account that Shenoute also uses the phrase “your holy fatherhood” (ⲧⲉⲕⲙⲛⲧⲉⲓⲱⲧ ⲉⲧⲟⲩⲁⲁⲃ) to address Archbishop Timothy of Alexandria in a letter (Shenoute, Ad Timotheum archiepiscopum Alexandrinum, HD 301 [Leipoldt, Sinuthii, 3:13]). 16 See, e. g., Crum, “The Coptic Papyri,” 49; Crum, Coptic Ostraca from the Collections 12 13

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A good example can be found in a Coptic letter on an ostracon from the monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, addressed to two monastic superiors, Apa John and Apa Enoch: (The opening of the letter is damaged.) [Be so] good as to send it/him north. You have taken [great] mercy on my wretchedness. May the Lord God bless your lordship (ⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ) and have mercy on you just as you have had (mercy) on me. Forgive me; there is nothing we can send to your fatherhood (ⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲉⲓⲱⲧ). See these men – we have sent them to your fatherhood (ⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲙⲛ︤ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ). Please have mercy on our humbleness. Farewell in Jesus. Be safe from every affliction. Pray for us. (Subscript:) Deliver it (the letter) to the masters Apa father John and Apa Enoch.17

As one can see, the anonymous sender of this letter addresses Apa John and Apa Enoch formally as “your fatherhood.” The term is here used in an everyday context as a term of respect synonymous with “your lordship.” Now, what would it mean for a book like this to “belong to the fatherhood”? If we are right that the term here refers to the monastic superior, maybe even the abbot, of the scribe’s monastery, what would it entail that Codex VII belonged to him? We are again reminded of the prescription for the control of books in Shenoute’s monasteries, discussed above, where we saw that it was the Elder who had the authority to control what books the monks were allowed to bring into the monastery. In such an environment of censorship and control of the monks’ reading practices, the statement that Codex VII “belongs to the fatherhood” might be taken to indicate that the codex belonged to the abbot, and that it was he who controlled its use in the monastery. Considering the nature of Codex VII, perhaps it was even meant for his eyes only, as its contents might conceivably

of the Egypt Exploration Fund, the Cairo Museum and Others, (London: Kegan Paul, 1902), 48, 49, 52; Walter C. Till, Die koptischen Ostraka der Papyrussammlung der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek: Texte, Übersetzungen, Indices (DÖAW.PH 78.1; Graz: Hermann Böhlaus Nachf., 1960), O. Vind. Copt. nos. 169, 171, 184, 189, 197, 201, 202, 203, 223, 227, 228, 235, 238, 241, 244, 253, 258, 276, 281, 287, 292, 295, 299, 303, 314, 347, 349, 353, 356, 386 (on no. 292, cf. Harrauer, “Bücher in Papyri,” 71, No. 29). In the voluminous ostraca letters from the monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, the term “fatherhood” (ⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ) is used especially often to address a monastic superior (“Your fatherhood …”). See Crum and Evelyn White, Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, nos. 127, 129, 131, 141, 146, 163, 168, 172, 175, 180, 190, 217, 219, 223, 225, 227, 241, 243, 253, 256, 263, 266, 268, 269, 277, 279, 281, 296, 299, 300, 301, 312, 319, 323, 327, 328, 330, 336, 337, 342, 354, 415, 431, 432, 433, 436, 449, 480, 482, 483, 489, 501. The equivalent Greek term, πατριότης, is found in the Melitian monastic documents published by Bell (see Jews and Christians, 77). 17 O. Mon. Epiph. 175: [ⲁⲣⲓⲧⲁ]ⲅⲁⲡⲏ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ϫⲟⲟⲩϥ ⲉⲛϩⲉⲧ ⲁⲧⲉⲧⲛⲣ̣[ … ] ⲛ̄ⲛⲁ’ ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲁⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲉⲃⲓⲏⲛ

ⲡϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ ⲡⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ ⲉϥⲉⲥⲙⲟⲩ ⲉⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲛ︤ϥ︥ⲣ̄ⲡⲛⲁ’ ⲛ︤ⲙ︥ⲙⲏⲧ︤ⲛ︥ ⲛ̄ⲑⲉ ⲉⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲉⲓⲣⲉ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲥ ⲛ︤ⲙ︥ⲙⲁⲓ̈ ⲕⲱ ⲛⲁⲓ̈ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ϭ︤ⲛ︥ⲟⲩⲗⲁⲁⲩ ⲛ̄ⲧ︤ⲛ︥ϫⲟⲟⲩϥ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲉⲓⲱⲧ ⲉⲓⲥ ⲛⲉⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲁⲛⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲛⲟⲟⲩⲥⲉ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲙⲛ︤ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ ⲁⲣⲓⲧⲁⲅⲁⲡⲏ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲣ̄ⲡⲛⲁ’ ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲉⲛⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲉⲗⲁⲭ, ⲟⲩϫⲁⲓ̈ ϩ︤ⲛ︥ⲓ︤ⲥ︥ ⲉⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ⲟⲩⲟϫ ⲉⲡⲉⲓⲣⲁⲙⲟⲥ ⲛⲓⲙ ⲉⲧⲉⲧ︤ⲛ︥ϣⲗⲏⲗ ⲉϫⲱⲛ ⳁ ⲧⲁⲁⲥ ⲛ̄ⲛⲉϫⲓⲥⲟⲟⲩⲉ ⲁⲡⲁ ⲉⲓⲱⲧ ⲓ̈ⲱϩⲁⲛⲛⲏⲥ ⲙⲛⲁⲡⲁ ⲉⲛⲱⲭ (Crum and Evelyn White, Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, 2:50).

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have been regarded as too advanced, perhaps even too dangerous, for the common monk to read.18

The Scribe and His Community: Codex II A colophon that displays points of contact with monastic culture can also be found on the final page of Codex II. What we have here is the subscript title of the final tractate (the Book of Thomas) followed by a colophon. The lines of the title and colophon are centered on the page and separated from each other and from the main text by horizontal strokes: ⲡϫⲱⲙⲉ ⲛ̄ⲑⲱⲙⲁⲥ ⲡ̣ⲁⲑⲗⲏⲧⲏⲥ ⲉϥⲥϩⲁⲓ̈ ⲛ̣̄ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲗⲉⲓⲟⲥ19

The Book of Thomas. The athlete writes to the perfect ones.

Further down the page, separated from the previous text by two lines of horizontal strokes follow four additional lines of text surrounded by horizontal and vertical strokes: ⲁⲣⲓⲡⲁⲙⲉⲉⲩⲉ ϩⲱ ⲛⲁⲥⲛⲏⲩ ϩ̣[ⲛ̄]ⲛⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲡⲣⲟⲥⲉⲩⲭⲏ⳿ ⲉ[ⲓ]ⲣⲏⲛⲏ ⲧⲟⲓⲥ ⲁⲅⲓⲟⲓⲥ ⲙⲛ̄ⲛⲓⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁⲧⲓⲕⲟⲥ20

Remember me also, my brothers, in your prayers. Peace to the holy ones and the spiritual ones.

It is not entirely clear where the title of the final tractate of the codex ends and the colophon begins, as both title and colophon are formatted in the same way, a feature that, although it may seem confusing to us, is not unique to the Nag Hammadi Codices.21 This way of formatting has, however, led scholars to regard the first three lines as the full title of the tractate (the Book of Thomas the Contender writing to the Perfect). It is clear that the first line contains the title proper: ⲡϫⲱⲙⲉ ⲛ̄ⲑⲱⲙⲁⲥ (the Book of Thomas),22 but it is less clear who the “athlete” who writes to “the perfect ones” is or whether these lines are also part of the title.23 18

Cf. H. Chadwick, “Domestication of Gnosis,” 16. Thom. Cont. 145.17–19 (Bentley Layton, ed., and John D. Turner, trans., “The Book of Thomas the Contender,” in Nag Hammadi Codex II,2–7 Together with XIII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or.4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655 [2 vols.; ed. Bentley Layton; NHS 20–21. Leiden: Brill, 1989], 2:204). 20 Thom. Cont. 145.20–23 (Layton and Turner, “Book of Thomas,” 2:204). 21 See, e. g., the subtitle of Deuteronomy and the following colophon in BL Or. 7594 (E. A. Wallis Budge, Coptic Biblical Texts in the Dialect of Upper Egypt [vol. 2 of Coptic Texts: Edited with Introductions and English Translations; London: British Museum, 1912], plate 4, facing p. 114), a codex that is in several respects quite similar to Nag Hammadi Codex II (see further discussion in chapter eight). 22 Thom. Cont. 145.17. 23 Thom. Cont. 145.18–19. 19

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Fig. 18. Nag Hammadi Codex II.145 with colophon.

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The “athlete” who wrote the text is probably not to be identified with Thomas himself, since the beginning of the tractate specifies that the dialogue between Jesus and Thomas was written down by a certain Mathaias.24 The “athlete” may therefore refer to Mathaias. It may also be that these two lines do not go back to the composition of the Book of Thomas, and do not refer to the contents of that text. If so, then the “athlete” who “writes to the perfect ones” could be understood as the scribe who copied the text, either in Codex II or at a previous stage in its transmission. The “perfect ones,” then, who are the stated recipients of the text, would refer to the intended monastic readers.25 It is worth noting that both the terms “athlete,”26 and “perfect” (ⲧⲉⲗⲉⲓⲟⲥ) are commonly used of monks.27 It is also worth noting that some patristic authors state that apocryphal literature should be read only by “the perfect,” that is, by spiritually mature persons.28 Although scholars agree that the final four lines should be understood as a colophon, Khosroyev has argued that the Greek language and dative declension used in its third line (ⲉ[ⲓ]ⲣⲏⲛⲏ ⲧⲟⲓⲥ ⲁⲅⲓⲟⲓⲥ, “Peace to the holy ones”) indicate that the entire colophon must have been present already in the Greek Vorlage, and should therefore not be understood as direct evidence of the scribe and community of Codex II. Yet this explanation does not take into account the extensive evidence for bilingualism in Egypt, especially in formulaic phrases.29 The phrase 24 Thom. Cont. 138.1–4. Mathaias may be identified with the Matthias named as Judas Iscariot’s replacement in Acts 1:21–26, or perhaps with the evangelist Matthew. 25 We thus read ⲡ̣ⲁⲑⲗⲏⲧⲏⲥ ⲉϥⲥϩⲁⲓ̈ ⲛ̣̄ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲗⲉⲓⲟⲥ as a second present, placing focus on “the perfect ones” as the intended readers of the text. 26 E. g., G1 22 (Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 14), where both Antony and Pachomius are called “athlete of the truth” (ἀληθείας ἀθλητής); in Hist. mon. U., Apa Aaron is addressed as an “athelete of Christ” (41b); Antony is referred to as an ἀθλητής by Athanasius, Vit Ant. 10. The metaphor of the athlete is indeed ubiquitous in early Christian writings (see, e. g., PGL, 46a). 27 E. g., G1 136. In the Pachomian corpus, Pachomius himself is described as a “perfect monk” (SBo 3, G1 2, 98; cf. also SBo 194; G1 91, 106, 118), “perfect father” (SBo 204, 205), or “perfect man” (SBo 29, 128, 193); other monks are described as “perfect” or as having achieved perfection (SBo 60, 79, 199, 202; G1 54, 129; cf. G1 84, 99, 107); Christ is referred to as “the perfect man” (SBo 103, quoting Eph 4:13); a distinction is made between perfect monks and those who have not yet attained perfection (SBo 27, 107; G1 32, 126); reference is made to perfection as the goal of the monastic life (SBo 134; G1 120, 136), and to perfect and less perfect souls (SBo 82, 142). See also Horsiesios, Testament, 20. In the Life of Onnophrius, the elders of the monastery are referred to as “these perfect ones of God” (ⲛⲉⲓⲧⲉⲗⲓⲟⲥ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲡⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ), who are “as perfect as the angels of the Lord are perfect” (9a and 7a; Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 212, 210). One of the inscriptions on the walls of the White Monastery published by Crum also refer to “the perfect monk” (ⲡⲙⲟⲛⲁⲭⲟⲥ ⲛⲧⲉⲗⲓⲟⲥ) (Crum, “Inscriptions,” 563). Cf. also PGL, 1380b–1381a. 28 See Philastrius of Brescia, Diversorum hereseon liber, 88: “Scripturae autem absconditae, id est apocryfa, etsi legi debent morum causa a perfectis, non ab omnibus legi debent, quia non intellegentes multa addiderunt et tulerunt quae uoluerunt heretici.” (F. Heylen, Filastrius Brixiensis: Diversorum hereseon liber [CCSL 9; Turnhout: Brepols, 1957]). Cf. Rose, Ritual Memory, 45–46. 29 On Greek and Coptic bilingualism generally, see Fournet, “Multilingual Environment,” esp. 438, with an image of P. Amh. II 145; Clackson, “Coptic or Greek.” For examples similar to what we find in the Codex II colophon, see, e. g., Bagnall, Everyday Writing, 87 (Coptic let-

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ⲉ[ⲓ]ⲣⲏⲛⲏ ⲧⲟⲓⲥ ⲁⲅⲓⲟⲓⲥ was a common blessing that would have been understood by Christian Coptophones without translation. Considering how lines 1, 2, and 4 are in Coptic, and how line 3 has been integrated into the whole, there is no need to presuppose a Greek Vorlage which was only partially translated into Coptic. We find the same phenomenon in Codex I at the end of the Prayer of the Apostle Paul, where the phrase ⲉⲛ ⲉⲓⲣⲏⲛⲏ̣ (“in peace”) follows the title, boxed in by decoration. Below this blessing appears more elaborate decoration and crosses, including two cruces ansatae, and the phrase ⲟ ⳩ ⲁⲅⲓⲟⲥ, “Christ is Holy.” Greek phrases such as these could be used interchangeably with Coptic ones in texts composed entirely in Coptic,30 and it is not unusual to find Greek phrases in colophons of Coptic manuscripts even as late as the medieval period.31 Leaving aside the question of the mixture of Greek and Coptic, the formulae found in the colophons of Codices II and I are well attested in colophons in Christian literary manuscripts as well as in monastic documentary papyri and graffiti from Egypt. The phrase “peace to the holy ones and the spiritual ones” has an especially close parallel in the Greek Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex, where the colophon following the Apology of Phileas reads “Peace to all the holy ones” (ⲓⲣⲏⲛⲏ ⲧⲟⲓⲥ ⲁⲅⲉⲓⲟⲓⲥ ⲡⲁⲥⲉⲓ), followed by a crux ansata like those in Codex I. Similar colophons pronouncing blessings of peace upon the scribe and reader are found four other times in the same codex, as well as in the Coptic biblical codex BL Or. 7594.32 ters from the Paieous archive [ed. Bell, Jews and Christians]: P. Lond. VI 1920 with formulaic address in Greek; P. Lond. VI 1921 with final greeting in Greek), 88 (Coptic letters from the Nepheros archive: P. Neph. 15 with address in Greek; P. Neph. 16 with final greeting in Greek. Bagnall concludes that “In formulaic epistolary elements, then, there is fairly ready movement from one language to the other”), 89 (letter from the supposed archive of John of Lycopolis [P. Amh. II 145] in Greek with subscription in Coptic [though in this case, two different hands may be involved]), 91–92 (bilingual ostraca from the monastery of Bawit [ed. Anne Boud’hors, Ostraca grecs et coptes de Baouit (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 2004)]), 92–94 (bilingual letters from Kellis, dated by their editors to the second half of the fourth century [ed. Iain Gardner, Antony Alcock, and Wolf-Peter Funk, Coptic Documentary Texts from Kellis: Volume 1: P. Kell. V (P. Kell. Copt. 10–52; O. Kell. Copt. 1–2) (Dakhleh Oasis Project: Monograph 9; Oxford: Oxbow: 1999)]), all with formulaic addresses and some final greetings in Greek, a phenomenon that Bagnall calls “a striking form of written code switching” (ibid., 80). 30 E. g., Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 374 = HB 37 = YU 33 (Cristea, Schenute, 160), where Shenoute uses both the Greek ⲥⲱⲙⲁ ⲭⲣⲓⲥⲧⲟⲩ ⲁⲓⲙⲁ ⲭⲣⲓⲥⲧⲟⲩ, and the Coptic ⲡⲉϥⲥⲱⲙⲁ and ⲡⲉϥⲥⲛⲟϥ. 31 E. g., BnF Copte 1616 f. 42: ⲧⲟⲩ ⲙⲟⲛⲁⲥⲧⲏⲣⲓⲟⲩ ⲁⲅⲓⲟⲩ ⲡⲁⲧⲣⲟⲥ ⲉⲙⲱⲛ ⲁⲃⲃⲁ ⲥⲉⲛⲟⲩⲑⲓⲟⲩ ⲁⲣⲭⲏⲙⲁⲛⲇⲣⲓⲧⲟⲩ. As Frederik Wisse points out, “Particularly in colophons Greek phrases remained in use long after the Greek influence on the Coptic church had ceased” (“Language Mysticism,” 104). 32 The three colophons that follow the Nativity of Mary and 1 and 2 Peter respectively, in the Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex, all read: ⲉⲓⲣⲏⲛⲏ ⲧⲱ ⲅⲣⲁⲯⲁⲛⲧⲓ ⲕⲁⲓ ⲧⲱ ⲁⲛⲁⲅⲓⲛⲱⲥⲕⲟⲛⲧⲓ, while the colophon at the end of Melito, Peri Pascha, reads: ⲓⲣⲏⲛⲏ ⲧⲱ ⲅⲣⲁⲯⲁⲛⲧⲓ ⲕⲁⲓ ⲧⲱ ⲁⲛⲁⲅⲓⲛⲱⲥⲕⲟⲛⲧⲓ ⲕⲁⲓ ⲧⲟⲓⲥ ⲁⲅⲁⲡⲱⲥⲓ ⲧⲟⲛ ⲕ︤ⲛ︥ ⲉⲛ ⲁⲫⲉⲗⲟⲧⲏⲧⲓ ⲕⲁⲣⲇⲓⲁⲥ (cf. Kim Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmitters of Early Christian Literature [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000], 101). The colophon after Deuteronomy in BL Or. 7594 reads: ⲉⲓⲣⲏⲛⲏ ⲧⲱ ⲅⲣⲁⲯⲁⲛⲧⲓ

The Scribe and His Community: Codex II

Fig. 19. Nag Hammadi Codex I.B with colophon.

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Chapter 7: The Colophons

Requests for remembrance like the one in Codex II are common in colophons of Coptic literary manuscripts,33 as well as in ostraca,34 graffiti,35 and papyri.36 For example, a monk named Hatre from “the island of Pahom” (ϩⲁⲧⲣⲉ ⲡⲣⲙ̄ⲛ̄ⲧⲙⲟⲩ ⲙ̄ⲡⲁϩⲱⲙ) writing a letter to “his father Paeiew” and the brothers of the Hathormonastery (dated palaeographically to the mid-fourth century), asks them to “remember me also and pray for me” (ⲁⲣⲓⲡⲁ[ⲙⲉ]ⲉⲩⲉ ϩⲱⲱ ⲛⲅ̄ⲧⲱ[ⲃ]ϩ̄ ⲉϫⲱⲉⲓ).37 Requests to be remembered in prayer appear in monastic literary sources as well. In the Bohairic Life of Pachomius, when Theodore and some of the brothers conclude a visit with Archbishop Athanasius, they ask him to “remember us in your holy prayers” (ⲁⲣⲓⲡⲉⲛⲙⲉⲩϊ ϩⲉⲛⲛⲉⲕϣⲗⲏⲗ ⲉⲑⲟⲩⲁⲃ).38 The references to “the perfect ones” (ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲗⲉⲓⲟⲥ) and “the spiritual ones” (ⲛⲓⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁⲧⲓⲕⲟⲥ) also resonate with Pachomian monastic culture as we know it from the literary sources. According to the Life of Pachomius, becoming “perfect” is the goal of the monastic life, and those in whom the Spirit of God resides are “perfect men” (ϩⲉⲛⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲗⲓ̈ⲟⲥ).39 In the Pachomian communities, being “perfect” and “spiritual” were nearly synonymous. Pachomius’ successor Horsiesios was remembered for teaching that “the governance of souls is not for everyone, but only for perfect (τελείων) men,”40 and the fathers appointed by Pachomius over each of the monasteries were “spiritual ones” (πνευματικοὶ), who could read Pachomius’ letters written in a cryptic, spritual language.41 Moreover, ⲕⲁⲓ ⲧⲱ ⲁⲛⲁⲅⲓⲛⲱⲥⲕⲟⲛⲧⲓ (Budge, Coptic Biblical Texts, 113 and plate 4 facing p. 114). On BL Or. 7594 see further discussion in chapter eight. 33 E. g., the colophon of BL Or. 7025, from the monastery of Mercurius at Edfu, written by the scribe Theopistos in the year 982: “Remember me in love, everyone who will read in this book” (ⲁⲣⲓⲡⲁⲙⲉⲉⲩⲉ ⲛⲁⲅⲁⲡⲏ ⲟⲩⲟⲛ ⲛⲓⲙ ⲉⲧⲛⲁⲱϣ ϩⲙ̄ⲡⲉⲓϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ; Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 248). In a colophon following a Discourse on Saint Michael the Archangel attributed to archbishop Timothy II of Alexandria in a codex from the same discovery, BL Or. 7029, dating to 992, we find: “Remember me in love, my fathers and my brothers. Behold my repentance. Pray to the Lord on my behalf” (ⲁⲣⲓⲡⲁⲙⲉⲉⲩⲉ ⲛⲁⲅⲁⲡⲏ· ⲛⲁⲉⲓⲟⲧⲉ· ⲙⲛ̄ⲛⲁⲥⲛⲏⲩ· ⲉⲓⲥ ⲧⲁⲙⲉⲧⲁⲛⲟⲓⲁ· ⲛⲧⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲧⲃϩ̄·ⲡϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ ⲉϫⲱⲓ· [Budge, Miscellaneous Texts, 524]). See also the colophon of White Monastery fragment BnF Copte 1616 f. 42: ⲁⲣⲓⲡⲁⲙⲉⲉⲩⲉ ⲛⲁⲅⲁⲡⲏ ⲛⲧⲉⲧⲛϣⲗⲏⲗ ⲉϫⲱϥ ⲛⲧⲉⲡⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ ⲉⲣⲟⲩ ⲛⲁⲙⲛⲧⲁⲯⲩⲭⲏ ⲛⲉⲃⲓⲏⲛ. 34 E. g., Till, Die koptischen Ostraka, O. Vind. Copt. 171, 204, 221, 281. 35 Inscriptions with similar formulae have been found in the Wadi Sheikh Ali, in the vicinity of Faw Qibli and thus close to the discovery sites of both the Nag Hammadi and Dishna codices (see M. W. Meyer, “Archaeological Survey,” esp. 78–80). Some of the inscriptions from the walls of the White Monastery church also contain similar phrases, e. g., “remember me in love, my fathers and my brothers” (ⲁⲣⲓⲡⲁⲙⲉⲉⲩ ⲛⲁⲅⲁⲡⲉ ⲛⲁⲓⲱⲧⲉ ⲙⲛⲛⲁⲥⲛⲏⲩ) (A8 [Crum, “Inscriptions,” 561]. See also A9 and B28 [Crum, “Inscriptions,” 562 and 567]). Similar formulae are found in graffiti on the walls of churches, monasteries, and caves all over Egypt (cf. chapter 2 above). 36 P. Lond. VI 1920, 1921 (Bell, Jews and Christians, 92, 95). 37 P. Lond. VI 1920 (Bell, Jews and Christians, 92). 38 Lefort, Vita Bohairice Scripta, 201,22–23 (Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:253). 39 SBo 142 (Lefort, Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 277); cf. SBo 3, 27, 29, 82, 128, 193, 199; G1 2, 49, 54, 91, 98, 99, 118, 136. 40 G1 126 (Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 386) 41 G1 99 (Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 66–67).

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when dealing with the correction of a wayward monk, Pachomius acted in accordance with the Apostle Paul’s exhortation (Gal 6:1), “you who are spiritual (πνευματικοὶ) should set him straight with a gentle spirit.”42 Palladius too mentions “the spiritual” and “perfect” among the Pachomians in his Lausiac History, noting that only “the spiritual ones” (τῶν πνευματικῶν) understood the special symbols that Pachomius used to characterize different classes of monks,43 and that the monastic Rule was necessary only for those who lacked true knowledge, since “those who are perfect (οἱ τέλειοι) need no rule.”44 Shenoute, whose monasticism was not far removed from that of the Pachomians, says that “a spiritual man” (ⲟⲩⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲙ̄ⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁⲧⲓⲕⲟⲥ) is one who knows the ways of the demons.45 The “holy” and “spiritual ones” blessed by the scribe of Codex II may thus be identified with the “brothers” by whom he wants to be remembered. As we have seen, references to spiritual brothers are also found among the monastic cartonnage fragments from Codex VII, with fragment C3 refering to “brothers in the spirit” (ϩⲛ̄ⲥⲛⲏⲩ ϩⲙ̄ⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁ).46 The terminology used in the colophon of Codex II is therefore wholly intelligible within a monastic setting. As we have seen in the case of “fatherhood” mentioned in the colophon of Codex VII, the references to “the perfect”, “holy,” and “spiritual” ones in Codex II may imply that the scribe intended the codex to be read by more mature and advanced monks, those with a higher level of spiritual discernment, which would make sense given its complicated contents.

The Scribe and His Spiritual Name: Codex III In Codex III we find a colophon already after the second tractate, entitled the Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit (also known by its secondary title, the Gospel of the Egyptians). It reads: ⲡⲉⲩⲁⲅⲅⲉⲗⲓⲟⲛ ⲛ̄ⲣ︤ⲙ︥ⲛ̄ⲕⲏⲙⲉ ⲧⲃⲓⲃⲗⲟⲥ ⲛ̄ⲥϩⲁⲓ̈ The Egyptian Gospel. The book of divine ⲛ̄ⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ ⲧϩⲓⲉⲣⲁ ⲉⲧϩⲏⲡ ⲧⲉⲭⲁⲣⲓⲥ ⲧⲥⲩⲛϩⲉⲥⲓⲥ writing, the secret holy one. May grace, intelⲧⲉⲥⲑⲏⲥⲓⲥ ⲧⲉⲫⲣⲟⲛⲏⲥⲓⲥ ligence, perception, and prudence be with him 42

SBo 106. Palladius, Hist. Laus. 32.5 (Butler, Lausiac History, 2:91). 44 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 32.7 (Butler, Lausiac History, 2:93; trans. R. T. Meyer, Palladius, 94). 45 Shenoute, A Beloved Asked Me Years Ago, XH 14 (Klaus Koschorke, Stefan Timm, and Frederik Wisse, “Schenute: De Certamine Contra Diabolum,” OrChr 59 [1975]: 70); cf. Goehring, Letter of Ammon, 199, 203). 46 Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 133, and the image in Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Cartonnage, 55 no. 100c. The scribal hand of this piece, which is of a more literary character than the other cartonnage letters, is also similar to the Nag Hammadi hands and the scribal hand of the fragments of a Genesis codex (C2) (Barns, Browne, and Shelton, Greek and Coptic Papyri, 124–32, and the image in the Facsimile Edition: Cartonnage, 47–50 no. 89c–93c). See further discussion of the cartonnage fragments in chapters two and five, and of fragment C2 in chapter eight. 43

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Fig. 20. Nag Hammadi Codex III.69 with colophon.

The Scribe and His Spiritual Name: Codex III

ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲡⲉⲣ̄ⲥϩⲏⲧ︤ⲥ︥· ⲉⲩⲅⲛⲱⲥⲧⲟⲥ ⲡⲁⲅⲁⲡⲏⲧⲓⲕⲟⲥ ϩ︤ⲙ︥ⲡⲉⲡ︤ⲛ︦ⲁ︥ ϩ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲥⲁⲣⲝ· ⲡⲁⲣⲉⲛ ⲡⲉ ⲅⲟⲅⲅⲉⲥⲥⲟⲥ ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ⲛⲁϣⲃ︤ⲣ︥ⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓⲛ ϩ︤ⲛ︥ⲟⲩⲁⲫⲑⲁⲣⲥⲓⲁ ⲓ︤ⲥ︥ ⲡⲉⲭ︤ⲥ︥ ⲡϣⲏⲣⲉ ⲙ̄ⲡⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ ⲡⲥⲱⲧⲏⲣ ⲓ︤ⲭ︦ⲑ︦ⲩ︦ⲥ︥ ⲑⲉⲟⲅⲣⲁⲫⲟⲥ ⲧⲃⲓⲃⲗⲟⲥ ⲧϩⲓⲉⲣⲁ ⲙ̄ⲡⲛⲟϭ ⲛ̄ⲁϩⲟⲣⲁⲧⲟⲛ ⲙ̄ⲡ︤ⲛ︦ⲁ︥ ϩⲁⲙⲏⲛ47

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who copied it, Eugnostos the affectionate in the Spirit – in the flesh my name is Gongessos – and with my fellow lights in incorruptibility. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, Savior, divinely written ⲓ︤ⲭ︦ⲑ︦ⲩ︦ⲥ︥.48 The Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit. Amen.

After the colophon appears a repetition of the tractate’s title (The Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit, Amen”), decorated and set apart from the main text like the rest of the titles in Codex III. Was the colophon composed by the scribe of Codex III or was it already present in the exemplar from which he copied the Gospel of the Egyptians? Since the colophon does not seem to be an integral part of the Gospel of the Egyptians on a compositional level,49 and is absent from the copy of this text found in Nag Hammadi Codex IV,50 it appears to be the creation of a scribe at some stage of the text’s transmission. That stage might well be close to the copying of Codex III, if indeed the colophon was not composed by the scribe of Codex III himself.51 47 Gos. Eg. III 69.6–17; Alexander Böhlig and Frederik Wisse, Nag Hammadi Codices III,2 and VI,2: The Gospel of the Egyptians (The Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit) [NHS 4; Leiden: Brill, 1975], 166. 48 Previous translators assume that ⲑⲉⲟⲅⲣⲁⲫⲟⲥ refers to the following book (ⲧⲃⲓⲃⲗⲟⲥ), and so translate “God-written (is) the Holy Book …” (Böhlig and Wisse, Gospel of the Egyptians, 166). We, however, read ⲑⲉⲟⲅⲣⲁⲫⲟⲥ with the immediately preceding acrostic ⲓ︤ⲭ︦ⲑ︦ⲩ︦ⲥ︥. Thus “Jesus Christ, the Son of God, Savior” is written in a divine way as ⲓ︤ⲭ︦ⲑ︦ⲩ︦ⲥ︥ (ⲓⲏⲥⲟⲩⲥ ⲭⲣⲓⲥⲧⲟⲥ ⲑⲉⲟⲩ ⲩⲓⲟⲥ ⲥⲱⲧⲏⲣ), and no gloss is required in the following title (“The Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit”). 49 Contrast the opinion of Khosroyev, “Zur Frage nach Eugnostos in Codex III von Nag Hammadi,” in The Nag Hammadi Texts in the History of Religions: Proceedings of the International Conference at the Royal Academy of Sciences and Letters in Copenhagen, September 19–24, 1995. On the Occasion of the 50th Anniversary of the Nag Hammadi Discovery (ed. Søren Giversen, Tage Petersen, and Jørgen Podemann Sørensen; Det Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab: Historisk-Filosofiske Skrifter 26; Copenhagen: C. A. Reitzel, 2002), 24–34), that the colophon goes back to the compositional stage of the Greek original. Khosroyev argues that it is an integral part of the tractate itself, written by its author, and suggests on the basis of the name “Eugnostos” in the colophon of Gos. Eg. and the title of Eugnostos that Gos. Eg. and Eugnostos were composed by one and the same author. He accounts for the differences in style and contents between the two tractates by postulating different intended audiences (ibid., 28–29). 50 Böhlig and Wisse, Gospel of the Egyptians, 167. 51 Böhlig and Wisse maintain that the colophon was already present in the Greek Vorlage due to the fact that it “has the typical style of an interlinear version,” i. e., ⲧⲃⲓⲃⲗⲟⲥ ⲧϩⲓⲉⲣⲁ is a “word for word” translation of ἡ βίβλοϛ ἡ ἱερά in which the feminine definite article was retained (Gospel of the Egyptians, 23). Paulinus Bellet, however, offers convincing proof “that the colophon in this case could have been conceived in Coptic” (Bellet, “Colophon,” 48–49). Bellet concludes that the scribe of Codex III probably copied the colophon from his exemplar, and that Gongessos/Eugnostos was the name of a previous copyist or translator of Gos. Eg. (from Greek to Coptic) who composed the colophon. Bellet was led to this conclusion by the fact that the second sigma in the name Gongessos is written above the line, as if a correction,

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The colophon’s identification of the copyist as “Eugnostos the affectionate” (ⲉⲩⲅⲛⲱⲥⲧⲟⲥ ⲡⲁⲅⲁⲡⲏⲧⲓⲕⲟⲥ) is conspicuous in light of the fact that his name is nearly identical to the purported author of the following tractate, “Eugnostos the blessed” (ⲉⲩⲅⲛⲱⲥⲧⲟⲥ ⲡⲙⲁⲕⲁⲣⲓⲟⲥ). We see four main scenarios that could account for the fact that the name Eugnostos is found in both the colophon and the title of the following tractate, Eugnostos the Blessed. On the one hand, if the colophon was already present in the exemplar from which the scribe of Codex III copied the Gospel of the Egyptians, then 1) the exemplar might have already contained the sequence of texts the Gospel of the Egyptians, the colophon (composed by an earlier scribe), and Eugnostos the Blessed; or 2) the appearance of the name Eugnostos in the colophon might have inspired the scribe of Codex III to copy the tractate Eugnostos the Blessed after it, to create the appearance of continuity between the two texts.52 On the other hand, if the scribe of Codex III composed the colophon himself, then 3) he may have been inspired to adopt the spiritual name Eugnostos from the eponymous author of Eugnostos the Blessed, styling himself as yet another Eugnostos; or 4) as Michael Williams’ analysis implies, the scribe of Codex III did not actually go by the names Gongessos or Eugnostos, but composed the colophon pseudonymously in the name of Eugnostos so as to make it appear that the author of Eugnostos the Blessed was the same person responsible for transmitting the Gospel of the Egyptians.53 In any case, whether the colophon was already present in the exemplar used by the scribe of Codex III, or he wrote it himself, it has traits that resonate with Egyptian monastic culture. The invocation of “Jesus Christ, the Son of God, Savior” and use of the acrostic ⲓ︤ⲭ︦ⲑ︦ⲩ︦ⲥ︥ clearly marks the colophon and its author as Christian,54 and Gongessos’ reference to his “fellow lights” (ϣⲃ︤ⲣ︥ⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓⲛ) may echo the self-understanding of monks as being both illuminated and illuminators and maintains that it is hard to believe the scribe of Codex III would have mispelled his own name (ibid., 54). 52 This hypothesis would also account for the repetition of the title “The Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit.” The scribe copied the first instance of it as part of the colophon, and then repeated it as the treatise’s proper title, setting it apart from the colophon by spaces and decorative marks as he did with the other titles in the codex. 53 M. A. Williams, “Interpreting,” 22–24. According to Williams, “The scribe of Codex III apparently wants us to identify the ‘blessed’ Eugnostos of the third tractate with the ‘Eugnostos/ Concessus’ in the colophon to Gos. Eg., and imagine this figure as a wise man from some period between Seth and Christ” who prophesied Jesus’ arrival, as demonstrated in the final tractate, Soph. Jes. Chr. (ibid., 24). The colophon’s reference to Jesus would, then, appear prophetic rather than anachronistic. 54 On the early history of the ⲓ︤ⲭ︦ⲑ︦ⲩ︦ⲥ︥ acrostic, see Tuomas Rasimus, “Revisiting the ICHTHYS: A Suggestion Concerning the Origins of Christological Fish Symbolism,” in Mystery and Secrecy in the Nag Hammadi Collection and Other Ancient Literature: Ideas and Practices, Studies for Einar Thomassen at Sixty (ed. Christian H. Bull, Liv Ingeborg Lied, and John D. Turner; NHMS 76; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 327–48.

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of the world.55 Furthermore, the scribe’s rather unique claim to be in possession of two names, one fleshly and another spiritual, Gongessos “in the flesh” (ϩ︤ⲛ︥ⲧⲥⲁⲣⲝ) and Eugnostos “in the spirit” (ϩ︤ⲙ︥ⲡⲉⲡ︤ⲛ︦ⲁ︥), finds parallels in Egyptian monastic letters from the fourth century. The famous anchorite Antony, for example, wrote to his monastic children that “about your names in the flesh there is nothing to say; they will vanish. But if a man knows his true name he will also perceive the name of Truth.”56 Elsewhere in his letters he proclaims to them that “I do not need to call you by your names in the flesh, which are passing away.”57 Antony’s disciple, Ammonas, expands on the idea of double names even further in one of his letters, affirming that the new name one adopts after making spiritual progress is written on heavenly tablets: You know, my brothers, that whenever someone’s life changes, and he enters another life which is pleasing to God and greater than the previous one, his name will also be changed. For when our holy ancestors made progress, their appellations changed as well, and a new name was given to them, one written on the tablets of heaven. For when Sarah made progress it was said to her, “Your name shall not be called ‘Sara,’ but ‘Sarah,’” and to Abram, Abraham, and to Isac, Isaac, and to Jacob, Israel, and to Saul, Paul, and instead of Simon, Kephas, since indeed their lives had changed and they made progress beyond what they had been. Therefore you too, since you have added to your stature according to God, your name must necessarily change out of the progress according to God.58

As is evident from these examples in the letters of Antony and Ammonas, Gongessos’ two names, the one “in the flesh” and the other “in the spirit,” seem at home in this Egyptian monastic culture. 55 In G1 120, St. Antony is hailed as “the light (φῶς) of this whole world” by the Pachomian brothers. In SBo 133–34, it is predicted that Horsiesios “will become a great illuminator (ⲟⲩⲛⲟϭ ⲛ̄ⲣⲉϥⲣ̄ⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓⲛ) in the Koinonia,” and St. Antony and Archbishop Athanasius are called “these great illuminators (ⲛⲉⲓ̈ⲛⲟϭ ⲛ̄ⲣⲉϥⲣ̄ⲟⲩⲟⲉⲓⲛ)” (Lefort, Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 184–85). In SBo 204, a letter is quoted in which Athanasius describes Theodore to Horsiesios as follows: “Truly, when I saw your fellow-worker in the Lord, Theodore, who is filled with every divine virtue and radiates light (ⲉϥⲟⲓ ⲛ̄ⲟⲩⲱⲓⲛⲓ) among you, I also saw through his shining face the Lord of our father Pachomius within him” (Lefort, Vita Bohairice Scripta, 202; trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:253). See also Theodore, Instr. 3.8 (quoting Phil 2:15); Horsiesios, Test. 35, 55. A fragment describing the foundation of the White Monastery federation describes the early ascetics as follows: “perhaps the sun did not shine forth its rays like lightning into the distance to this extent as did the band of ascetics that shone in its way of ascetic life” (MONB-GE 111–20 = IT-NB IB2 ff. 8r–12v; trans. Layton, Canons of Our Fathers, 16). 56 Antony, Ep. 3.5 (trans. Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony, 206). 57 Antony, Ep. 5.1–2 (trans. Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony, 212); and 6.78: “there is no need to bless, nor to mention, your transient names in the flesh” (trans. Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony, 221). 58 Ammonas, Letter 5 (Greek), ed. François Nau, Ammonas, successeur de Saint Antoine: Textes Grecs et Syriaques (Patrologia Orientalis 11:4; Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1915), 446–47. The Greek version of Letter 5 parallels Syriac Letter 11, but the first paragraph of the Greek letter, translated here, does not appear in the Syriac version. This idea may be related to the story of Horsiesios’ name being changed to “the Israelite” in the Pachomian Lives (SBo 132–33, 201; G1 120).

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The Scribe and His Codes: Cryptography Another feature found in the Nag Hammadi Codices that resonates with monastic culture is the use of cryptograms. The scribes of Nag Hammadi Codices VII and VIII employed forms of cryptography that are known to have been used by Egyptian monks of this period. One cryptogram appears on the lines directly below the subscript title of the tractate Zostrianos in Codex VIII: ⲟ︤ⲗ︦ⲍ︥ ⲗ︤ϥ︥ ⲑ︤ⲟ︦ⲃ︥ ⲁ︤ⲉ︦ϥ︥ ⲑ̣︤ⲱ̣︦ⲅ︥ ⲥ︤ⲱ︦ⲧ︥ ⲥ︤ⲱ︦ϯ︥ ⲩ︤ⲣ︦ϥ︦ⲑ︥ ⲛ︤ⲗ︦ⲭ︥ ⲁ︤ⲉ︦ⲗ︦ⲱ̣︦ⲑ︦ⲟ︦ⲃ︦ⲁ︦ⲉ︦ϥ︥· ⲑ︤ⲱ︥ ⲟ︤ⲗ︦ⲍ︥ ⲧ︤ⲥ︦ⲗ︦ⲑ︦ⲱ︦ⲯ︥ [ⲗ︤ⲭ︥]

This cryptogram has been deciphered by scholars as “Oracles of Truth of Zostrianos. God of Truth. Teachings of Zoroaster.”59 Numerologically based cryptography of this sort is well attested from Egyptian monastic sources.60 Parallel examples can be found in graffiti,61 ostraca, and wooden boards from monastic contexts,62 as well as in the colophons of Coptic literary texts in which scribes wrote their names in an encrypted way.63 A more perplexing cryptogram appears in Codex VII in the space between the Teachings of Silvanus (VII,4) and the Three Steles of Seth (VII,5).64 It reads: ——————— ⲫ ⲫ ⲓ̈ⲭⲑⲩⲥ ⲑⲁⲩⲙⲁ ⲏⲏⲏ ⲫ ⲁⲙⲏⲭⲁⲛⲟⲛ ⟀ ⲧ ⲩ ———————

The words ⲓ̈ⲭⲑⲩⲥ ⲑⲁⲩⲙⲁ ⲁⲙⲏⲭⲁⲛⲟⲛ are easily understood: “Jesus Christ Son of God Savior, extraordinary wonder,” but the rest of the note must be desciphered. So far, the most thorough and convincing treatment of this colophon is that of Michael Williams, who has suggested several plausible interpretations.65 Firstly, 59 Zost. 132.7–9 (Bentley Layton, ed., and John H. Sieber, trans., “Zostrianos,” in Nag Hammadi Codex VIII [ed. John H. Sieber; NHS 31; Leiden: Brill, 1991], 224–25). 60 See Jean Doresse, “Cryptography,” in The Coptic Encyclopedia (8 vols.; ed. Aziz S. Atiya; New York: Macmillan, 1991), 8:65–69. 61 See Wisse, “Language Mysticism,” 109, 112., 62 See Jacco Dieleman, “Cryptography at the Monastery of Deir el-Bachit,” in Honi Sunt Quit Mal Y Pense: Studien zum pharaonischen, griechisch-römischen und spätantiken Ägypten zu Ehren von Heinz-Josef Thissen (ed. Hermann Knuf, Christian Leitz, and Daniel von Recklinghausen; OLA 194; Leuven: Peeters, 2010), 511–17 and plates 91–92; Crum and Evelyn White, Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, 2:209 (no. 211), 228 (no. 281), 298 (no. 577). 63 This is the case with scribe Victor of the White Monastery, who wrote his name as a cryptogram in a codex dated by its colophon to 1112 (see Alin Suciu, “Coptic Scribes and Manuscripts: Dated and Datable Codices from the Monastery of Shenoute: I. The Codices Inscribed by Victor, Son of Shenoute (First Half of the 12th Century),” JCoptS 16 [2014]: 195–215, esp. 199–201). Numerous examples can be found in Lantschoot, Recueil des colophons, and Wisse, “Language Mysticism,” 107–11, 114–16. 64 NHC VII 117.8–9. 65 See M. A. Williams, “Interpreting,” 18–19.

The Scribe and His Codes: Cryptography

Fig. 21. Nag Hammadi Codex VII.118 with colophon.

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he suggested that the three ⲫ’s could stand for “light” (ⲫⲱⲥ) and the three ⲏ’s could stand for “sun” (ⲏⲗⲓⲟⲥ). As for the sign ⟀, Williams pointed out that it is identical to the common Greek tachygraphic sign for ⲁⲣⲁ, and is therefore not to be understood in terms of the early Christian use of the anchor symbol, which it resembles.66 Williams consequently found it most likely that ⟀ ⲧ ⲩ should be interpreted as a three-word phrase, and proposed many different solutions without deciding on one in particular.67 Assuming that the various characters were the initial letters of words he came up with suggestions as different as (ἄρα) τ(αῦτα) ὑ(πέγραψα): “so then I have added/copied these things”; (ἀρᾷ) τ(ῷ) ὑ(ιῷ): “a prayer to the Son”; and (ἀρά) τ(ῷ) ὑ(πογραψάντι): “a curse on the one who copies,” just to mention a few.68 The use of coded abbreviations is also found in contemporary Egyptian monastic literature. It is well know that Pachomius himself used the various letters of the alphabet in a cryptic way in several of his epistles.69 Since this “secret writing,” which remained an enigma to scholars for decades, has now to a significant extent been convincingly decoded by Christoph Joest,70 we may now also consider the possibility of reading the letters in Codex VII’s scribal note in light of the code used by Pachomius. According to Joest, the code-letter ⲫ in Pachomius’ letters stands for ⲫⲱⲥ, “light,”71 as Williams also proposed, but ⲏ stands for “Pascha,” “Easter,” and “resurrection,”72 rather than “sun.” As for the last two letters, ⲧ stands for the “cross” and “crucifixion,”73 and ⲩ stands for “Son” (υἱός).74 Read in this way, the note would first refer three times to “light,” thus conceivably signifying the Trinity; the three instances of ⲏ would refer to Easter or the resurrection, with the triple use perhaps signifying the three days 66 M. A. Williams, “Interpreting,” 18. Williams refers to Victor Gardthausen, Griechische Palaeographie (2 vols.; 2nd ed.; Leipzig: Veit & Comp., 1911–13), 2:339; and T. W. Allen, Notes on Abbreviations in Greek Manuscripts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1889), 8, plate II. 67 See M. A. Williams, “Interpreting,” 19. 68 M. A. Williams, “Interpreting,” 19. 69 We find such codes in Pachomius’ Letters (see Letter One, Two, Three, Six, Nine, and Eleven). These secret codes are also mentioned in the Life of Pachomius, where it is stated that the codes, referred to as a “secret spiritual language,” would be understood, and used, by the fathers of the Pachomian monasteries, since they were “spiritual men” (G1 99). Such codes are also found in Horsiesios, Test. 7 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 3:174). Cf. Palladius, Hist. Laus., 32.4–5. 70 Christoph Joest, “Die pachomianische Geheimschrift im Spiegel der Hieronymus-Übersetzung: Mit dem deutschen Text von Brief 11b des pachomianischen Schriftencorpus und dem Versuch einer Übertragung,” Mus 112 (1999): 21–46; Joest, “Die Pachom-Briefe 1 und 2: Auflösung der Geheimbuchstaben und Entdeckungen zu den Briefüberschriften,” JCoptS  4 (2002): 25–98. 71 Joest, “Die Pachom-Briefe,” 46–47. 72 Joest, “Die Pachom-Briefe,” 40–42. This meaning is based on the numerical value of ⲏ (8), in the sense of the eighth day, i. e., the day of the resurrection. 73 Joest, “Die Pachom-Briefe,” 43–44. 74 Joest, “Die Pachom-Briefe,” 61–62.

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between Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection; while the most plausible reading of ⟀ ⲧ ⲩ would seem to be: ⲁⲣⲁ, “cross,” and “Son,” i. e., something like “Therefore the Son was crucified.” This interpretation of ⟀ ⲧ ⲩ has the advantage of being compliant with a known code-system contemporary with the production of the codex, which was in use in a comparable, perhaps even the same, milieu. Although there is no way of testing the veracity of this interpretation, it does give us a reading that would likely correspond to the understanding of a fourth- or fifth-century reader familiar with Pachomius’ cryptography. The Easter theme of the note would also provide a fitting comment on the first four tractates of the codex. Whichever way we choose to interpret it, it is not difficult to agree with Williams that “the note as a whole seems understandable as the scribe’s comment on the mysteries about Christ conveyed by the first four tractates of the codex, and as a reverent transition to the book’s concluding doxology.”75

The Scribe and His Network: Codex VI In Nag Hammadi Codex VI we find a different type of scribal note, one that provides us with unparalleled insight into codex composition and networks of literary exchange. Both in form and content this is a rather unique piece of evidence, not only within the Nag Hammadi Codices, but even when we extend our view to all known ancient codices from Egypt. The scribe of Codex VI wrote what appears to be a brief letter into the codex itself, in order to inform the book’s recipients, whom he addresses in the second person plural, that he has included a certain treatise in the codex, and that he has many more texts at his disposal. The scribe set the note between the Prayer of Thanksgiving and the final treatise of the codex (Asclepius), and distinguished it visually from the regular text by writing it in a smaller hand and inside a frame resembling a tabula ansata. The note reads:76 ⲡⲓⲟⲩⲁ ⲙⲉⲛ ⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ ⲛ̄ⲧⲁⲉⲓⲥⲁϩϥ̄ ⲛ̄ⲧⲁϥ ⲁϩⲁϩ ⲅⲁⲣ ⲧⲟⲛⲱ ⲛ̄ⲧⲁϥⲉ︤ⲓ︥ ⲉⲧⲟⲟⲧ⳿ ⲙ̄ⲡⲓⲥⲁϩⲟⲩ ⲉⲓ̈ⲙⲉⲉⲩⲉ ϫⲉⲁⲩⲉⲓ ⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲧⲏⲛⲉ ⲕⲁⲓⲅⲁⲣ ϯⲇⲓⲥⲧⲁⲍⲉ ⲉⲓ̈ⲥϩⲁⲓ̈ ⲛ̄ⲛⲁⲓ̈ ⲛⲏⲧⲛ̄ ϫⲉⲙⲉϣⲁⲕ ⲁⲩⲉⲓ ⲉⲧⲛ̄ⲧⲏⲛⲉ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲡϩⲱⲃ ⲣ̄ϩ︤ⲓ︥ⲥⲉ ⲛⲏⲧⲛ̄· ⲉⲡⲓ ⲛⲁϣⲱⲟⲩ ⲅⲁⲣ ⲛ̄ϭⲓⲛ̄ⲗⲟⲅⲟⲥ ⲉⲧⲁⲩⲉⲓ ⲉⲧⲟⲟⲧ⳿ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲡⲏ̣

75

I have copied this one text of his. Indeed, very many of his (texts) have come to me. I have not copied them, thinking that they may (already) have come to you. For truly I hesitate to copy these ones for you since they may (already) have come to you, and the matter may burden you. For the texts of that one which have come to me are numerous.

M. A. Williams, “Interpreting,” 19. NHC VI 65.8–14; Coptic text in Douglas M. Parrott, “The Scribal Note: VI,7a: 65,8–14,” in Nag Hammadi Codices V, 2–5 and VI, with Papyrus Berolinensis 8502, 1 and 4 (ed. Douglas M. Parrott; NHS 11; Leiden: Brill, 1979), 392. 76

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Fig. 22. Nag Hammadi Codex VI.65 with scribal note.

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The note poses several problems of interpretation. To which treatise in the codex does “this one text” refer – the one which precedes the note (Prayer of Thanksgiving) or the one that follows (Asclepius)? To whom does the scribe refer when he speaks of this one text “of his,” while pointing out that he has many more from the same person?77 Which texts did the scribe hesitate to copy – the texts he did in fact include in the codex, or the many others he says he did not copy?78 What is the issue that the scribe thinks could be a burden on the recipients? And finally, what can we infer from the note concerning the relationship between the scribe and the recipients of the codex? The first of these questions has received the most attention by scholars, though no consensus has emerged as to which treatise “this one text” refers.79 Nevertheless, most agree that the note implies some kind of pre-arranged plan between the scribe and recipients for which texts were to be copied into the book, perhaps even in a specific sequence (as in Codex I), a plan which the scribe evidently decided to alter in the course of copying. It would otherwise be difficult to explain 77 “His” here and subsequently probably refers to the sage Hermes Trismegistus, to whom the texts before and after the note are attributed. Cf., e. g., Karl-Wolfgang Tröger, “Ein (hermetisches) Dankgebet,” in Nag Hammadi Deutsch (2 vols.; ed. Hans-Martin Schenke, HansGebhard Bethge, and Ursula Ulrike Kaiser; GCS Neue Folge 8, Koptisch-Gnostische Schriften 2; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2001, 2003), 2:525, n. 41, 42; Christoph Markschies, “Was wissen wir über den Sitz im Leben der apokryphen Evangelien?” in Jesus in apokryphen Evangelienüberlieferungen: Beiträge zu außerkanonischen Jesusüberlieferungen aus verschiedenen Sprach- und Kulturtraditionen (ed. Jörg Frey and Jens Schröter; WUNT 254; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 85–86; Jean-Pierre Mahé, Hermès en Haute-Égypte: Tome II: Le fragment du Discours parfait et les Définitions hermétique arméniennes (BCNH.T 7; Québec: Les presses de l’Université Laval, 1982), 58; Parrott, “Scribal Note,” 392. 78 Williams and Jenott maintain that “these ones” refer not to the texts which the scribe did copy, but to those he did not copy, i. e., those just mentioned in the previous sentence (and in contrast to the singular “this one text” that he says he did copy). Then by notifying the recipient, repeatedly in fact, about the many other texts he has, the scribe “tests the waters,” so to say, to see if they are interested in receiving more (“Inside the Covers of Codex VI,” in Coptica-Gnostica-Manichaica: Mélanges offerts à Wolf-Peter Funk [ed. Louis Painchaud and Paul-Hubert Poirier; BCNH.É 7; Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2006], 1042–43). However, “these ones” may also refer to Hermetic texts in general, including the ones copied by the scribe (see below). It all depends on the overall interpretation of the situation presupposed by the scribal note. 79 Both lack titles in the manuscript. Scholars in favor of seeing Asclepius (VI,8) as the treatise mentioned in the note include Jean Doresse, “Hermès et la Gnose: A propos de l’Asclepius copte,” NovT 1 (1956): 58–59; Martin Krause and Pahor Labib, Gnostische und hermetische Schriften aus Codex II und Codex VI (ADAI.K 2; Glückstadt: J. J. Augustin, 1971), 25; Mahé, Hermès en Haute-Égypte, 461–64; Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 10–13. Those in favor of Pr. Thanks. (VI,7) include Parrott, “Scribal Note,” 389–90; Williams and Jenott, “Inside the Covers,” 1035–43. Hans-Martin Schenke also argued that the note referred to what preceded, but understood it to mean Pr. Thanks. (VI,7) together with Disc. 8–9 (VI,6) (Schenke, “Rezension zu Alexandr Khosroyev: Die Bibliothek von Nag Hammadi. Einige Probleme des Christentums in Ägypten während der ersten Jahrhunderte,” JAC 40 [1997]: 239–41), a possibility also noted, and rejected, by Parrott, “Scribal Note,” 389–90.

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why the scribe felt compelled to write such a note in the first place in order to draw attention to the fact that he had copied “this one text.” What we would like to focus on, however, is what the note can tell us about the relationship between the scribe and the addressees. This question has received surprisingly little attention, but has the potential to tell us a lot about the people who produced and read the codex. It has been suggested that not only Codex VI, but all the Nag Hammadi Codices might have been produced by professional, paid scribes. In a recent article on “Manichaeism and Gnosticism in the Papyri,” Cornelia Römer concludes that the “scribes were most likely not trained for only one community but worked for whoever employed them.”80 However, it is important to observe that she is led to this conclusion by her commitment to the category of Gnosticism. On the one hand, she correctly observes that one cannot distinguish between Christian and so-called Gnostic papyri in terms of format (the codex) and style (including scribal practices such as nomina sacra). Yet, on the other hand, her analysis presupposes a strict sociological distinction between Christians and Gnostics as “competing and conflicting groups.” Thus she is led to the conclusion that the same scribes must have been employed by both groups. However, when one removes the category of Gnosticism from the analysis, the entire picture of the two opposing groups collapses. A commercial scenario is also implied by Khosroyev’s treatment of the scribal note. He suggests that the scribe writes to those who commissioned the codex in order to excuse himself for daring to add another text, by his own volition, to those which they had previously ordered from him.81 For Khosroyev, the relationship between the scribe and his customers goes hand in hand with the hypothesis that the Nag Hammadi Codices originated among urban literati.82 He describes the recipients of Codex VI as a religious group, or perhaps a family, who possessed a syncretistic mentality, and thus had commissioned the scribe to copy for them the first seven texts in Codex VI (everything from the Acts of Peter and the Twelve Apostles to the Prayer of Thanksgiving).83 The scribe, 80 Römer “Manichaeism and Gnosticism,” 632. It has also been suggested that the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced by a commercial bookseller. Referring to evidence of booksellers in Oxyrhynchus, Montserrat-Torrents posits that “the managers of the [Nag Hammadi] Library in its different stages were editors and booksellers” (“Social and Cultural Setting,” 479). He does not elaborate on this suggestion, however. 81 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 10: “Der Schreiber wendet sich an seine Auftraggeber, die er anscheinend nicht persönlich treffen kann, und entschuldigt sich, daß er, auf eigene Faust, die bei ihm bestellte Handschrift, deren Inhalt vorher besprochen wurde, mit einem unvorgesehenen Text zu ergänzen gewagt hat.” Cf. the book-seller hypothesis of Montserrat-Torrents, “Social and Cultural Setting,” 481. 82 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 98, 101. Cf. the discussion in chapter four above. 83 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 10–13, esp. 13: “Aber das Vorhandensein im Codex nicht nur der hermetischen, sondern auch der christlichen Schriften verschiedener theologischer Schattierungen legt die Vermutung nahe, daß es sich um eine religiöse Gemeinde (vielleicht eine Familie) handelte, deren Mitglieder eine synkretistische Religiosität besaßen.”

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however, acting on his own volition, decided to expand their order by adding an eighth text (Asclepius) at the end of the codex. Why would the scribe make this addition? According to Khosroyev, the addition was necessary in order to fill-up fourteen blank pages left at the end of the codex (VI 65–78) after the scribe had finished copying the commissioned texts. The scribe therefore wrote the note to excuse himself and explain to the recipients why he had been so bold as to add a text which they had not requested. A number of difficulties remain in Khosroyev’s interpretation of the scribal note, however. First of all, although Khosroyev is not alone in regarding the note as an apology,84 it must be observed that the scribe does not in fact use any apologetic language. Secondly, is it really likely that a paid scribe would, on his own volition, add to his customers’ order, and then proceed to write an apology for it into the codex itself, instead of using a separate piece of papyrus or ostracon? It is not impossible, but neither does it seem very likely. Let us return to the question of which text the scribe refers to as “this one text” that he had copied into the codex. Khosroyev argues that the scribe’s commission was for VI,1–7, that is, everything in the codex but the Asclepius. Yet this hypothesis leads to further difficulties which Khosroyev does not address. If the codex had been planned beforehand, according to the scribe’s commission, then why would there have been fourteen blank pages left at the end of the codex in the first place? One would have to assume that the scribe, who is supposed to be a professional, drastically miscalculated the amount of pages needed for the job and was left having to fill up the blank spaces. Khosroyev’s suggestion that the scribe rather thoughtlessly ended up with fourteen blank pages is of course based on his assumption that the extra text mentioned in the scribal note refers to the final treatise (Asclepius). Yet there would be no reason to posit that the scribe was so careless if the addition were in fact the much shorter text which precedes the note (the Prayer of Thanksgiving). As has previously been demonstrated, the amount of page-space used by the Prayer of Thanksgiving and the scribal note together correlate with precision to the amount of text contained in the extra lines per page that the scribe had to add on the final pages of the manuscript once he had decided to include the Prayer of Thanksgiving.85 In fact, far from making a gross miscalculation in the amount of pages needed (as Khosroyev’s hypothesis must assume), it appears that the 84

See, e. g., Tröger, “Ein (hermetisches) Dankgebet,” 2:523. Williams and Jenott, “Inside the Covers,” 1029–34, esp. 1034. The scribe’s rationale for doing so may have been twofold. First, Pr. Thanks. provides a fitting clarification and expansion to a certain hymn and request of God made “in silence” mentioned in Disc. 8–9 (59.20–22: “Return to , O my son, and sing/speak [ϫⲟⲟⲥ] while you are silent. Ask what you want in silence”), as its incipit introduces it simply by stating “This is the prayer which they spoke/ sang” (Pr. Thanks. 63.33: ⲡⲁⲓ ⲡⲉ ⲡϣⲗⲏⲗ ⲛ̄ⲧⲁⲩϫⲟⲟϥ). Moreover, the addition also works well as a sample of the many other texts he has received through his network, and which he believes the recipients of Codex VI may also be interested in if they have not already acquired them through 85

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scribe calculated almost perfectly the amount of space he would need in order to include this short prayer without losing anything from the original plan. The evidence thus indicates that the scribe knew very well what he was doing, and that he was more than capable of calculating exactly the space he needed. While this level of skill could perhaps be taken to indicate a professional scribe, we would argue that the fact that he unapologetically wrote an explanation for his actions into the codex points rather in the direction of a non-commercial relationship between him and the recipients of the codex. Instead of regarding the scribe of Codex VI as a hired hand working on a commissioned job, it seems more likely to us that the scribe and recipients were members of a network of literate persons who regularly lent, borrowed, and copied books for one another. As Kim Haines-Eitzen rightly notes, “book production and reproduction throughout the ancient world was largely a process dependent upon private and social networks.”86 Indeed, informal non-commercial networks were the primary method of literary exchange in antiquity.87 The governing principle was reciprocity – share a book, and get one back. As one woman wrote to her friend in a letter discovered at Oxyrhynchus: “To my dearest lord sister in the Lord, greetings. Lend Ezra, since I have lent you the little Genesis. Farewell from us in God.”88 Since requests for books take various forms in ancient letters, we can distinguish different scenarios for the logistics of such networks. In some cases, people ask only to borrow a book from a friend, with the expectation that they will eventually return it.89 This is a simple borrower-lender relationship. The only burden on the lenders would be to have the book delivered, which could be as simple as sending it with the courier of the original request. When the borrowers received the book, they could read it and then return it, or make a personal copy for themselves, in which case the labor and expense of copying would fall upon them. Another type of request involved people asking friends not to lend, but to “make copies and send” a book – often many books. Here, the immediate labor other channels (including perhaps the same source from which the scribe of Codex VI procured them). See Williams and Jenott, “Inside the Covers,” 1043–44. 86 Kim Haines-Eitzen, “The Social History of Early Christian Scribes,” in The Text of the New Testament in Contemporary Research: Essays on the Status Quaestionis (2nd ed.; ed. Bart D. Ehrman and Michael W. Holmes; NTTSD 42; Leiden: Brill, 2013), 486. While there certainly were bookdealers in antiquity, we should not imagine it as the most common means of book distribution. Cf., e. g. William A. Johnson, Bookrolls and Scribes in Oxyrhynchus (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), 159, cited with approval by Haines-Eitzen, “Social History,” 485. 87 Raymond J. Starr, “The Circulation of Literary Texts in the Roman World,” CQ 37 (1987): 213–23; Harry Y. Gamble, Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 82–143, esp. 82–95, 132–43; Haines-Eitzen, Gaurdians of Letters, 77–104. 88 P. Oxy. 4365; text in Otranto, Antiche liste, 128. 89 Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, ostraca nos. 375, 376, 377, 389; cf. Jerome, Ep. 5 (below).

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and expense of copying would fall upon the person who already has a book and is being asked to duplicate it.90 In such cases the person requesting a book may also send one or more books themselves in order to maintain the principle of reciprocity.91 Even if someone did not send a book when making a request, it would probably be expected that they would return the favor at some point. We get a tantalizing glimpse into the workings of such book-trading networks in a letter written by Jerome around AD 375 from his hermitage in the Syrian desert. Jerome writes to his friend Florentius in Jerusalem, transmitting a message from his friend Paul to have a book returned, and also to ask Florentius to make him copies of many other books: A countryman of the aforesaid brother Rufinus, the old man Paul, writes that Rufinus has his copy of Tertullian, and urgently requests that this may be returned. Next I have to ask you to get written on papyrus by a copyist certain books which the subjoined list will show that I do not possess.92 I beg also that you send me the interpretation of the Psalms of David and the copious work on Synods of the reverend Hilary, which I copied for him at Trêves with my own hand. … And since, through the Lord’s bounty, I am rich in volumes of the sacred library, you may command me in turn. I will send you whatever you wish. And do not suppose that an order from you will burden me; I have pupils devoted to the art of copying.93 Nor do I merely promise a favor because I am asking one. Our brother, Heliodorus, tells me that there are many parts of the Scripture which you seek and cannot find. (Jerome, Ep. 5.2)94

Jerome’s letter to Florentius illustrates quite well how such book-trading networks worked. He mentions two ways of acquiring books: either by borrowing a copy and returning it (Rufinus has Paul’s copy of Tertullian), or by asking a friend (Florentius) to make and send copies. We also see that Jerome observes the principle of reciprocity. He requests a number of books from Florentius, but promises that he will make copies of anything in his own library that Florentius may not already have. We also see that people have some impression about what 90 For example, P. Oxy. 2192: “Make and send me copies of books 6 and 7 of Hypsicrates’ Men Made Fun of in Comedy”; text in Eric G. Turner, Greek Manuscripts of the Ancient World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971), 114; cf. E. G. Turner, Greek Papyri: An Introduction (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 87. Similar requests are found in Jerome, Ep. 5.2 (see below) and 10.3. In Jerome, Ep. 47.3 and 49.4, he offers to send treatises to people if they do not already have them. He could mean that he will lend a copy, but more likely means that he will have copies made for the recipients to keep. In Ep. 49.4 he says that he sent copies of his commentaries on the prophets to his associate Domnio. 91 Augustine, Ep. 31.7–8; P. Oxy. 2192; P. Oxy. 4365; Jerome, Ep. 10.3; Crum and Evelyn White, Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, no. 381. 92 Et ex hos quaeso, ut eos libros, quos me non habere brevis subditus edocebit, librarii manu in charta scribi jubeas. 93 Nec putes mihi grave esse, si jubeas; habeo alumnos qui antiquariae arti serviant. 94 Trans. NPNF2 6:7 (modified according to the Latin text in Migne, PL 22:336–337); cf. Andrew Cain, The Letters of Jerome: Asceticism, Biblical Exegesis, and the Construction of Christian Authority in Late Antiquity (OECS; Oxford University Press, 2009), 22, 41, 213; Paulo Evaristo Arns, La technique du livre d’après Saint Jérôme (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1953).

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others in the network may and may not possess. Jerome learned from another associate (Heliodorus) that Florentius needed several parts of Scripture, despite the fact that he had a diversity of other books in his library. Furthermore, Jerome acknowledges the “burden” (grave) that making such requests could impose. In Jerome’s case, however, he has a number of young apprentices (alumnos) in his service who will do the work for him, and he assumes that Florentius is served by a copyist (librarius) as well. In this case we are dealing with persons and libraries that are not commercial enterprises, which nevertheless involve a number of scribes working together under the supervision of a more senior person. We suggest that the scribe of Codex VI and the occasion of his personal note can be understood within the context of such book-trading networks. Like Jerome, the scribe of Codex VI is someone who has access to many books, and he assumes that the same is the case with his recipients (“they may (already) have come to you”). The list (brevis) of desiderata that Jerome included with his letter may also give us a glimpse into the kind of planning that went into Codex VI. The recipients of the codex may well have sent the scribe such a list, which constituted the original plan for the contents of the codex before the scribe decided to augment it with the short Prayer of Thanksgiving. Unlike a hired hand, the scribe of Codex VI exhibits the personal authority to add “this one text” to the recipients’ original request. Interestingly, the scribe of Codex VI is also concerned that he may impose a “burden” on the recipients: “I hesitate to copy these for you (i. e., the texts he did not copy) since they may (already) have come to you, and the matter may burden you (ⲡϩⲱⲃ ⲣ̄ϩ︤ⲓ︥ⲥⲉ ⲛⲏⲧ︤ⲛ︥).” It is not entirely clear, however, what the burden would be in this context. As we saw in Jerome’s letter, members of book-trading networks were well aware of the burden (grave) that a request for copies could impose on a friend. But in the case of Codex VI, the labor of copying does not seem to be the problem, for the scribe himself says that he would copy the other texts for them – copies which the recipients would presumably not need to send back, lest the scribe end up with two copies. So how else can the burden mentioned in the scribe’s note be explained? We suggest two possibilities: 1) If the scribe sent the recipients many more books than they had originally asked for, they would feel obliged to return the favor by copying and sending a number of books in return. In addition, whether or not the recipients already had copies of their own, receiving a “great many texts” unsolicited could have been regarded as a burden. It might require that they spend time sorting them out, determining which ones they already have, perhaps even cataloguing them (depending on how organized they were).95 Taking the time to actually read “a 95 For inventories of books from churches and monasteries, see P. Ash. 3; P. Grenf. II, 111; P. Prag. 178; P. Prag. 87; P. Vindob. Gr. 26015; P. L. Bat. 25,13, collected in Otranto, Antiche liste, 123–44. See also Ostracon IFAO 13315 in Coquin, “Le catalogue”; the book lists inscribed

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great many texts,” especially unsolicited ones, might also have been considered a burden, even for people who were fond of reading.96 2) Another explanation for the potential “burden” could be understood in the context of attempts by abbots to censor monastic book collections. It is not entirely clear what the scribe of Codex VI means by the term ⲣ̄ϩ︤ⲓ︥ⲥⲉ. Rather than translating the phrase ⲡϩⲱⲃ ⲣ̄ϩ︤ⲓ︥ⲥⲉ ⲛⲏⲧ︤ⲛ︥ as “the matter may burden you,” it could also be understood as “the matter may cause you trouble.”97 In the atmosphere of censorship created by the circulation of Athanasius’ 39th Festal Letter of 367, and even more so by archbishop Dioscorus’ Letter to Shenoute, monks who maintained their own book collections or who were responsible for managing a monastery book collection might get in trouble if they received texts that were regarded as illicit reading material by their superiors. As we have seen in chapter six, Shenoute was adamant that all reading materials had to be cleared by the monastery’s Elder before being admitted,98 and Dioscorus ordered the local bishops in Upper Egypt to seek out and confiscate any illicit books they might find. What the scribe of Codex VI may be acknowledging, then, is the potential dangers inherent in receiving texts like the ones the scribe is hesitant to copy.99 It is beyond doubt that Codex VI’s scribal note witnesses to a network of literary exchange. What is less clear is whether this network was understood to be a completely legitimate one, or whether we are witnessing the “underground” activity of people who were trying to pass under the radar of the monastic authorities. As we have seen in chapter six, such underground activities might have been quite common given the apparently decentralized nature of early monastic libraries, where individual house masters could exercise personal initiative and control in the exchange of books. In any event, there is nothing in the note to suggest that the relationship between scribe and recipients was of a commercial nature. A paid scribe would hardly change the planned contents of a commison the walls of the White Monastery (Crum, “Inscriptions,” esp. no. B 12–27); and Crum and Evelyn White, Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, no. 554. 96 Augustine acknowledges the labor of reading (laborem legendi) in a letter to his friends Paulinus and Therasia: “I have sent to your Holiness and Charity three books … knowing from the ardor of your desire, I am sure that you will not shrink from the labor of reading them (laborem legendi)” (Ep. 31.7 [AD 396]; trans. Wilfrid Parsons, Augustine: Letters: Volume 1 (1–82) [FC 12; Washington, D. C.: Catholic Unviersity of America Press, 1951], 116; Latin text in Migne, PL 33:125). 97 See Crum, Coptic Dictionary, 712a. 98 See Shenoute, You, God the Eternal, XS 385–86 (Leipoldt, Sinuthii, 4:72), and the discussion above. 99 This explanation again raises the question of what the scribe means by “this one text of his,” for if he is referring to a text of Hermes Trismegistus, and hesitated to copy other Hermetic texts, he ought also to have been hesitant to copy Disc. 8–9 (VI,6) and the excerpts from Asclepius (VI,8). It may be that those texts were already among those requested by the recipients of the codex, and that he did not want to burden them with more unsolicited Hermetica. It is also possible that the scribe refers to both Disc. 8–9 and Pr. Thanks. together as one text, as has been suggested by Schenke, “Rezension zu Alexandr Khosroyev”; cf. Parrott, “Scribal Note,” 389–90.

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sioned book, and then write an explanation into the codex itself. Instead, a private network of book-exchange can better explain the features of the scribal note and composition of Codex VI.

Conclusion We have seen how the colophon at the end of Codex VII indicates that the intended owner of the codex may well have been the abbot (the “fatherhood”) of a monastery, and that the readership may have been limited to more advanced monks, maybe even to the abbot alone. Codex II’s references to the “perfect,” “holy,” and “spiritual” ones among the scribe’s “brothers” may similarly point to a restricted readership of that codex. After the Book of Thomas, we are told that “the athlete writes to the perfect.”100 Whether we take the “athlete” in this case to refer to the scribe of Codex II, or to a scribe at an earlier phase of transmission of the Book of Thomas, the intended readers are referred to as “the perfect” (ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲗⲉⲓⲟⲥ). If we read this statement in light of the Pachomian writings, “the perfect” may be taken to refer to spiritually mature monks, among whom would have been those in positions of leadership in the Pachomian monasteries. The explicitly encratitic teachings of the Book of Thomas certainly would have lent themselves to the kind of spiritual progress and “perfection” which consituted the goal of the monastic life. Furthermore, we have shown how features in the colophons of other Nag Hammadi Codices are consistent with the monastic culture of fourth and fifth-century Egypt, from Gongessos’ idea of a spiritual name to the types of cryptography found in Codices VII and VIII. Finally, we have seen through the unique evidence of Codex VI’s scribal note how the scribes of the Nag Hammadi Codices could have belonged to the kind of book exchange networks for which we have significant contemporary evidence. In the next chapter, we will continue our investigation into how these codices were produced, and who it was that produced them, by looking at the scribal and codicological features of the Nag Hammadi Codices, comparing them with each other and with other contemporary manuscripts from the same region.

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Thom. Cont., 145.18–19.

Chapter 8

The Codices In late antiquity, centers of book production were primarily if not exclusively in monasteries. – Chrysi Kotsifou1

Commenting on the early history of Coptic manuscripts, Cornelia Römer has observed that Coptic biblical manuscripts first appear in the late third and early fourth centuries, at the same time when “the Gnostic writings,” as she calls them, were translated into Coptic. She notes that despite the differences in content between the biblical texts and those of the Nag Hammadi Codices, the two corpora closely resemble each other in terms of scribal practices and codicology, so much so that, in her estimation, “No difference in the copyists’ style of writing can be detected.”2 Although one might infer from this that the Nag Hammadi Codices were copied by Christian scribes who also copied biblical texts, Römer suggests a quite different explanation. Since she assumes the existence of two distinct social groups, one Christian and the other Gnostic, she maintains that the resemblance shared among the manuscripts reflects the fact that the scribes “were most likely not trained for only one community but worked for whoever employed them.”3 In this way, Römer can maintain that the biblical text and the texts of the Nag Hammadi Codices were transmitted in different social and theological milieus despite the similarities in the scribal and codicological workmanship of the books that served as their vehicles. The scenario suggested by Römer is, however, difficult to reconcile with the evidence from the colophons, which, as we have seen in the previous chapter, indicate that the scribes of the Nag Hammadi Codices belonged to the religious communities who used them. It is difficult to understand why a commercial copyist would add a request for prayer from his “brothers,” as in Codex II, or identify himself as “the Son” who blesses his “Father,” as in Codex VII, or give his name “in the spirit,” as in Codex III. Furthermore, as we saw in chapter three, no distinct community of Gnostics seems to have been present in late antique Egypt. Once the problematic distinction between Gnostics and Christians is removed, 1

Kotsifou, “Books and Book Production,” 50. Römer, “Manichaeism and Gnosticism,” 632. 3 Römer, “Manichaeism and Gnosticism,” 632. Cf. also Van Elderen, “Early Christian Libraries”; Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek. 2

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the most likely explanation for the similar scribal habits shared by the Nag Hammadi Codices and biblical manuscripts is that they were copied by Christian scribes trained in the same scribal culture. This supports one of our central points, that the monks who owned the Nag Hammadi Codices read them as supplements to Scripture, and would have copied and read biblical manuscripts as well. In this chapter we offer a comparison of the Nag Hammadi Codices, both with each other and with contemporary biblical manuscripts. In doing so, we also attend to the possible implications of the peculiar mixture of dialects which has been observed in the Nag Hammadi Codices, with regard to the transmission of the texts and the environment in which the copies we now possess were produced. As we shall see, the evidence is consistent with cenobitic monasteries in Upper Egypt.

Sub-Groups among the Nag Hammadi Codices As scholars have long observed, the Nag Hammadi Codices can be distinguished into sub-groups on the basis of codicology and scribal hands. Somewhat different groupings have been suggested,4 but in the most thorough codicological examination to date James Robinson has identified three main sub-groups based primarily on the construction of the covers:5 Group 1: Codices IV, V and VIII6 Group 2: Codices II, VI, IX, X7 Group 3: Codices I, VII and XI8 4 Martin Krause, “Zu koptische Handschriften von Nag Hammadi: Umfang und Inhalt,” in MDAI 19 (1963): 106–13; Krause, “Die Texte”; Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 3–7, 20–22. 5 For the rationale behind these groups, see Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Introduction, 71–86; Robinson, “Construction.” It is worth noting that groups 1 and 2 are more distinct than Group 3 based on Robinson’s criteria (Robinson, “Construction,” 187; Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Introduction, 87). Some of the codices are not counted in Robinson’s three groups: While sharing various features with codices from all the three groups, Codex III could not be assigned to any one of them. Codices XII and XIII are not counted since their covers do not survive. Since the remains of Codex XIII were evidently placed inside the cover of Codex VI already in antiquity (Robinson, “Inside the Front Cover of Codex VI,” in Essays on the Nag Hammadi Texts in Honour of Alexander Böhlig [ed. Martin Krause; NHS 3; Leiden: Brill, 1972], 74–87), Robinson associates it with group 2. For an early discussion of the covers, with pictures and drawings, see Jean Doresse, “Les reliures des manuscrits gnostiques coptes découverts a Khénoboskion,” RdE 13 (1961): 27–49. See also the detailed discussion in János A. Szirmai, The Archaeology of Medieval Bookbinding (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), 7–11, with illustrative diagrams on pages 8 and 10. Szirmai also discusses the classification into sub-groups and suggests that Codices III and VII might be grouped together based on their “distinct cover attachment” (ibid., 11). Unfortunately the covers were taken apart without proper documentation (ibid., 7). 6 This is the most distinctive of the three groups. 7 This group is distinct from group 1, but shares various features with group 3. 8 This is the least internally coherent of the three groups, and shares several characteristics

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Another set of sub-groups can be delineated on the basis of scribal hands. Although palaeographical analyses of the Nag Hammadi Codices cannot yield entirely secure results due to the similarity of many of the hands,9 interesting patterns nevertheless emerge. Based on a detailed paleographic analysis, Michael Williams has grouped the codices as follows:10 Group A: Codices I, VII and XI (scribes A, B and C) Group B: Codices IV, V, VI, VIII and IX. Williams distinguishes between two further sub-groups in this sub-collection: IV and VIII (scribes D and E respectively); and V, VI and IX (scribes F, G, and H respectively). Group C: Codices II and XIII (mostly the work of scribe I, but aided briefly on Codex II by scribe J; two more scribes, K and L, may also have worked on this group, if the hands are not identified as that of scribe I)11 The question, however, is how to interpret these results. As Khosroyev has pointed out, we know virtually nothing about the individual histories of these codices or sub-groups apart from the fact that they were eventually buried together.12 We do not know the chronological sequence in which the codices were produced, nor the length of time between their respective production.13 In the case of Codices I, VII and XI, for example, on which three scribes collaborated, the intervals between their manufacture could have been years, or even decades. with the other two. Codices I, VII, and XI are most clearly distinguished from the other codices by being the three tallest, but Robinson also grups them on the basis their shared scribal hands (on which see further below). 9 Prior to Williams’ analysis, Stephen Emmel estimated that the Nag Hammadi Codices could be the work of between eight and fourteen scribes (Stephen Emmel, “The Nag Hammadi Codices Editing Project: A Final Report,” ARCE Newsletter 104 [1978]: 27–28). While broadly in agreement with Emmel’s analysis, Williams counts as many as fifteen scribes, suggesting that Thom. Cont. (II,7) was the work of an additional scribe distinct from the two others who worked on Codex II (Rethinking, 243). Emmel regarded Thom. Cont. as the work of Codex II’s main scribe. For an overview of the various studies of the scribal hands, see also Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 136–42. 10 M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 242–43. According to Williams, Codices III (scribe M), XII (scribe N) and X (scribe O) exhibit independent hands, and are thus not included in groups A–C. 11 Both Emmel (“Final Report,” 27) and Funk (“Linguistic Aspect,” 133) maintain that Codex XIII is probably the work of the same scribe who copied the majority of Codex II. By analyzing the use of articulation marks, Michael Williams and David Coblentz now argue that the scribe of Codex XIII was probably not the same as any of the scribes of Codex II, and that the differences between the majority scribe of Codex II’s work on II,1–6 and II,7 may be due to the use of different exemplars. See Michael A. Williams and David Coblentz, “A Reexamination of the Articulation Marks in Nag Hammadi Codices II and XIII,” in The Nag Hammadi Codices and Late Antique Egypt (ed. Hugo Lundhaug and Lance Jenott; STAC; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, forthcoming). 12 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 61–62. 13 Cf. Robinson, “Construction,” 189. Recent radiocarbon analysis of the leather cover of Nag Hammadi Codex I, in the Schøyen collection, does however indicate that this particular codex was probably produced prior to Codex VII (see chapter one).

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Nor do we know whether individual codices, or the codicological sub-groups identified by Robinson, were produced independently of each other, or by the same community. If they were originally independent, we do not know when the sub-groups were brought together or when they were buried. Despite these uncertainties, the sub-groups have played an important role in theories about the origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices. Robinson concluded that the different codicological types probably indicate smaller sub-collections which were produced independently of each other and only later united. This hypothesis seemed to be supported by the fact that duplicate tractates (such as the Apocryphon of John [II,1; III,1; IV,1]) are not found within any one subgroup.14 Williams found further support for Robinson’s theory in his analysis of the scribal hands. With respect to scribal Group B in particular, he concluded that “the variations in scribal style of this group happen to coincide remarkably well with the variations in codex construction, which lends further support to the theory of codicological types – and by extension, to the theory of multiple stages in the building of the collection.”15 The various sub-groups identified among the Nag Hammadi Codices might very well represent originally independent collections, as Robinson and Williams suggest. Some critics have gone further, however, and interpreted this possibility as proof that they could not have been produced in a monastic community such as the Pachomian federation. According to Khosroyev, scholars who maintain the Pachomian hypothesis “appear to ignore” the presence of sub-groups in the overall collection.16 Wipszycka reiterates this view in her argument against a monastic provenance, and adds that the different codicological types probably indicate that they were produced in different workshops.17 However, when analyzing the physical features of the codices and evaluating the implications regarding their provenance, it is important not to exaggerate the differences between them. Although the Nag Hammadi Codices can be analyzed into sub-groups, the similarities among them are arguably more pronounced than the differences when compared to other codices. There is considerably greater consistency in codicology and scribal styles across the Nag Hammadi Codices than there is, for example, across the various codices of the Dishna Papers. Despite certain differences of construction between the two main subgroups, Robinson nevertheless observed similarities in their quire construction, Robinson, Facsimile Edition: Introduction, 84. M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 242–43; M. A. Williams, “The Scribes of Nag Hammadi Codices IV, V, VI, VIII and IX,” in Actes du IV e congress copte, vol II: De la linguistique au Gnosticisme (ed. Marguerite Rassart-Debergh and Julien Ries; PIOL 41; Université Catholique Louvain, 1992), 334–42. 16 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 3 and 67: “die Forscher, die die Zugehörigkeit der Bibliothek zu den Pachomianern verteidigen, scheinen diese Tatsache zu ignorieren.” 17 Wipszycka “Nag Hammadi Library,” 187. 14 15

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leading him to the conclusion that “the quires of groups one and two may have been more closely related to each other than are the covers.”18 Furthermore, the groups delineated by Robinson on the basis of cover-construction do not correspond directly to the groups identified by Williams on the basis of scribal hands. Williams’ scribal group B, for example, includes codices from both sub-groups that Robinson regards as most distinct from each other in terms of covers (groups 1 and 2). And while the unique hand of Codex X sets it apart from any of Williams’ scribal groups, it is a member of Robinson’s codicological group 2. It is also important to observe that the criteria for delineating the scribal groups are different in each case. The three scribes who collaborated on Codices I, VII and XI (group A) display quite different styles, and would hardly have been identified as a group had it not been for the fact that scribes A and B collaborated on codices I and XI, and scribes B and C on Codex XI (whereas scribe C copied all of Codex VII). Quite differently, the five scribes of group B are identified as a group because they share a very similar style.19 Yet the five codices they copied (IV, V, VI, VIII and IX) span Robinson’s codicological groups 1 and 2. Thus the two most distinct codicological groups identified by Robinson turn out to be not so distinct when quire construction and scribal hands are taken into considertation. In turn, the typological classification of the Nag Hammadi Codices into different sub-groups does not necessarily lead to the conclusion that they were originally parts of separate collections. Even if the individual codices or sub-groups were produced independently from each other in different workshops, as Khosroyev and Wipszycka maintain, it is not clear why this scenario would preclude monks, Pachomian or otherwise. That interpretation seems to presuppose that all Pachomian craftsmen would have followed the same techniques of book production. But the fact that there were different monasteries within the Pachomian federation, which evidently varied in their internal practices and administration,20 and maintained decentralized book collections,21 might lead one to expect variation, rather than uniformity, in the way they produced their books as well. Whether or not the books were made at roughly the same time period, it should not surprise us to find a range of

18 Robinson, “Construction,” 190. For a detailed discussion of the construction of the quires of the Nag Hammadi Codices, see Robinson, “On the Codicology of the Nag Hammadi Codices,” in Les textes de Nag Hammadi: Colloque du Centre d’Histoire des Religions (Strasbourg, 23–25 octobre 1974) (ed. Jacques-É. Ménard; NHS 7; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 19–31. 19 M. A. Williams, “Scribes,” 336; cf. Emmel, “Final Report,” 28. There is some uncertainty regarding the number of scribes in this group. While Williams concludes that these codices are the products of five different scribes, some have suggested that there may only have been one or two. See, e. g., Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 136–42. Khosroyev argues that they were the work of two scribes. 20 See, e. g., SBo 142. 21 See chapter six.

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book-binding techniques employed from one monastery workshop to the next,22 or even within the same workshop, depending on the training of the individual craftsman or the intended purpose of the book.23 The Pachomians were evidently active in book production already in the fourth century. Their Rules place much emphasis on the literacy and reading practices of the monks;24 books, copying, and writing are referred to throughout the Pachomian literature;25 and Palladius mentions some kind of workshop for copying books (καλλιγραφεῖον) at their monastery in Panopolis.26 Of course when speaking about such workshops, or scriptoria, in fourth and fifth-century monasteries, we agree with David Parker that “they were not places of mass production as we would understand it today.”27 In contrast to the large-scale centers of copying and manuscript illumination that developed in medieval monasteries, one need not imagine anything more than a small-scale operation managed by one or more literate persons trained in quire-construction, binding and copying.28 John Cassian’s description of a Pachomian monk copying a book alone in

22 Cf. Scholten, “Buchbesitz,” 163 n. 160, who suggests that the codices might have been produced in different house-libraries of the monastery. He doubts Alexander Böhlig’s suggestion that the sub-groups can be explained on the basis of people bringing their own books with them when they entered the monasteries (“Einführung” in Nag-Hammadi-Register: Wörterbuch zur Erfassung der Begriffe in den koptisch-gnostischen Schriften von Nag-Hammadi [ed. Folker Siegert; WUNT 26; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1982], viii). 23 We know that copyists chose different kinds of books for different texts. For example, in a letter from the monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, a certain Abraham asks the recipient to decide “what kind of book” (ⲛⲁϣ ⲛ̄ϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ) he would like his text copied into, which may reflect decisions over codicological features such as the book’s size, material, and cover. See Crum and Evelyn White, Monastery of Epiphanius at Thebes, no. 387 (pp. 93 and 255). 24 Pr. 139–40; Hors. Reg. 16. See also Lundhaug, “Memory.” 25 According to the Life of Pachomius, writing and copying were undertaken by monks already in the earliest generation of the federation. We are told that Pachomius himself recorded his monastic Rule (SBo 27; G1 32), composed a book of his spiritual writings (G1 99), and wrote letters, sometimes with cryptographic formulas (G1 54, 99; cf. Quecke, Die Briefe Pachoms). Some brothers wrote down many of Pachomius’ interpretations of scripture (G1 99), and the Great Steward at Pbow kept detailed records of all the monasteries’ labor in the so-called “book of the stewards” (SBo 71; G1 59, 83). See further discussion in chapter six. 26 Palladius, Hist. Laus. 32.9–12 (Butler, Lausiac History of Palladius, 2:96). On the text of Palladius in this passage, see François Halkin, “L’Histoire Lausiaque et les Vies grecques de S. Pachôme,” AnBoll 48 (1930): 278; cf. Scholten, “Buchbesitz,” 151, esp. n. 50. 27 David C. Parker, Codex Sinaiticus: The Story of the World’s Oldest Bible (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 2010), 54; cf. Gamble, Books and Readers, 120–22. 28 See similarly, Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters, 77–104. Haines-Eitzen maintains that books predominately disseminated among Christians of the second and third centuries through “private” scribal networks, i. e., individuals living in different locations who borrowed and copied books from each other, rather than through the sort of routinized scriptoria which developed in the Middle Ages. Yet she also finds evidence in the fourth century of small groups of scribes collaborating in book production, as exemplified in her detailed discussion of the Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex (see esp. ibid., 101–2).

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his cell may not be far from the mark, though it does not rule out the possibility of small groups of scribes working together as well.29 Such small-scale collaboration is in fact what one sees reflected in the scribal hands of the Nag Hammadi Codices. In the case of Codex II, while one scribe (A) copied the vast majority of the Codex, a second scribe (J) took over the work for a brief moment, copying only eight lines, before the first scribe returned to the task.30 A third scribe (K) might also have been involved in Codex II, in the copying of its final tractate.31 The relationship among the five scribes who copied Codices IV, V, VI, VIII and IX (group B) is more difficult to determine, since they copied one codex each, but the similarity in their styles suggests that “they were closely related in training.”32 This could be evidence of scribes working in the same community at roughly the same time (either at the same location or in different places), or perhaps a series of teachers and apprentices spread over multiple generations. The case of the three scribes who collaborated on Codices I, VII and XI gives us an even clearer window into scribal collaboration. As Williams notes, these scribes do not share a common paleographic style, as do the scribes of group B, but nevertheless worked together in some overlapping capacity: scribes A and B copied Codex I; scribes B and C copied Codex XI; and scribe C copied all of Codex VII.33 Furthermore, the scribes of Codex I actually designed the book carefully in terms of the selection of texts and even their exact sequence. As Williams showed in his seminal article on the Nag Hammadi Codices as planned collections, the two scribes who copied Codex I took care to make sure that the Treatise on the Resurrection (I,4) was placed before the Tripartite Tractate (I,5).34 As we have seen, the scribal colophons consistently point to community settings for the Codices, and the small-scale collaboration between scribes is what one might expect in cenobitic monasteries like those of the Pachomians. Books are likely to have been exchanged among the various monasteries of the Pachomian federation too, through the networks of literary exchange that we discussed in chapter seven. In this context, the scribal note in Codex VI could easily 29 Cassian, Inst. 4.12. That some monks copied books alone in their cells does not preclude the possibility of small groups of monks working together. Cassian emphasizes that none of the monks would ever lay claim to their own private property, such as uttering “my book,” “my tablets,” “my pen” (Inst. 4.13). All such objects and implements belong to the monastery, and are presumably given to the monk by his superiors to perform his task. 30 Gos. Thom., 47.1–8; Layton, Nag Hammadi Codices II,2–7, 1:4–5; Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 18–19. 31 M. A. Williams, Rethinking, 243. On this point see now the discussion in Williams and Coblentz, “Reexamination.” 32 M. A. Williams, “Scribes,” 336; cf. Emmel, “Final Report,” 28. 33 M. A. Williams, “Interpreting,” esp. 11–20; Williams, Rethinking, 249: “They seem to have been not only contemporaries but also possibly close associates, perhaps working in the same scriptorium.” 34 M. A. Williams, “Interpreting,” 11–14.

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be understood as the communication of a copyist in one monastery who was preparing a book for his contacts in another. As we shall see, book production in a monastic community that drew members from different regions, and with distinct Coptic dialects, could also help explain the mixture of Coptic dialects exhibited not only from one Nag Hammadi codex to the next, but also within their individual tractates.

Traveling Texts and Migrating People On the basis of the peculiar mixture of Coptic dialects exhibited in most tractates of the Nag Hammadi Codices, Wolf-Peter Funk has observed that “it is hard to overlook a certain negligence” on the part of those who copied the texts “with regard to language detail as far as ‘dialect norm’ (not grammar as such) is concerned.”35 Funk’s explanation of this seemingly odd phenomenon is that these texts were most likely distributed through “private” channels by people who attempted to make the texts conform more closely to their own local idiom, but did so imperfectly. The copies of the texts we now possess can thus be said to exhibit what Funk calls their “traveler aspect,” that is, an aggregate of diverse dialectal features absorbed by the texts as they passed through the hands of copyists at different times and places throughout the Nile Valley.36 Funk offers little explanation as to what he means by “private” distribution, other than that the process he imagines would have involved exchanges of texts between “personal or professional contacts.” Nevertheless, the traveler-aspect theory would seem to reconcile quite well with the informal networks of literary exchange among monks that we discussed in chapter seven, especially with reference to the scribal note in Codex VI. A network of people across Egypt who received and transmitted texts, adapting the dialects (and often contents) in the process, characterizes quite well how monks acquired new reading material.37 This scenario is also consistent with the span of the Pachomian federation, whose network of monasteries stretched from Panopolis to Latopolis already by 347, 35

Funk, “Linguistic Aspect,” 146. Funk, “Linguistic Aspect,” 145: “Quite evidently, at least a few of our ‘texts’ – in some Coptic version and format – did a great deal of travelling along the Nile valley before they arrived in the Nag Hammadi region. During these travels, they were doubtless part of the luggage of certain persons (who may or may not have been interested in their specific contents). They may have changed carriers from time to time, and they were probably taken out of the bag at a number of places – to be read, modified, copied (thus, in a sense, ‘published’) so as to multiply into several chains of transmission.” 37 Whether or not one prefers to call this kind of enterprise “private” is a question of definition that has no bearing on the question of the monastic provenance of the Nag Hammadi Codices. Cf. Markschies, “Was wissen wir,” 86, who argues that apocryphal texts were probably read “privately” by monks as edifying literature, rather than being used in liturgical settings. 36

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and by the end of the fourth century ranged from Upper Egypt to the Delta.38 Copies of texts were evidently exchanged between their monasteries, as well as with people outside the Pachomian federation.39 Yet Funk’s own conclusions regarding the environment in which the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced moves away from the Pachomians. He posits that the “linguistic diversity … found in many Nag Hammadi texts seems to exclude the specific kind of editing that must have been applied to biblical texts,” when the Coptic Bible was translated into standard Sahidic, and that “the nonstandard character of their language makes it appear very unlikely that any of the essential editing was done in those places where the biblical texts were produced and revised.”40 Funk admits that we do not know where the editorial work of standardizing biblical texts into Sahidic occurred, noting that it may not always have been under the direction of church authorities, and not necessarily with “the involvement of monasteries (Pachomian or otherwise).”41 Nevertheless, in his estimation the Pachomians probably were involved in this editorial process, which in turn suggests to him that they did not copy the Nag Hammadi texts: it seems likely that Pachomian scribal tradition, whenever it may have been established, was closely connected with standard Sahidic ‘scriptural culture’ … and this is probably not the kind of tradition in which any state of normative editing of the Nag Hammadi texts (with the possible exception of Codex III) was situated.”42

The fact remains, however, that we do not know what the Pachomian scribal tradition was like, or if Pachomian scribes had a “tradition” at all. Nor do we know if they had a preference for Sahidic, or whether they would have made an effort to standardize texts into this dialect. This “seems likely” in Funk’s estimation, but he offers no supporting evidence. While it is certainly the case that most of the Nag Hammadi texts are not written in what Coptic scholars today would consider to be “standard Sahidic,” Funk stretches the evidence too far when he concludes that the Nag Hammadi texts were probably not produced in the same place as the standardized Sahidic Bible. We cannot assume that scribes who carefully edited canonical texts into standard Sahidic would necessarily have applied the same methods to non-canonical texts. With regard to the peculiar mixture of dialects seen in many of the Nag Hammadi texts, another aspect that must be taken into consideration is the fact that while books travel, so do people. In fact, the dialectal features Funk explains as the result of traveling texts might just as well be explained by the migration of 38

See chapter two. Thus Jerome obtained copies of Pachomius’ letters and the Rule from contacts in the Pachomian monastery of Metanoia at Canopus in Lower Egypt (Jerome, Pref. 1; Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:141). On the spread of the Pachomian federation, see chapter two. 40 Funk, “Linguistic Aspect,” 144. 41 Funk, “Linguistic Aspect,” 145. 42 Funk, “Linguistic Aspect,” 145. 39

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people from different dialectal areas to a common settlement, as was the case with the Pachomian monasteries in the Thebaid, to which people came from all over Egypt and beyond.43 Monks in these monasteries would certainly have spoken different dialects of Coptic, and we should expect them to have influenced and been influenced by the dialects of their fellow monks. It is not difficult to imagine that in this environment monks would have developed hybrid dialects, or that the dictation of a text by a person from one part of Egypt to a scribe from another part could have influenced the dialect of the copy they were making. Sociolinguistic studies of the emergence of new dialects have shown that dialect norms are especially fluid in contexts characterized by the phenomenon of dialect contact, which typically results from migration. In environments where people with various dialects of the same language come into contact, dialect mixture occurs, and the initial phases of this process are often characterized by a significant level of linguistic “chaos.”44 Such a situation is probably what we should expect in monasteries like those of the Pachomians, and especially in monasteries that had been recently established. The linguistic peculiarities of the Nag Hammadi texts may thus reflect the way Coptic was actually spoken by people who had migrated from various places to the monasteries of Upper Egypt. What we see in the Nag Hammadi texts may not only be an aggregate of peculiar dialectal features absorbed by a text as it was passed from one copyist to the next, each contributing something from his or her own dialectal idiom, but also how Coptic may have been spoken (and then written down) by people who may have moved from an area dominated by one dialect to a community characterized by a pervasive dialectal mixture. Given the obscurity surrounding the habits of Pachomian scribes and the process through which the Sahidic Bible was standardized in the fourth century, there seems to be little justification for dismissing the possibility that Pachomians could have copied the Nag Hammadi texts along with Scripture. Funk himself points out that, despite his contrast between the Nag Hammadi Codices and biblical manuscripts, “there are some striking similarities to be observed between the two groups of manuscripts, at the level of scribal practice and orthography.”45 In 43 Cf. Goehring, “Some Reflections,” 64–65; Jürgen Dummer, “Zum Problem der sprachlichen Verständigung in den Pachomius-Klöstern,” BSAC 20 (1969/70): 44–52. 44 See, e. g., Peter Trudgill, New-Dialect Formation: The Inevitability of Colonial Englishes (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2004); Peter Trudgill, “The Chaos Before the Order: New Zealand English and the Second Stage of New-Dialect Formation,” in Language Change: Advances in Historical Sociolinguistics (ed. Ernst Håkon Jahr; Trends in Linguistics: Studies and Monographs 114; Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 1998), 197–207; David Britain and Peter Trudgill, “Migration, New-Dialect Formation and Sociolinguistic Refunctionalization: Reallocation as an Outcome of Dialect Contact,” Transactions of the Philological Society 97:2 (1999): 245–56; J. K. Chambers and Peter Trudgill, Dialectology (2nd ed.; Cambridge Textbooks in Linguistics; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). 45 Funk, “Linguistic Aspect,” 145. He refers to NHC II and P. Bodmer XIX (Sahidic Matthew and Romans) in particular.

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what follows we turn to a more detailed comparison between the codicological features and scribal practices evident in the Nag Hammadi Codices and contemporary biblical manuscripts.

The Nag Hammadi Codices and Biblical Manuscripts In his analysis of the environment in which the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced, Khosroyev maintains that in the fourth century Upper Egypt was characterized by a relatively high degree of heterodoxy, and was marginal to the institutional church based in Alexandria and other northern centers such as Oxyrhynchus. Whoever owned the Nag Hammadi Codices, then, was beyond its boundaries, moving freely in the syncretistic circles of urban intellectuals. To further support this theory, he contrasts the mixed dialects of the Nag Hammadi texts with biblical codices from the region of Oxyrhynchus, which he regards as higher-quality products of “professional church scriptoria.”46 On the basis of three Oxyrhynchite biblical manuscripts, namely the Glazier,47 Scheide48 and al-Mudil codices,49 Khosroyev maintains that the area around Oxyrhynchus enjoyed a more standardized scriptural culture than Upper Egypt. Khosroyev is certainly correct that these three Oxyrhynchite codices resemble each other and that they differ significantly from the Nag Hammadi Codices in several ways, including their material (parchment rather than papyrus), scribal hands, decoration, and what he regards as their “pure” and “unified” Oxyrhynchite dialect.50 However, these manuscripts are dubious comparanda for the Nag Hammadi Codices, since it is doubtful that they represent the culture of Christian Oxyrhynchus as early as the fourth century.51 46 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 100–1. On Khosroyev’s ideas concerning the urban intellectuals, see chapter four. 47 Codex Glazier (G67) is kept in the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York. See HansMartin Schenke, Apostelgeschichte 1,1–15,3 im mittelägyptischen Dialekt des Koptischen (Codex Glazier) (TUGAL 137; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1991). 48 Hans-Martin Schenke, Das Matthäus-Evangelium im mittelägyptischen Dialekt des Koptischen (Codex Scheide) (TUGAL 127; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1981). 49 Gregor Emmenegger, Der Text des koptischen Psalters aus Al-Mudil. Ein Beitrag zur Textgeschichte der Septuaginta und zur Textkritik koptischer Bibelhandschriften, mit der kritischen Neuausgabe des Papyrus 37 der British Library London (U) und des Papyrus 39 der Leipziger Universitätsbibliothek (2013) (TUGAL 159; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2007). 50 Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 100–1. 51 Khosroyev (Die Bibliothek, 100–1) accepts a fourth-century date for Codex Glazier, and early fifth-century dates for the Scheide and al-Mudil codices. These dates, based on paleographic guesswork, are however questionable. These codices’ style of decoration, material (parchment), scribal features, and codicology resemble parchment codices dating to the medieval period. A piece of leather from the cover of Codex Glazier was radiocarbon dated in 1994 at the ETH in Zürch to a 14C BP date of 1565 ±45; see John Lawrence Sharpe, “The Earliest Bindings with Wooden Board Covers: The Coptic Contribution to Binding Construction,” in: Erice 96,

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Fig. 23. Codex Scheide, pp. 454–55: Gospel of Matthew with colophon. Courtesy of the Scheide Library, Princeton University Library.

On the other hand, an important Oxyrhynchite biblical manuscript that is likely to be contemporary with the Nag Hammadi Codices (Schøyen MS 2650, owned by Norwegian collector Martin Schøyen) was published after Khosroyev’s study.52 Unlike the Glazier, Scheide, and al-Mudil codices, this manuscript of the Gospel of Matthew is a papyrus codex, lacks elaborate decoration, and resembles the Nag Hammadi Codices more closely in terms of palaeography, International Conference on Conservation and Restoration of Archive and Library Materials, Erice (Italy), CCSEM, 22nd–29th April 1996: Pre-prints (2 vols.; ed. Piero Colaizzi and Daniela Costanini; Rome: Istituto centrale per la patologia del libro, 1996), 2:383 n. 13 (we thank Stephen Emmel for bringing this paper to our attention). Calibrated using the most recent verson of the OxCal calibration tool (OxCal v4.2.4; Christopher Bronk Ramsey, “Recent and Planned Developments of the Program Oxcal,” Radiocarbon 55:2–3 [2013]: 720–30) with IntCal 13 atmospheric curve (Paula J. Reimer et al., “Intcal 13 and Marine13 Radiocarbon Age Calibration Curves 0–50,000 Years Cal BP,” Radiocarbon 55:4 [2013]: 1869–87) this gives a calendar date range of 401–590 CE with 95,4 % probability. Taking the radiocarbon date into account, Alin Suciu suggests a late sixth century date for Codex Glazier on the basis of its similarity “especially in terms of format, to certain manuscripts from the Monastery of Apa Jeremias at Saqqara (which can be dated ca 600 CE)” (Suciu, “Radiocarbon Dating of Codex Glazier,” n.p. [Cited 6 April, 2014] Online: http://alinsuciu.com/2014/04/06/radiocarbon-dating-of-codex-glazier). The al-Mudil Codex palaeographically resembles codex BL Or. 5000 (Coptic Psalter), which E. A. Wallis Budge dated tentatively on palaeographical grounds to the late sixth century, and whose cover (evidently not the original) suggested an eleventh or twelvth-century date (Budge, The Earliest Known Coptic Psalter: The Text, in the Dialect of Upper Egypt, Edited From the Unique Paprus Codex Oriental 5000 in the British Museum [London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co.: 1898], xii). 52 Hans-Martin Schenke, Das Matthäus-Evangelium im mittelägyptischen Dialekt des Koptischen (Codex Schøyen) (Manuscripts in the Schøyen Collection 1, Coptic Papyri 1; Oslo: Hermes Publishing, 2001).

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Fig. 24. Nag Hammadi Codex IV.49 (Apocryphon of John) and Schøyen MS 2650 (Gospel of Matthew), courtesy of Martin Schøyen.

codicology, format, and scribal style. The way the scribe of MS 2650 decorated its subscript title bears a certain resemblance to what we find in Nag Hammadi Codices VIII and IV.53 Moreover, this copy of Matthew problematizes Khosroyev’s idea that Oxyrhynchite bibilical codices are characterized by dialectal purity, since, as Hans-Martin Schenke has pointed out, it displays influence from both Fayumic and Bohairic.54 The differences between the Nag Hammadi Codices and the three Oxyrhynchite manuscripts mentioned by Khosroyev are probably better explained as a matter of their later dates, and not on the basis of the relative heterodoxy of Upper Egypt. The features of the Schøyen Matthew codex in fact demonstrate that the Nag Hammadi Codices are not dissimilar to contemporary biblical manuscripts. 53 Compare NHC VIII.132 (photo in Facsimile Edition, 138), and Schøyen MS 2650.92 (photo in Schenke, Codex Schøyen, 392). Cf. NHC IV.49. 54 Schenke, Codex Schøyen, 29: “Die Sprache des Codex Schøyen weist aber nun offensichtlich noch mehr Beziehungen zu den Nachbardialekten auf als des [al-Mudil] Psalmen-Codex und zwar nicht nur zum Fayumischen, nebst dem ihm nahe verwandten Dialekt V, sondern besonders auch zum Bohairischen.”

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Further comparison of common scribal habits (e. g., formating, titles and decoration, readers’ aids, and methods of notation, correction and insertion) shared between the Nag Hammadi Codices and other biblical manuscripts confirms this view. British Library codex BL Or. 7594 offers a good example. This papyrus codex, which may have been discovered near el-Ashmunein,55 was copied by three different scribes.56 It contains an intriguing assortment of texts, both canonical and non-canonical, starting with Deuteronomy and Jonah, continuing with the canonical Acts of the Apostles, and ending with an excerpt from the Apocalypse of Elijah which, unlike the other texts in the codex, was copied in a cursive script (and was first regarded as a colophon before it was later correctly identified). The manuscript has been dated to the middle of the fourth century on the basis this cursive script,57 and cartonnage fragments from the cover have been assigned to the late third or early fourth centuries.58 Not only do the scribal hands in this codex differ from each other, but so do the dialectal features of the texts. As Thompson notes, while Acts is written in a relatively “pure” Sahidic, Deuteronomy displays “a striking number of unusual forms” that to him pointed towards Hermopolis.59 Furthermore, the scribal features of Deuteronomy and Jonah are quite similar to what we find in the Nag Hammadi Codices.60 Fragments of another biblical manuscript that closely resembles the Nag Hammadi Codices was found in the cover of Codex VII itself. These fragments derive from a codex that once contained (at least parts of) the book of Genesis in 55 Budge, Coptic Biblical Texts. Cf. Layton, Catalogue, 3–5. On the discovery, see Bell, By Nile and Tigris, 2:372–74. 56 Layton, Catalogue, 4; plates in Budge, Coptic Biblical Texts. Peter Nagel, “Aufbau und Komposition des Papyruskodex BL Or. 7594 der British Library,” in Coptology: Past, Present, and Future: Studies in Honour of Rodolphe Kasser (ed. Søren Givesen, Martin Krause, and Peter Nagel; OLA 61; Leuven: Peeters, 1994), 347–55, has argued that the codex was not originally made in its present form, but was originally a smaller codex consisting only of Deuteronomy and Jonah, and was later enlarged by the addition of the Acts of the Apostles and the excerpt of the Apocalypse of Elijah. But see Emmel’s critical response to this theory in “Recent Progress in Coptic Codicology and Paleography (1992–1996),” in Ägypten und Nubien in spätantiker und christlicher Zeit: Akten des 6. Internationalen Koptologenkongresses Münster, 20.–26. Juli 1996 (2 vols.; ed. Stephen Emmel et al., SKCO 6; Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 1999), 2:72. 57 Budge, Coptic Biblical Texts, lxiii; cf. ibid., lvii. 58 Budge, Coptic Biblical Texts, xiv–xvii; Kenyon states that had it not been for these factors he would have been inclined to date the manuscript significantly later (ibid., lxiii). 59 Herbert Thompson, The New Biblical Papyrus: A Sahidic Version of Deuteronomy, Jonah, and Acts of the Apostles from MS. Or. 7594 of the British Museum (London: William Clowes and Sons, 1913), 12. 60 E. g., in terms of layout and decoration, Deuteronomy’s subscript title closely resembles those in Nag Hammadi Codex II (especially those at the end of Ap. John, Gos. Thom., and Hyp. Arch.). The dimensions of BL Or. 7594 are also nearly identical with NHC VII (see Robinson, “Construction,” 185; Layton, “Catalogue,” 3). And as in the case of the Nag Hammadi Codices, the cartonnage from the cover of BL Or. 7594 yielded a wide variety of fragments, including pieces of a Greek parchment codex of the Book of Daniel as well as documentary texts in Greek and Coptic (mostly contracts and accounts). See Bell, “Mr. Bell’s Description,” xiv–xvii.

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Fig. 25. Deuteronomy and Jonah with colophon (BL Or. 7594 f. 53v). Courtesy of the British Library. © The British Library Board.

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Fig. 26. Genesis (P. Nag Hamm. C2).

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Sahidic. Although the importance of this discovery was duly noted by Kasser,61 it has largely been overlooked in subsequent scholarship. Both the scribal hand and the dimensions of the leaves demonstrate that the fragments come from a codex that must have been very similar to the Nag Hammadi Codices. With the dimensions of its original folios estimated at 13–14x28–29 cm,62 this Genesis codex would have been of almost exactly the same size as Nag Hammadi Codex XI, and falls into Eric Turner’s codicological type 8 together with Nag Hammadi Codices I, II, VI, X, XI, and XIII, as well as P. Bodmer XIV/XV (𝔓75).63 Because the handwriting and papyrus were of high quality, Kasser concluded that it must have been a valuable manuscript, which was recycled only when it had become irreparably worn-out from use.64 Although he first expected the text to have been redacted according to “Gnostic” theology, he quickly came to the conclusion that it corresponded well to other Sahidic copies of Genesis.65 There was nothing strange theologically or codicologically about this Genesis codex which circulated in the same place in which Nag Hammadi Codex VII was produced. Indeed, Kasser suggests that it could have been produced in the same scriptorium as the Nag Hammadi Codices and/or some of the Dishna Papers.66 The examples discussed above show that biblical manuscripts contemporary with the Nag Hammadi Codices do not necessarily display greater care in their manufacture, or greater dialectal “purity,” but actually resemble them in terms of codicology and scribal habits. This impression is only strengthened when we broaden the comparison to include biblical manuscripts, in both Coptic and Greek, from the important Dishna Papers discovery, some of which were probably manufactured in the same time period and area as the Nag Hammadi Codices.

The Dishna Papers The Dishna Papers constitute a collection of codices and rolls discovered in 1952, containing biblical, patristic, and classical texts written in Greek, Latin, 61 Kasser, “Fragments du livre biblique,” 66: “La découverte de folios d’un livre biblique cachés à l’intérieur de cette reliure gnostique est un événement extraordinaire, qui mérite d’attirer l’atention du monde savant.” 62 Kasser, “Fragments du livre biblique,” 71. 63 Eric. G. Turner, The Typology of the Early Codex (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977), 20. 64 Kasser, “Fragments du livre biblique,” 68–69, 76. 65 Kasser, “Fragments du livre biblique,” 66. Kasser argued, however, that since the Nag Hammadi texts were intended for an exclusive elite, and since their contents were heretical, the Nag Hammadi texts would not have been entrusted to “orthodox” scribes or book-binders, and he concluded that there must have been close connections between the scribes and the bookbinders, who must have been Gnostics (ibid., 67). 66 Kasser, “Fragments du livre biblique,” 80.

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and Coptic. The site of the discovery remains disputed,67 but James Robinson’s investigations led him to conclude that the discovery was made at the cliffs of the Jabal Abu Mana bordering the Dishna plain, at a site only 12 kilometers away from the cliffs of the Jabal al-Tarif where the Nag Hammadi Codices were discovered just years earlier.68 Robinson and others have suggested that these manuscripts once belonged to the Pachomian federation, especially since letters written by Pachomius and his successors Theodore and Horsiesios were found among them, in the form of small rolls (rotuli).69 According to Robinson, “the 67 The discovery site is referred to in various ways: Most commonly either (a) somewhere in the area between Panopolis and Thebes, or (b) in Panopolis, or (c) in Thebes. For (a) see George D. Kilpatrick, “The Bodmer and Mississippi Collection of Biblical and Christian Texts,” GRBS 4:1 (1963): 34; Kasser, Papyrus Bodmer XVI: Exode I–XV,21 en sahidique (Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1961), 7; cf. Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 23, 162, 173. For (b) see Victor Martin, Papyrus Bodmer I: Iliade, chants 5 et 6 (BBod 3; Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1954), 21; Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 103; E. G. Turner, Greek Papyri, 52–53 (but see the comments in Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 25 n. 44). The main reason for the connection to Panopolis is P. Bodmer I/L, which contains documents from Panopolis on the recto (P. Bodmer L) and Homer’s Iliad on the verso (P. Bodmer I) (see Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 75). For (c) see Michel Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX: VII: L’Épitre de Jude; VIII: Les deux Épitres de Pierre; IX: Les Psaumes 33 et 34 (Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1959), 32, who bases himself on Kasser’s dialectal analysis in Papyrus Bodmer VI: Livre des Proverbes (2 vols.; CSCO 194–95, Scriptores Coptici 27–28; Leuven: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1960). At different times, Kasser has expressed a preference for Thebes (Papyrus Bodmer XVI, 7), or simply somewhere in Upper Egypt (Papyrus Bodmer III, iii). Rodolphe Kasser and Guglielmo Cavallo place the site of discovery somewhat to the east of Nag Hammadi (André Hurst et al., Papyrus Bodmer XXIX: Vision de Dorotheos [Cologny-Geneva: Fondation Martin Bodmer, 1984], 100 n. 2). 68 Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 108–9; Robinson, “History and Codicology,” ix. According to Bastiaan Van Elderen, a leading member of the Nag Hammadi Excavation Project together with Robinson, “local informants suggested that the find-spot was located in the Wadi Sheikh Ali near Abu Mana, about seven miles east of Jebel el-Tarif” (“Early Christian Libraries,” 51). The account of the the Dishna Papers’ discovery is remarkably similar to that of the Nag Hammadi Codices. The Dishna Papers are said to have been discovered in a jar by peasants digging for sabbakh close to the cliff of the Jabal Abu Mana. The peasants broke the jar with a mattock and took the books home, where parts of them were used to kindle a fire (see Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 108–10; on the date of the discovery, ibid., 151). After their discovery, the manuscripts were soon sold off to several different collections, and most eventually made their way to the library of Martin Bodmer in Cologny near Geneva; hence their more common, if misleading, designation as the Bodmer papyri. But as Robinson has shown, significant parts of the discovery are also held in other collections, including the Chester Beatty Library in Dublin, the PalauRibes collection in Barcelona, and the University of Cologne. There is currently no consensus regarding the exact extent of the Dishna Papers discovery, but Robinson lists a total of more than thirty codices and a handful of miniature rolls containing Pachomian letters (see the inventory in Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 185–96). While one may quibble over some of the less secure manuscripts included in Robinson’s inventory, it seems plausible that most of the items trace back to the same 1952 discovery. For detailed discussions of the Dishna Papers, see Robinson, Bodmer Papyri; Rodolphe Kasser, “Bodmer Papyri,” in The Coptic Encyclopedia (8 vols.; ed. Aziz S. Atiya; New York: Macmillan, 1991), 8:48–53; and Van Elderen, “Early Christian Libraries.” 69 Robinson suggests that these rolls may have been “archival copies” kept by the Pachomian monks (Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 172). The letters are now in the Chester Beatty Library, the University of Cologne, and the Bodmer Library. They contain letters of Pachomius (P. Bodmer

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site of the discovery near the foot of the Jabal Abu Mana was in full view of the headquarters monastery of the Pachomian order, at the foot of the cliff to which funeral processions moved from the monastery.”70 The monastery of Tabennesi was also nearby.71 While the possible Pachomian provenance of the Dishna Papers is intriguing, and well worth keeping in mind, a full discussion of its likelihood and implications is outside the scope of the present study. However, some of the biblical manuscripts among the Dishna Papers offer further relevant comparanda for the Nag Hammadi Codices, and were most likely produced in the same region and time period (if not the same monastic scriptoria, as Robinson has suggested). It is of course important to recognize that despite their similarities the two collections also differ in some important respects. Unlike the Nag Hammadi Codices, the Dishna Papers include parchment as well as papyrus manuscripts, rolls as well as codices, and preserve texts in Greek, Coptic, and Latin. And while the Nag Hammadi Codices display relatively uniform codicological and scribal features (despite their classification into sub-groups), the Dishna Papers include a very diverse range of formats and hands. Nevertheless, some of the biblical manuscripts in this collection closely resemble the Nag Hammadi Codices on the level of codicology and scribal habits. Two of the most famous early Greek biblical codices come from the Dishna Papers discovery, namely 𝔓66 (P. Bodmer II: Gospel of John) and 𝔓75 (P. Bodmer XIV–XV: Gospels of Luke and John). Both of them share a number of features in common with the Nag Hammadi Codices. While 𝔓66 and 𝔓75 have been traditionally dated to the second or third centuries on palaeographical grounds, these early dates have recently been challenged by Brent Nongbri, who argues that they may date to the fourth century.72 𝔓75 is especially interesting, as it bears a remarkably close resemblance to the Nag Hammadi Codices in terms of its dimensions, quire structure, single-column format, and palaeography, as well as paratextual features such as the format of titles.73 As for 𝔓66, while it differs from 𝔓75 and the Nag Hammadi Codices in its dimensions and squarish format, it shares with them similar scribal habits. Not only does the title format of 𝔓66 reXXXIX; Chester Beatty Glass Container No. 54 = ac. 2556; Chester Beatty Ms. W. 145+P. Köln 174; P. Köln ägypt. 8 and 9), Theodore (Chester Beatty Library ac. 1486; unidentified private collection), and Horsiesios (Chester Beatty Library ac. 1494 and 1495) mostly in Sahidic Coptic, but one in Greek (Chester Beatty Ms. W. 145+P. Köln 174). 70 Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 153. On the possible Pachomian connection generally, see Robinson, Bodmer Papyri, 130–84; Scholten, “Buchbesitz,” 172; Goehring, “Monastic Diversity,” 78–80; Van Elderen, “Early Christian Libraries” 51–52; Joest, Die Pachom-Briefe, 52. 71 Although the exact location of Tabennesi is unknown, it was located not far upstream from Pbow. See Lefort, “Les premiers monastères,” 393–97. 72 See Nongbri, “Limits”; Nongbri, “Reconsidering.” 73 Like all the Nag Hammadi Codices (except NHC I), 𝔓75 is a single quire codex. With regard to its size and format, it is close to NHC I, II, VI, X, XI, and XIII, all of which fall into E. G. Turner’s type 8 (Typology, 20). In its general appearance it is especially similar to NHC II.

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Fig. 27. Gospels of Thomas and Philip (NHC II.51) and Gospels of Luke and John (P. Bodmer XIV–XV = 𝔓75). Courtesy of the Fondation Martin Bodmer.

semble those in several Nag Hammadi Codices (V, VI, VII, and IX),74 but a markedly shared practice may also be noted in the way the scribe inserted corrections and additions to the text by writing them in the margin (usually top or bottom) and marking the text to be inserted and its insertion point with special symbols. The symbols used are practically identical in 𝔓66, 𝔓75, P. Bodmer XVI (Sahidic Exodus) and Nag Hammadi Codex III,75 and a similar practice was followed by scribe A of Nag Hammadi Codex I, although the symbols used there are slightly different.76 Another important Greek manuscript from the Dishna Papers, the 74 Compare the superscript title of the Gospel of John in 𝔓66 with those of Apoc. Adam (NHC V,5), Thund. (NHC VI,2), Paraph. Shem (NHC VII,1), and Melch. (NHC IX,1). 75 P. Bodmer II, 14, 35, 112, 119; P. Bodmer XV, 68; P. Bodmer XVI, 5; NHC III, 24 (Ap. John). 76 NHC I, 32 (Gos. Truth).

Fig. 28. a) Nag Hammadi Codex III.24 (Apocryphon of John); b) P. Bodmer II = 𝔓66 (Gospel of John); c) P. Bodmer XVI (Exodus); d) P. Bodmer XV = 𝔓75 (Gospel of John). Courtesy of the Fondation Martin Bodmer.

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so-called Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex,77 although quite different from the Nag Hammadi Codices in its format and dimensions, offers an interesting comparison to them in its colophons, which pronounce blessings of peace upon the writer and reader similar to the colophon at the end of Codex II.78 Some Coptic Dishna codices also share common features with the Nag Hammadi Codices. Papyrus Bodmer III (the Gospel of John and Gen 1:1–4:2 in Bohairic) is both palaeographically and codicologically comparable.79 Based on the peculiar orthographic, dialectal, and grammatical features of its Bohairic language, which exhibits traces of dialect mixture, Kasser ultimately concluded that it was probably manufactured in a “private” setting similar to that of the Nag Hammadi texts, which he regarded as “un milieu non orthodoxe, probablement gnostique.”80 Leaving aside Kasser’s problematic assumption of “orthodox” versus “gnostic” milieus, it can be observed that the book’s contents would certainly make a nice companion volume to the creation stories found in some of the Nag Hammadi texts, where intertextual relationships with the Gospel of John and Genesis are often of central importance.81 Two Sahidic codices from the Dishna discovery, P. Bodmer XXI (Joshua) and P. Bodmer XXIII (Isaiah), may also be mentioned.82 Both feature centered subscript titles similar to what we find in most of the Nag Hammadi Codices, 77 The Miscellaneous Codex contains the following texts, published under several different Bodmer numbers: The Nativity of Mary (P. Bodmer V), apocryphal correspondence between Paul and the Corinthians (P. Bodmer X), an Ode of Solomon (P. Bodmer XI), Jude (P. Bodmer VII), Melito of Sardis, On the Passover (P. Bodmer XIII), a fragment of a hymn (P. Bodmer XII), the Apology of Phileas (P. Bodmer XX), Psalms 33:2–34:16 LXX (P. Bodmer IX), and 1–2 Peter (P. Bodmer VIII). For the editions, see Michel Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer V: Nativité de Marie (Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1958); Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer VII–IX; Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer X–XII: X: Correspondance apocryphe des Corinthiens et de l’apôtre Paul; XI: Onzième Ode de Salomon; XII: Fragment d’un Hymne liturgique. Manuscrit du IIIe siècle (Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1959); Testuz, Papyrus Bodmer XIII: Méliton de Sardes, Homélie sur la Pâque. Manuscrit du IIIe siècle (Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1960); Victor Martin, Papyrus Bodmer XX: Apologie de Philéas évêque de Thmouis (ColognyGeneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1964). See also Tommy Wasserman, “Papyrus 72 and the Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex,” NTS 51 (2005): 137–54. 78 A peace blessing also appears at the end of Pr. Paul in Codex I. See the discussion in chapter seven. 79 Rodolphe Kasser, Papyrus Bodmer III: Évangile de Jean et Genèse I–IV,2 en bohaïrique (2 vols.; CSCO 177–78, Scriptores Coptici 25–26; Leuven: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1958); Kasser, “Le Papyrus Bodmer III réexaminé: Amélioration de sa transcription,” JCoptS 3 (2001): 81–112, plates 9–13. Its dimensions, 16,5 × 23,25 cm, places it among the aberrants in E. G. Turner’s type 6 (Typology, 18), but it is nevertheless not far away from the somewhat narrower dimensions of NHC IV and V (see the table in chapter five). 80 Kasser, Papyrus Bodmer III, 1:vii–xiii. 81 Cf. Kasser, Papyrus Bodmer III, 1:xii–xiii. 82 Rodolphe Kasser, Papyrus Bodmer XXI: Josué VI,16–25, VII,6–XI,23, XXII,1–2,19– XXIII,7,15–XXIV,23 en sahidique (Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1963); Rodolphe Kasser, Papyrus Bodmer XIII: Esaïe XLVII,1–LXVI,24 en sahidique (Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1965).

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Fig. 29. P. Bodmer III: Gospel of John and Genesis. Courtesy of the Fondation Martin Bodmer.

and somewhat more uniquely, both place titles on the inside of the front flyleaf, just as in the case of Nag Hammadi Codex III.83 Whereas the text of Isaiah in P. Bodmer XXIII appears to have been copied in a “remarkably pure Sahidic,”84 the Sahidic text of Joshua in P. Bodmer XXI shows influence from other dialects, and thus offers an example of a Sahidic biblical codex from this region that was not completely standardized.85 83 The flyleaf title in NHC III reads ⲡⲁⲡⲟⲕⲣⲩⲫⲟⲛ ⲛ̄ⲓ̈ⲱϩⲁⲛⲛⲏⲥ (“The Apocryphon of John”). The blotting on the inside of the front flyleaf by ink from page one is also similar in NHC III and P. Bodmer XXI. 84 Rodolphe Kasser, Papyrus Bodmer XIII: Esaïe XLVII,1–LXVI,24 en sahidique (ColognyGeneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1965), 23. 85 Rodolphe Kasser, Papyrus Bodmer XXI: Josué VI,16–25, VII,6–XI,23, XXII,1–2,19– XXIII,7,15–XXIV,23 en sahidique (Cologny-Geneva: Bibliothèque Bodmer, 1963), 14, with a discussion of these traits on pages 14–26. The Dishna Papers also demonstrate that on the scribal level, manuscripts of canonical texts were not necessarily copied with greater care than non-canonical ones. The Miscellaneous Codex was copied in a rather sloppy manner (e.g, inattention to straight lines). P. Bodmer XXI (Sahidic Joshua), P. Bodmer XXIII (Sahidic Isaiah), P. Bodmer III (Bohairic Gospel of John and Genesis), and P. Bodmer II (𝔓66: Greek Gospel of John) do not appear to have been copied with more care than most of the Nag Hammadi Codices (the exception being the main scribe of Nag Hammadi Codex I, who was notably less skilled than the rest of the Nag Hammadi scribes). Of the biblical manuscripts from the Dishna

Fig. 30. a) Nag Hammadi Codex III (Apocryphon of John); b) P. Bodmer XXIII (Isaiah); c) P. Bodmer XXI (Joshua). Courtesy of the Fondation Martin Bodmer.

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Conclusion The classification of the Nag Hammadi Codices into sub-groups does not rule out the possibility that they were produced in a monastery, or in a network of monasteries like the Pachomian federation. In fact, allowing for the likelihood that different craftsmen would have employed slightly different methods, manufacture of the Codices in the Pachomian federation, with its several monasteries, each with their own individual houses and decentralized book collections, may very well explain why there are subtle codicological differences among them, while they generally share much in common. While Funk may be right in ascribing the peculiar dialectal mixture witnessed in many of the Nag Hammadi texts to a chain of transmission in “private” book-exchange networks, we would emphasize that this was the primary manner in which books circulated among monasteries too (both in Egypt and elsewhere, as we saw in chapter seven). In addition to Funk’s theory of traveling codices, the dialectal variation exhibited in the Nag Hammadi Codices may also be explained by the migration of people from different regions of Egypt who settled together in new communities where they influenced each other’s dialects and precipitated a process of dialectal mixture. A cenobitic monastery or federation of monasteries like the Pachomian koinonia would be a likely place where this kind of contact and mixture would occur. Furthermore, we have seen that there are notable similarities between the Nag Hammadi Codices and contemporary biblical manuscripts in terms of codicology, scribal habits, and in some cases dialectal mixture as well. The common scribal culture shared between the Nag Hammadi Codices and the examples of biblical manuscripts discussed in this chapter lend further credibility to the notion that whoever copied and read the Nag Hammadi Codices also copied and read Scripture.86 Thus we need not regard the Nag Hammadi texts as the bizarre byproduct of some “gnostic,” syncretistic, or untraditional community living on the margins of the Christian church in Upper Egypt, as Khosroyev suggests. Indeed, at the level of scribal habits and codicology, some of the best comparanda for the Nag Hammadi Codices come from biblical manuscripts among the Dishna Papers, which were discovered in the same region and might have belonged to the Pachomian federation headquartered at Pbow. Bastiaan Van Elderen has posited that an association of the Dishna Papers with the Pachomians Papers discovery, only 𝔓75 (P. Bodmer XIV–XV) is of comparable quality to the best of the Nag Hammadi Codices, and shares notable features with them. 86 In addition to the Greek biblical manuscripts discussed in this chapter, compare also esp. Chester Beatty Codices IX/X (containing Ezekiel, Daniel-Bel-Susanna, and Esther) and XII (containing the Book of Enoch and Melito, Peri Pascha), which display a range of similarities with the Nag Hammadi Codices in terms of codicology, palaeography, and scribal practices. See Frederic G. Kenyon, The Chester Beatty Biblical Papyri: Descriptions and Texts of Twelve Manuscripts on Papyrus of the Greek Bible (8 vols.; London: Emery Walker, 1933–41).

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Fig. 31. Fragment of Zostrianos (P. Bodmer XLIII). Courtesy of the Fondation Martin Bodmer.

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would tend to confirm that Pachomians did not also produce the Nag Hammadi Codices, given their heterodox content.87 This seems to ignore the fact that the Dishna Papers, in addition to their biblical and patristic literature, also include classical texts and instances of Christian apocrypha (e. g., the Visions of Dorotheos, the Acts of Paul, the Apocalypse of Elijah, and a non-canonical letter of Paul to the Corinthians). A leaf from a papyrus codex with a text that parallels the apocalypse of Zostrianos attested in Nag Hammadi Codex VIII, and closely resembles the Nag Hammadi Codices in its dimensions and palaeography, may also have been discovered among the Dishna Papers.88 The possibility that both the Nag Hammadi Codices and the Dishna Papers once belonged to a Pachomian monastery in the vicinity of the discovery sites,89 and the implications of a common provenance, deserve closer scholarly attention in future studies.

87 Van Elderen, “Early Christian Libraries,” 56: “dissociation of the Pachomian monastic movement from the Nag Hammadi Library is further confirmed by the association of the Bodmer Library with the monastery.” 88 Rodolphe Kasser and Philippe Luisier, “P. Bodmer XLIII: Un feuillet de Zostrien,” Mus 120:3/4 (2007): 251–72. The leaf shows signs of having been folded, perhaps to be used as an amulet after the codex itself was no longer in use (ibid., 251). In terms of its dimensions, it falls into E. G. Turner’s group 8 together with NHC I, II, VI, X, XI and XIII, and P. Bodmer XIV/XV (see E. G. Turner, Typology, 20–21). This leaf is included among the Dishna Papers by Robinson, but not by Kasser. 89 Cf. Goehring, “Monastic Diversity,” 78–80.

Chapter 9

The Monks as long as we have peace with the natures of this world we remain enemies of God and of his angels and all his Saints. – Antony the Great1

The evidence we have discussed in the previous chapters points strongly to a monastic origin for the Nag Hammadi Codices. In this chapter we continue our discussion of the varieties of monasticism in the region where the codices were discovered, and address more specifically the identity of the monks who owned them. Furthermore, we discuss how the Nag Hammadi Codices might have appealed to monastic readers by comparing some of their contents to what we know about the ideals and theological interests of monks in fourth and fifthcentury Egypt. We thus move toward understanding the texts in their manuscript context, while consciously avoiding the traditional scholarly preoccupation with their “gnostic” theological features, such as the denigration of the God of Israel (a feature which is not found in the majority of the texts, as we pointed out in chapter three). Instead, we highlight different features of the texts which we know had wide currency among Egyptian monastics and are likely to be among the reasons why monks were drawn to these texts in the first place. The texts have much more to offer than “gnostic” theological systems, long lists of aeons, and arcane mythology. The monks who read these books may well have been more interested in, for example, their allegorical intepretations of Scripture, and what they had to teach about demons, bodily passions, ascesis, prayer, visions and heavenly ascents, the experience of the soul, and soteriological and Christological issues related to baptism, the Eucharist, and resurrection. Our discussion of these issues does not aim to be a comprehensive survey of these topics in the Nag Hammadi Codices, but should rather be understood as an invitation to further research into how these books related to the monastic culture that produced them. As we have seen, we know that different kinds of monastics thrived in and around the area where the Codices originated. The Pachomians, or “Tabennesiots” as they were called,2 are of course the most famous and well documented, Antony, Ep. 5.36 (trans. Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony, 214). See, e. g., Palladius, Hist. Laus. prol. 2; 18.12; 32–33; Hist. mon. 77; SBo 63, 125. The name derives from the first Pachomian monastery at Tabennesi. 1 2

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and were probably the most noticable in terms of sheer numbers, with over nine communities of male and female ascetics in the region already by the time of their founder’s death in 347. There were probably also monks affiliated with the schismatic Melitian church in the vicinity, and it has even been suggested that the Nag Hammadi Codices might have belonged to them.3 In addition, monks who perpetuated the theological legacy of Origen were evidently widespead among the ascetics of Egypt by the 370s. There were other, “independent” monks in the region as well, anchorites and cenobites, some of whom we hear about in the Pachomian sources. Little is known of them, however, and we do not know if they had organizational identities comparable to the Pachomians and Melitians. In what follows, we discuss how we see the Nag Hammadi Codices fitting into this monastic landscape by addressing Melitian, Origenist, and Pachomian monks in turn, and explain why, in our view, the Pachomians still make sense as the most likely owners of these books.4

Melitian Monks? As an alternative to the Pachomian theory, Armand Veilleux once suggested that the Nag Hammadi Codices might have been owned by Melitians monks. Although Veilleux himself describes it as a “gratuitous” suggestion, he argues that it reconciles with the known presence of Melitians in Upper Egypt, and the fact that Melitians were among those critized by Athanasius for teaching out of apocryphal books.5 In his famous Thirty-Ninth Festal Letter, Athanasius indicts the Melitians for leading simple-minded people astray with “apocrypha,” which he accuses them of fabriacating and endowing with a false sense of antiquity by

3 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 285; Shelton, “Introduction,” 6 n. 12; Goehring, “Some Reflections,” 67–68. 4 It may be noted here too that while scholars speak of Manichaean monks in Egypt, and frequently posit a typological relationship between the Nag Hammadi texts (not the Codices themselves) and Manichaeaism, as two forms of the modern scholarly construct of Gnosticism/ Gnosis, no one, as far as we know, has suggested that the codices belonged to Manichaeans. Indeed, nothing of the codices (the covers, cartonnage documents, scribal colophons, titles, or texts) have traits that would point in this direction (e. g., clear references to Mani and his teachings). On Manichaean “monks” in Egypt, see Ludwig Koenen “Manichäische Mission und Klöster in Ägypten,” in Das römisch-byzantinische Ägypten (ed. Günter Grimm, Heinz Heinen, and Erich Winter; Aegyptiaca treverensia 2; Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1983), 98–108. Khosroyev suggests that Manichaeans in Egypt learned Greek philosophical vocabulary and concepts from “Gnostics” and read the kind of texts that were discovered at Nag Hammadi (Die Bibliothek, 104–33). 5 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 276 n. 28, 284; cf. Montserrat-Torrents, “Social and Cultural Setting,” 477–78, who discusses the Melitians as part of the cultural setting in which the Codices circulated (but does not suggest that they were owned by them).

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attributing them to biblical figures, sometimes giving them the same names as the “true books” of Scripture.6 On the other hand, Alberto Camplani has argued that the Nag Hammadi texts were probably not among the kind of apocryphal books Athanasius had in mind, since the archbishop names specific texts not found at Nag Hammadi, namely an apocryphon of Isaiah, an apocryphon of Moses, and multiple books of Enoch.7 Nevertheless, we think it is likely that Athanasius has more than these particular books in mind when he speaks of “apocrypha,” and we agree with Veilleux that the apocrypha Athanasius intended to forbid could include many of the works found in the Nag Hammadi Codices.8 Yet there is little to suggest that the Codices themselves were owned by Melitians. While Melitians probably did read apocryphal books, as Athanasius charges, they were not alone in doing so. As we have seen in chapter six, apocryphal books continued to be popular among Egyptian Christians well into the middle ages, despite the efforts of ecclesiastical censors, so there was nothing uniquely Melitian about reading apocrypha. A possible connection between the Nag Hammadi Codices and the Melitians has also been proposed on the basis of the cartonnage documents. In his introduction to the cartonnage papyri, John Shelton suggested that the kind of commercial dealings and “secular” affairs carried on by monks like Sansnos could perhaps point to their Melitian rather than Pachomian affiliation.9 More recently, James Goehring has concluded that the papyri associated with the Melitian monastery at Hathor in Middle Egypt10 offer the best parallels to the monastic letters among the cartonnage papyri, especially in terms of what they reveal about monks maintaining close ties with the world. In addition to commercial dealings, these ties included holding ordained office.11 According to Goehring, the fact that Sansnos was a monk and priest makes his affiliation with the Pachomians less likely, while the Melitian documents do attest to the presence of ordained monks in their ranks.12 The implications of this comparison should not be pressed too far however. As Goehring points out, the similarities between the 6 Athanasius, Ep. fest. 39 (Lefort, Lettres Festales, 18,2–3): ⲛ̄ϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ ⲛ̄ⲁⲡⲟⲅⲣⲁⲫⲟⲛ ⲉⲩⲁⲡⲁⲧⲁ ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲟⲩ ϩⲓⲧⲙ̄ⲡⲣⲁⲛ ⲛ̄ϩⲉⲛϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ ⲙ̄ⲙⲉ (Greek version in Joannou, Les Canons, 76).

Camplani, “In margine alla storia dei Meliziani,” Augustinianum 30 (1990): 333. Athanasiuis refers to “books that are called ‘apocryphon’,” and it is certainly noteworthy that the Nag Hammadi Codices contain such self-styled apocrypha as Ap. John and Ap. Jas. While each of the four extant copies of Ap. John have the term “apocryphon” in their titles, Ap. Jas. bears no title in the manuscript, but refers to itself as an apocryphon in the text (Ap. Jas. 1.8–10; cf. 1.28–31). 9 Shelton, “Introduction,” 6 n. 12. See chapter five for a discussion of Shelton’s interpretation of the cartonnage documents. 10 On which, see chapter two. 11 Goehring, “Provenance,” 246–49, esp. 247; cf. Goehring, “Some Reflections,” 68. 12 Goehring, “Provenance,” 246 with reference to SBo 25, G1 27, which speak of Pachomius’ initial hesitation to receive priests into his community. See the more detailed discussion of this issue in chapter five. 7 8

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letter collections are due, at least in part, to their documentary nature.13 And as we noted in chapter five, Sansnos’ ordination should not be seen as an obstacle to his potential Pachomian affiliation, since Pachomius did in fact allow priests to join his community if they submitted to the monastery’s rule and authority structures. There were also ordained monks in other monastic organizations, so Sansnos’ status as a priest as well as a monk is certainly no indication that he was a Melitian.14 With respect to a possible Melitian provenance of the Sansnos papyri (and by extension the Nag Hammadi Codices), Goehring concludes that “there is nothing in the cartonnage documents that confirms a Melitian connection”; and while the “strength of the Meltians in Upper Egypt” could lead to “intriguing speculation,” the evidence provides “no more direct support for the Melitian origin of the Nag Hammadi codices than it did for the theory of their Pachomian provenance.”15 While we are in broad agreement with Goehring on this point, 13

Goehring, “Provenance,” 246, and 248 n. 90. Shenoute too was a priest. Hence Dioscorus addresses him as “Shenoute the priest (ⲡⲣⲉⲥⲃⲩⲧⲉⲣⲟⲥ), the father of the monks (ⲡⲓⲱⲧ ⲛ̄ⲙ̄ⲙⲟⲛⲁⲭⲟⲥ)” (Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 66; Thompson, “Dioscorus and Shenoute,” 370). Like Pachomius, Shenoute stipulated rules for priests who desired to join his community, requiring them to submit to the housemasters like all the other brothers. See Shenoute, God Who Alone Is True, FM 191 (Leipoldt, Sinuthii, 4:165). It is clear that in Shenoute’s monasteries, the priests would usually have to find their places in the common monastic routine, including various forms of manual labour, but at the time of liturgical celebrations, they would officiate. They were thus members of two hierarchies at the same time, with the monastic one taking precedence over the ecclesiastical except on certain occasions. See Layton, “Rules, Patterns,” 45–73. 15 Goehring, “Provenance,” 249; cf. Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 275–76. It should be noted, however, that the strength of Melitians in Upper Egypt is not entirely clear and should not be overstated. In contrast to the wealth of evidence for Melitians in Middle Egypt, which includes documentary sources (see chapter two), the evidence for their presence in Upper Egypt is rather scanty and of a literary nature. The main sources are: an anecdote in the Life of Pachomius (SBo 129) which makes reference to Melitians concealing their identity when visiting Pachomian monasteries (paralled in S5 [Lefort, Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 180]); Ep. Am. 12, which mentions Melitians who tried to convert Pachomius in his early days as an anchorite (presumably at Sheneset); and Ap. Patr. (Sisoes 48), which refers to Melitian monks living on a mountain in the Thebaid (though the value of this collection for the history of Egyptian monasticism in the fourth century is questionable [see Rubenson, “Textual Fluidity”]). A letter associated with the Melitian monastery at Hathor in Middle Egypt refers to another community in the “upper country,” which could be interpreted as the Thebaid, though the reference remains obscure (P. Lond. VI 1917, line 18; Bell, Jews and Christians, 81). For a helpful catalogue of references to Melitians, see Goehring, Letter of Ammon, 230–31. It may also be noted that in contrast to the Nag Hammadi cartonnage, the fourth-century papyri from the Melitian monastery at Hathor identify people explicitly as “monks of the Melitians” (τοὺς μ[ο]ναχοὺς τῶν Μελιτιανῶν; P. Lond. VI 1914,20; Bell, Jews and Christians, 59), as do the papyri from the monastery at Labla, dated to 512–513 (SB I 5174 and 5175). In SB I 5174 we meet Eulogius, “a former Melitian monk” (Εύλογιος μονάζων ποτὲ μεν Μελιτιανός) and Pousis a “Melitian priest” (πρεσβυτέρῳ Μελιτιανῷ); and in SB I 5175, those who purchased a cell are identified as “Melitian monks from the monastery called Labla” (Μελιτιανοῖς μονάζουσιν μοναστηρίου καλουμένου Λάβλα). See McGing, “Melitian Monks at Labla,” 73, 80. 14

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we would emphasize that the letter “to father Pachome” found in the cover of Codex VII is in fact a concrete clue that points toward a specifically Pachomian association, as we discussed in chapter five. We will return to the Pachomian hypothesis in greater detail below.

Origenist Monks? Following Samuel Rubenson’s groundbreaking study of the letters of Antony, the legacy of Origen in Egyptian monasticism has gained widespread recognition.16 Far from being a marginal trend, Origen’s influence in Egypt appears to have been ubiquitous from the beginning of monasticism, and became controversial only toward the end of the fourth century when archbishop Theophilus abruptly turned against the Origenist monks.17 While this view has not gone unchallenged,18 there can be no doubt that many Egyptian monks were influenced by Origen’s theology already in the fourth century. In the Ancoratus, written about 374, the tireless heresy-hunter Epiphanius criticizes those “who seem to have achieved the chief ranks among some of the ascetics in Egypt, both of the Thebaid and other regions … and who say there is a resurrection of our flesh – yet not this (flesh), but another in its place.”19 Epiphanius clearly has followers of Origen in mind, as further on in the book he attributes the same resurrection theology to those “who appear to be Christians but have been persuaded by Origen.”20 About two years later, in his magnum opus, the Panarion, Epiphanius explains how “the sect” (αἵρεσις) which sprang from Origen began in Egypt and could be found “among the very persons who are the most eminent and appear to have adopted the monastic life – who have really retired to the deserts and 16 Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony. See also Rubenson, “Origen in the Egyptian Monastic Tradition.” On the centrality of Origen’s theology among the early monks of Egypt, see also Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism. 17 As Samuel Rubenson points out, “The conflict over Origen was not introduced into the desert by Evagrius, but rather by Theophilus as part of a wider ecclesiastical struggle involving Jerusalem and Constantinople” (“Argument and Authority in Early Monastic Correspondence,” in Foundations of Power and Conflicts of Authority in Late-Antique Monasticism: Proceedings of the International Seminar Turin, December 2–4, 2004 [ed. Alberto Camplani and Giovanni Filoramo; OLA 157; Leuven: Peeters, 2007], 86–87). 18 E. g., Graham Gould, “Recent Work on Monastic Origins: a Consideration of the Questions Raised by Samuel Rubenson’s The Letters of St. Antony,” in Studia Patristica XXV: Papers Presented at the Eleventh International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 1991: Biblica et Apocrypha, Orientalia, Ascetica (ed. Elizabeth A. Livingstone; Leuven: Peeters, 1993), 405–16; Gould, “The Influence of Origen on Fourth-Century Monasticism: Some Further Remarks,” in Origeniana Sexta: Origène et la bible/Origen and the Bible: Actes du Colloquium Origenianum Sextum, Chantilly, 30 août – 3 septembre 1993 (ed. Gilles Dorival and Alain le Boulluec; Leuven: Peeters, 1995), 591–98. 19 Epiphanius, Anc. 82.3 (Holl, Epiphanius, 1:102–3). 20 Epiphanius, Anc. 87.2–3 (Holl, Epiphanius, 1:107).

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elected voluntary poverty.”21 In both works, he describes followers of Origen’s doctrines with the convenient heresiological label “Origenists” (Ὠριγενιασταί).22 To be clear, it is doubtful that there ever existed monks who called themselves “Origenists” or constituted an organized “sect” as Epiphanius describes them. The label was a heresiological invention, not a self-designation.23 The so-called Origenists did not form their own community, comparable to the Pachomian monastic federation or the Melitian Church, but could be found among a variety of Christians, including the Pachomians, who adhered to teachings which Origen had promulgated or which were later associated with his name as heresy (e. g., the pre-existence of the soul and its fall into the body; denial of a resurrection of the ordinary material flesh; an eschatological vision that all creation will be restored to the divine Father; allegorical readings of the Genesis creation story, etc.).24 When the Origenist controversy broke out in 399–400, archbishop Theophilus wrote several festal letters denouncing the theology of Origen,25 and described monks sympathetic to Origen’s teachings as “those garbed in the eremitical but unquiet tunic of the new wisdom.”26 Controversy with Origenists also looms large in the polemical works of Shenoute, who was very much inspired by Theophilus. While Shenoute’s attacks on the Origenists depend in part on Theophilus’ writings, which he quotes extensively,27 he also appears to have had direct experience with monks accused of teaching Origenist doctrines in his own region. Thus in Dioscorus’ letter to Shenoute,28 the archbishop asks for his help in censoring the “books and many treatises by the pest Origen and other heretics” which 21 Epiphanius, Pan. 64.4.1 (trans. F. Williams, Panarion of Epiphanius, 2:137). The refutation of Origen and his followers may be regarded as the main motivation for Epiphanius’ Panarion. For a masterful treatment of Epiphanius’ role in the Origenist controversy see Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism. 22 The term Ὠριγενιασταί is used by Epiphanius in Anc. 13.6 and Pan. 64.3.10 (Holl, Epiphanius, 1:21 and 2:409), and οἱ τοῦ Ὠριγένους μαθηταί in Anc. 63.5 (Holl 1:76). 23 Cf. Sozomen, Hist. eccl. 8.12.12: “They gave the name of Origenists (οἱ Ὠριγενιασταί) to those who maintainted the incorporeality of the Deity, while those who held the opposite opinion were called Anthropomorphists” (NPNF2 2:407). For similar terms used to describe the “Origenists,” see PGL, 1557b. 24 Cf. Anders Lund Jacobsen, “Genesis 1–3 as Source for the Anthropology of Origen,” VC 62 (2008): 213–32, esp. 215 n. 7: “There was no ‘school’ of Origen as such, only groups of individuals who disseminated various elements of Origen’s theology.” 25 Theophilus’ festal letters of 401, 402, and 404 (the one from 403 is not extant) all condemn Origen’s teachings (cf. Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism, 437), thus representing a notable about-face from his Festal Letter of 399 (not extant), where professing Origenist theology he denounced the views of the “Anthropomorphites” concerning God’s image. On Theophilus Festal Letter of 399 and his subsequent change of heart, see Sokrates, Hist. eccl. 6.7; Sozomen, Hist. eccl. 8.11; Cassian, Conferences 10.3-4. 26 Theophilus of Alexandria, Homily on the Mystical Supper, PG 1027B-C (trans. Norman Russell, Theophilus of Alexandria [The Early Church Fathers; London: Routledge, 2007], 59). 27 Shenoute quotes Theophilus’ Festal Letter of 401 practically in its entirety. See Emmel, “Theophilus’s Festal Letter.” 28 See chapters two and six.

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were circulating in monasteries in and around Panopolis.29 Shenoute himself attacks monks with Origenist leanings in several texts. In And It Happened One Day, for example, he criticizes “some from among us” who professes erroneous views on the Eucharist “since their hearts have been wounded by the words of Origen.”30 Already in the 1970s, Rowan Greer suggested the possibility “that at Nag Hammadi we are dealing with a community of theosophical monks influenced by Origen, concerned with the ascetical and celibate life, and interested in whatever theosophical literature could be found.”31 Greer’s suggestion has much to recommend it. As we saw in chapter six, Theophilus, Dioscorus, and Shenoute all charged their Origenist opponents with reading apocryphal and other “heretical” books, and Dioscorus and Shenoute specifically targeted monks in Upper Egypt. As we shall see, the monks who copied and read the Nag Hammadi Codices might very well have been among those who were branded as proponents of Origen’s teachings. While Origenists were not the only Christians who read apocrypha, there are further points of contact between the Nag Hammadi texts and the kind of books read by Origenists. Tito Orlandi, for example, has argued that the main opponents confronted by Shenoute in I Am Amazed possessed texts like those preserved in the Nag Hammadi Codices.32 According to Shenoute, the Origenists were reading apocryphal books describing “other worlds” (ϩⲉⲛⲕⲉⲕⲟⲥⲙⲟⲥ) and containing revelations of “mysteries” not found in Scrip-

29 Dioscorus, Ep. Sin. XZ 73 (Munier, Manuscrits coptes, 148): ϩⲉⲛϫⲱⲱⲙⲉ ⲁⲩⲱ ϩⲁϩ ⲛ̄ⲥⲩⲛⲧⲁⲅⲙⲁ ⲛ̄ⲧⲉⲡⲗⲟⲓⲙⲟⲥ ϫⲉϩⲱⲣⲓⲅⲉⲛⲏⲥ ⲙ︤ⲛ︥ϩⲉⲛⲕⲉϩⲁⲓⲣⲉⲧⲓⲕⲟⲥ. See chapters two and six for fur-

ther discussion of this letter. 30 Shenoute, And It Happened One Day, AV 233 (Lefort, “Catéchèse christologique de Chenoute,” 43): ⲉϩⲉⲛⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲛϩⲏⲧⲛ ⲛⲉⲛⲧⲁⲩϫⲉⲡⲁⲓ̈ ϩⲙⲡⲧⲣⲉⲡⲉⲩϩⲏⲧ ϣⲱⲱϭⲉ ϩⲛⲛϣⲁϫⲉ ⲛϩⲱⲣⲓⲅⲉⲛⲏⲥ. See also I Am Amazed and Who Speaks Through the Prophet. 31 Rowan A. Greer, “The Dog and the Mushrooms: Irenaeus’s View of the Valentinians Assessed,” in The School of Valentinus (ed. Bentley Layton; vol. 1 of The Rediscovery of Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, New Haven, Connecticut, March 28–31, 1978; SHR 41; Leiden: Brill, 1980),  147. Several scholars have made suggestions along such lines. See Orlandi, “Catechesis Against Apocryphal Texts”; Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism; Aloys Grillmeier, Jesus der Christus im Glauben der Kirche, Vol.  2, Part 4: Die Kirche von Alexandrien mit Nubien und Äthiopien nach 451 (in collaboration with Theresia Hainthaler; Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1990), 167–220 (English translation Aloys Grillmeier, Christ in Christian Tradition, Vol. 2, Part 4: From the Council of Chalcedon (451) to Gregory the Great (590–604): The Church of Alexandria with Nubia and Ethiopia After 451 [in collaboration with Theresia Hainthaler, trans. O. C. Dean Jr.; London: Mowbray, 1996], 165– 213); Grillmeier, “La ‘peste d’Origène’”; Alberto Camplani, “Un episodio della ricezione del ΠΕΡΙ ΕΥΧΗΣ in Egitto: Note di eresiologia Shenutiana,” in Il dono e la sua ombra: Ricerche sul di Origene: Atti del I Convegno del Gruppo Italiano di Ricerca su ‘Origene e la Traditione Alessandrina’ (ed. Francesca Cocchini; SEAug 57; Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 1997), 159–72; Lundhaug, “Shenoute’s Heresiological Polemics”; Lundhaug, “Origenism.” 32 Orlandi, “Catechesis Against Apocryphal Texts.”

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ture.33 As most of the Nag Hammadi texts fit this description quite well, Orlandi is probably correct to see a connection between them and the books read by Shenoute’s “Origenist” opponents. We would only call into question Orlandi’s conclusion, and its influence on subsequent scholarship, that the opponents were Gnostics from “the Evagrian wing of the contemporary monastic movement” and that the archimandrite “somewhat confuses Origenistic and Gnosticizing doctrines.”34 We see no reason to clutter the analysis of the Origenist controversy in Upper Egypt with “Gnostics” or “Evagrians” (neither of which are mentioned by Shenoute), but rather maintain that the Nag Hammadi texts would have appealed to the theological interests of Origenist monks.35 Monks charged with “Origenist” leanings certainly would have found much in the Nag Hammadi texts to pique their theological interests. The Teachings of Silvanus, for example, arguably reflects the appropriation of Origen’s theology in the fourth century, and resonates with the letters of Antony.36 Themes articulated throughout Nag Hammadi Codex I – such as exhortation to “know yourself” in one’s original, intellectual existence; the purification of body and soul, the Holy Spirit’s role in the process of divine adoption, the present reality of the spiritual resurrection, and the soul’s “return” to the divine Father – have also been shown to correspond closely to the letters of Antony. Both corpora might well have 33

ics.”

34

See Lundhaug, “Mystery and Authority”; Lundhaug, “Shenoute’s Heresiological Polem-

Orlandi, “Catachesis Against Apocryphal Texts,” 89, 94–95. Orlandi drew his conclusion by connecting the dots between (a) so-called gnostic tendencies in Shenoute’s opponents; (b) the now out-dated assumption that the Nag Hammadi texts are gnostic; and (c) Antoine Guillaumont’s identification of “gnosticizing” tendencies in the works of the Origenist monk Evagrius Ponticus (Antoine Guillaumont, Les “Kephalaia Gnostica” d’Evagre le Pontique et l’histoire de l’Origénisme chez les Grecs et chez les Syriens [PatSor 5; Paris: Seuil, 1962]). Elizabeth A. Clark built upon Orlandi’s work in her well-known book The Origenist Controversy, in which she argued that Evagrius’ theology, blended with Gnosticism, was a driving catalyst of the controversy. According to Clark, “the Gnosticizing variation of Origenism, that was an exotic development of Evagrian theology stands at the center of [Shenoute’s] polemic” (The Origenist Controversy: The Cultural Construction of an Early Christian Debate [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992], 157–58). Orlandi and Clark’s identification of Shenoute’s opponents as Evagrians has not gone unchallenged, however. Aloys Grillmeier came to the opposite conclusion of Orlandi in his analysis of I Am Amazed, and concluded that it shows “a new phase of Origenism that does not lie along the line of Evagrius Ponticus” (Grillmeier, Christ in Christian Tradition, 2/4:214). Unfortunately Grillmeier did not further specify what such a designation would entail. See similarly Sheridan, “Modern Historiography,” 209–11. We agree with Grillmeier and Sheridan that there is no reason to posit the involvement of Evagrians in the Origenist controversy in Upper Egypt, although the Nag Hammadi texts themselves almost certainly did play a role (see further below). 36 Roelof van den Broek, “The Theology of the Teachings of Silvanus,” VC 40 (1986): 1–23; cf. Alberto Camplani, “Sulla transmissione di testi gnostici in copto,” in L’Egitto Cristiano: Aspetti e problemi in età tardo-antica (ed. Alberto Camplani; SEAug 56; Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 1997), 152. On the Origenism of the letters of Antony, see Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony. 35

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appealed to the same monastic audiences.37 Indeed, several points of theology in the final treatise of Codex I, the Tripartite Tractate, have long been regarded as close to Origen’s thought.38 Both envision a final “restoration” (apokatastasis), according to which everything shall return to its original, unified state.39 Both emphasize the providential will of the Father in the fall of rational beings, and the creation of the world as a place for their education.40 The Triparite Tractate also includes a version of Origen’s famous doctrine of the Son’s eternal begetting by the Father,41 and like Origen, maintains that the name “Father” requires the existence of a Son.42 And both reject the notion that the Father has a substance (οὐσία) from which he begat the Son.43 The Nag Hammadi texts also speak to broader theological issues that took center stage in the Origenist controversy. They are replete with allegorical interpretations of Scripture, especially of the first three chapters of Genesis,44 and address the fall of the soul, and the nature of the resurrection – all issues which were associated with “Origenists” by their opponents.45 Origen and his followers were frequently criticized for teaching the preexistence of the soul and its fall into a material body on account of sin. According to Theophilus, “Origen 37 Lance Jenott and Elaine H. Pagels, “Antony’s Letters and Nag Hammadi Codex I: Sources of Religious Conflict in Fourth-Century Egypt,” JECS 18:4 (2010): 557–89. 38 Henri-Charles Puech and Gilles Quispel, “Le quatrième écrit gnostique du Codex Jung,” VC 9 (1955): 65–102; Pheme Perkins, “Logos Christologies in the Nag Hammadi Codices,” VC 35:4 (1981): 379–96, esp. 387; Harold W. Attridge and Elaine H. Pagels, “The Tripartite Tractate: I,5:51.1–138.27,” in Nag Hammadi Codex I (The Jung Codex) (2 vols.; ed. Harold W. Attridge; NHS 22–23; Leiden: Brill, 1985), 1:177; Einar Thomassen and Louis Painchaud, Le Traité Tripartite (NH I, 5) (BCNH.T 19; Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 1989), 18–19; Alberto Camplani, “Per la cronologia di testi valentiniani: il Trattato Tripartito e la crisi ariana,” Cassiodorus 1 (1995): 171–95; Camplani, “Sulla transmissione,” 153–54; Gilles Quispel, “Origen and Valentinian Gnosis,” in Gnostica, Judaica, Catholica: Collected Essays of Gilles Quispel (ed. Johannes van Oort; NHMS 55; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 289–303; Jean-Daniel Dubois, “Le Traité Tripartite (Nag Hammadi I,5): Est-il antérieur à Origène?” in Origeniana Octava: Origen and the Alexandrian Tradition: Papers Read at the 8th International Origen Congress (Pisa, 27–31 August 2001) (ed. Lorenzo Perrone; BETL 164; Origeniana 8; Leuven: Peeters, 2003), esp. 309. 39 Tri. Trac. 127.23–25; 132.20–23; Origen, Princ. 1.6.2; cf. Gos. Phil. 67.17–18. 40 Tri. Trac. 76.23–77.1; 104.20–30; 107.26–108.17; on Origen see Hal Koch, Pronoia und Paideusis: Studien über Origenes und sein Verhältinis zum Platonismus (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1932), esp. 36–49; Quispel, “Origen and Valentinian Gnosis,” 297–300. 41 Tri. Trac. 56.30–35; 58.7–8; Origen, Princ. 1.2.2–3. Gos. Phil. 58.20–22 applies this doctrine to the begetting of new Christians in the rituals of initiation (see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 380). 42 Tri. Trac. 51.12–15; Origen, Princ. 1.2.10. 43 Tri Trac. 53.34–36; Origen, Comm. Jo. 20.18; cf. Thomassen and Painchaud, Le Traité Tripartite, 19. 44 E. g., Ap. John, Hyp. Arch., Orig. World, Tri. Trac., Gos. Phil., Exeg. Soul, Apoc. Adam, Testim. Truth. 45 E. g., Epiphanius, Pan. 64.4; Anc. 52–55, 58–63 (allegory), 82–100 (resurrection); cf. Young Richard Kim, St. Epiphanius of Cyprus: Ancoratus (FC 128; Washington, D. C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2014), 42–44; Jacobsen, “Genesis 1–3.”

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claimed that he had come into being when he fell from heaven because of sin.”46 The archbishop goes on to criticize monks who “could no longer bear to live in the hermitages in solitude” but “were disseminating Origen’s doctrines very openly,” teaching that “the first human being would not have had a body if his mind had not fallen into sin and he had been sent into this world.”47 Cyril of Alexandria, in his Letter to the Monks at Phua, similarly criticizes Origen for claiming that “the soul received the body by reason of a punishment, or retribution, for sins committed before the existence of the body.”48 Antony’s letters propagate a similar view of the soul’s fall and incarnation.49 Two Nag Hammadi texts, the Exegesis on the Soul and the Authoritative Teaching, are notable for how they treat the fall and experience of the soul in ways that resonate with Origen’s thought. The Exegesis on the Soul recounts the story of the soul’s travails in the body, and her repentance and subsequent salvation, expounded by means of biblical quotations and allusions. Based on an exegesis of the creation of woman in Gen 2, it describes how the soul sinned and was incarnated in a material body. The soul (Eve) falls when she leaves her original husband (Adam) and comes to exist in a body in which she fornicates with a number of adulterers. Later, however, she repents and calls upon God, her Father, who sends Christ, the second Adam, to her as a husband. This text clearly assumes the soul’s preexistence and its fall because of sin. In this case, sin is the wanton abandonment of the soul’s true husband and of her Father’s house, which leads to fornication.50 Similarly, the Authoritative Teaching describes the fall of the spiritual soul into the body and her life of prostitution and debauchery in the material world.51 Questions over the the nature of the resurrection were also central in the Origenist controversy. Origen and his followers were accused of denying the resurrection of the flesh. As we have seen, Epiphanius says that Origenist monks 46 Theophilus of Alexandria, Letter Written at Constantinople (403), 11 (trans. Russell, Theophilus of Alexandria, 143). Shenoute too focuses on this issue at length in I Am Amazed, though he does not mention Origen specifically in this context (but the connection is made explicit in Theophilus’ 16th Festal Letter of 401, which Shenoute quotes practically in its entirety). 47 Theophilus of Alexandria, Letter Written at Constantinople (403), 11 (trans. Russell, Theophilus of Alexandria, 143). 48 Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 81,5 (McEnerney, Letters, 2:106); cf. Ep. 81,2: Origen “says that our souls existed earlier than our bodies, and from holiness were carried away unto evil desires, and revolted from God, and because of this guilt he condemned them and embodied them, and they are in flesh as in a prison” (McEnerney, Letters, 2:105–6). 49 Rubenson, “Reading Origen,” 48, with reference to letters 5 and 6 (Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony, 212–24). 50 For an in-depth analysis of Exeg. Soul, see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 65–152. 51 See esp. Auth. Teach. 23.12–24.22. Auth. Teach. describes the fall and return of the soul in a way similar to Exeg. Soul, but with the notable difference that in its narrative, the soul does not sin before falling into the body. On Auth. Teach., see Ulla Tervahauta, A Story of the Soul’s Journey in the Nag Hammadi Library: A Study of Authentikos Logos (NHC VI,3) (NTOA; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015).

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in the Thebaid do “say there is a resurrection of our flesh,” but do not interpret it to mean a resurrection of “this” (ordinary) flesh, but rather “another in its place.”52 Shenoute too confronts this view of the resurrection. In Who Speaks Through the Prophet, he criticizes those who impiously say “it is another body that shall sprout up in that very body on the day of the resurrection,” and “this very body shall rot away and perish and it shall not at all come into being (again) after the other new body sprouts up [in] it.”53 In response, Shenoute insists that “it is this very body that shall rise in the resurrection.”54 The view of the resurrection challenged by Epiphanius and Shenoute is precisely what one finds in some of the Nag Hammadi texts, especially in the Treatise on the Resurrection and the Gospel of Philip. Following the Pauline letters to the Colossians and Ephesians, these texts speak of the resurrection as both a current and future reality. According to the Treatise on the Resurrection, it is another body that will arise from the present one: “the visible, dead members shall not be saved” but only “the living members within them.”55 The future resurrection is therefore merely an uncovering of those “living members” who have “already risen.”56 The Gospel of Philip similarly teaches that “it is necessary for us to acquire for ourselves the resurrection” while still in this world, otherwise we will not be saved “when we strip off the flesh.”57 If people do not “receive the resurrection while they live, they will receive nothing when they die.”58 As if responding to Jerome’s protest that “we wish not to be stripped of the flesh,”59 the Gospel of Philip confronts those who are afraid to “arise naked” and therefore “want to arise in the flesh,” with the argument that “it is those who wear the [flesh] who are naked.”60 The Gospel of Philip in fact takes a complex stance on the question of what kind of body shall rise, and perhaps most intriguingly, in its treatment of the question it seems to be aware of, and reject, both extremes advocated in the 52 53

Epiphanius, Anc. 82.3 (Holl, Epiphanius, 1:103). Shenoute, Who Speaks Through the Prophet, DD 80 = FR-BN 1316 f. 71v: ⲉⲩϫⲱ

ⲛϯⲙⲛⲧⲁⲥⲉⲃⲏⲥ ϫ̣ⲉⲕⲉⲥⲱⲙⲁ ⲡⲉⲧⲛⲁϯⲟⲩⲱ ⲉϩⲣⲁⲓ̈ ϩ̣ⲙ̣ⲡ̣ⲓ̣ⲥⲱⲙⲁ ⲡⲁⲓ̈ ϩⲙ̄ⲡⲉϩⲟⲟⲩ̣ ⲛⲧⲁ̣ⲛ̣ⲁ̣ⲥ̣ⲧ̣ⲁⲥⲓⲥ· ⲁⲩⲱ ϫⲉⲡⲉⲓⲥⲱ̣ⲙ̣ⲁ̣ ⲡ̣ⲁ̣ⲓ̣̈ ⲛⲁⲗⲟϥⲗⲉϥ [ⲉ]ⲃ̣ⲃϫ ⲛϥ̄ⲱϫ̣ⲛ̣ ⲁ̣ⲩ̣ⲱ̣ ⲛϥ̄ⲧⲙϣⲱⲡ̣ⲉ̣ ⲉⲡⲧⲏⲣϥ· ⲙ̣ⲛ̣ⲛ̣[ⲥⲁ]ⲧⲣⲉⲕⲉⲥⲱⲙⲁ ⲛⲃⲣⲣⲉ ϯⲟⲩⲱ ⲉ̣ϩⲣ̣ⲁ̣ⲓ̣̈ [ⲛϩⲏ]ⲧϥ̄·. This leaf is unpublished, and we thank Stephen Emmel for sharing a

photograph of it. 54 Shenoute, Who Speaks Through the Prophet, ZM 60. 55 Treat. Res. 47.38–48.3 (Malcolm L. Peel, “Treatise on the Resurrection: I,4:43.25–50.18,” in Nag Hammadi Codex I (The Jung Codex) [2 vols. ed. Harold W. Attridge; NHS 22–23; Leiden: Brill, 1985], 1:152). 56 Treat. Res. 48.3–6. See Lundhaug, “Symbols and Likenesses.” 57 Gos. Phil. 66.16–20. 58 Gos. Phil. 73.3–5 (Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 512–13). See also Gos. Phil. 56.18–20: “If one does not acquire the resurrection first he will not die. As God lives, that one would !” (Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 478–79; see 229–30 for discussion). 59 Jerome, To Pammachius Against John of Jerusalem 29 (NPNF2 6:439). 60 Gos. Phil. 56.26–30 (Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 478–79).

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Origenist controversy. It criticizes those who believe in the most literal understanding of the resurrection of the flesh, yet it also takes issue with those who claim that “the flesh will not arise,”61 and emphatically affirms that “it is necessary to arise in this flesh.”62 While this may at first seem contradictory, it is clear that what the text means by “this flesh” is in fact the flesh of Christ, received in the Eucharist, and not the flesh of the present physical body. Its polemics against competing views of the resurrection, and the importance it places on the phrase “this flesh,” are best understood in light of discourses developed during the Origenist controversy. We have already seen that Epiphanius referred to monks in Egypt who affirmed the resurrection of the flesh, but interpreted it to mean a resurrection of “another in its place.”63 Jerome and Rufinus argued with each other over this question as well. Jerome says there are some who affirm the resurrection of the body, but understand this to mean a spiritual body. According to Jerome, “they use the word ‘body’ instead of the word ‘flesh’ in order that an orthodox person hearing them say ‘body’ may take them to mean ‘flesh,’ while a heretic will understand that they mean ‘spirit.’”64 In response, Rufinus stated that what rises in the resurrection “will be this very flesh in which we now live. We do not hold, as is slanderously reported by some men, that another flesh will rise instead of this; but this very flesh.”65 Whichever way we choose to understand the protestations of Rufinus, the Gospel of Philip offers a good example of an argument for the resurrection of a spiritual body while affirming a resurrection “in this flesh,” a position which could easily be interpreted as a resurrection of another body than our present one. In short, the way the Gospel of Philip handles the question of the resurrection betrays an awareness of the different positions advocated in the Origenist controversy, and presents us with a solution (one will be raised “in this flesh” of Christ) that might well have been branded by some as Origenist.66 Interpretations of the Eucharist provide another point of interest which might have attracted Origenist-leaning monks to the Gospel of Philip. Shenoute speaks of those who deny the real presence of Christ’s body and blood in the Eucharist because “their hearts have been wounded by the words of Origen”; elsewhere

Gos. Phil. 57.12 (Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 480–81). Gos. Phil. 57.18 (Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 480–81). 63 Epiphanius, Anc. 82.3 (Holl, Epiphanius, 1:103). 64 Jerome, Ep. 84 (trans. Joanne E. McWilliam Dewart, Death and Resurrection [MFC 22; Wilmington, Del.: Michael Glazier, 1986], 145). 65 Rufinus, Apol. ad Anast. 4 (trans. Dewart, Death and Resurrection, 146). Similarly, Rufinus affirms that “I have made mention not only of the body, as to which cavils are raised, but of the flesh: and not only of the flesh, but I have added ‘this flesh.’ Further, I have spoken not only of ‘this flesh,’ but of ‘this natural flesh’” (Apol. adv. Hier. 1.9; trans. J. N. D. Kelly, Rufinus: A Commentary on the Apostles’ Creed [ACW 20; London: Longmans, 1955], 150 n. 268). 66 For further discussion, see Lundhaug, “Begotten, Not Made,” esp. 255–60. 61 62

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he accuses them of regarding the elements as mere types.67 Again, the Gospel of Philip provides us with a good example of this position, but with an added dimension not seen in Shenoute’s polemics. While the Gospel of Philip maintains that rituals performed in this world, including the Eucharist, are merely types and images of heavenly realities, it does not reject them, but regards them as utterly indispensable for salvation.68 It does not deny the importance of the sacrament, but is adamant that one should not “despise” (ⲕⲁⲧⲁⲫⲣⲟⲛⲉⲓ) the Eucharist, which incidentally is also a charge levied by Shenoute against his Origenist opponents.69 On this issue too, the Gospel of Philip seems to reflect the theological debates of the Origenist controversy in Egypt, and may even be responding to anti-Origenist polemics in its own unique interpretations. Yet at the same time, the Gospel of Philip has a more complex relationship with the legacy of Origen, appropriating aspects of his theology on the one hand, while on the other distancing itself from key points of doctrine associated with “Origenists.” It arguably shows an awareness of ongoing doctrinal discourses close to the period of the manuscript’s production and use, and evinces a will to accommodate to the changing doctrinal climate of the time.70 In our view, many of the Nag Hammadi texts could very well have found a positive reception among monks who were branded as “Origenists” by fourthand fifth-century critics. The monks who read the Nag Hammadi Codices might have been accused of being “Origenists” because they took a keen interest in allegorical interpretations of Scripture, divergent views on the Eucharist and resurrection, the soul’s preexistence and fall, extra-canonical “mysteries” and “other worlds,” etc., and read apocryphal books which offered teachings on such topics. The possibility that the codices could have belonged to such “Origenist” monks is not mutually exclusive with other social and theological settings since, as we pointed out above, such monks could be found in various quarters of Christian Egypt, including the Pachomian monastic federation to which we now turn.

Pachomian Monks? The fact that the Pachomians had a strong presence in the precise region and time period in which the Nag Hammadi Codices were manufactured quickly suggested to scholars that they could have originated in the Pachomian federation. 67 Shenoute, And It Happened One Day, AV 233 (Lefort, “Catechese,” 43); I Am Amazed, 348 (HB 30=DQ 29–30; Cristea, Schenute, 152–53). Theophilus likewise accused Origen of denying the reality of the Eucharist (Russell, Theophilus of Alexandria, 26). 68 See Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 307–16. 69 Compare Gos. Phil. 58.14 with Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 350 (HB 30 = DQ 30; Cristea, Schenute, 153), where he accuses the Origenists of “despising” (ⲕⲁⲧⲁⲫⲣⲟⲛⲉⲓ) the Eucharist. On the Gos. Phil. passage, see also the discussion in Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 281–84. 70 Cf. Lundhaug, “Begotten, Not Made.”

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In addition to this circumstantial evidence, a specifically Pachomian connection is further supported by the fact that the letter to “my beloved father Pachome” found in the cover of Codex VII likely does refer to the famous abbot Pachomius, as we discussed in chapter five (previous dismissals notwithstanding). And as we saw in that chapter, the other evidence from the cartonnage is consistent with a Pachomian provenance. A Pachomian setting for the Nag Hammadi Codices also reconciles with the Origenist evidence discussed above, as there is reason to believe that Origenist monks were present in the Pachomian federation too.71 As we have seen, Epiphanius complained that, already by the 370s, monks who propagated Origen’s teachings were spread throughout Egypt and the Thebaid.72 It is not likely that the Pachomians were alien to this trend. It must be remembered that there would have been nothing markedly unorthodox about Origenist teaching in fourthcentury Egypt, since even the Alexandrian archbishops of the period were themselves influenced by the writings and theology of Origen. Despite the efforts of Epiphanius, Origen did not become widely controversial in Egypt until the very end of the fourth century, when Theophilus began to persecute certain Origenist monks in Lower Egypt, arguably for political more than theological reasons.73 That teachings associated with Origen were propagated among the Pachomians is clearly suggested by the letter of bishop Ammon.74 As a young man, Ammon lived in the chief Pachomian monastery at Pbow for three years (352–355) before moving north to the cells of Nitria, and much later in life, around the early fifth century, he wrote a letter recounting his experiences.75 One of the stories he included concerns a certain Pachomian monk named Patchelphius who taught that there would be no resurrection of the flesh – a doctrine that came to be closely associated with Origen and Origenist monks. According to Ammon, the abbot of the Pachomian federation, Theodore, corrected Patchelphius on this point and convinced him, by a different interpretation of Scripture, that “this mortal flesh of ours must rise from the dead in glory, immortal and incorruptible.”76 Ammon undoubtedly chose to include this episode in order to align Theodore more See similarly Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism, 196–206. Epiphanius, Anc. 82.3; Pan. 64.4.1. 73 Rubenson, “Argument and Authority,” 86–87; Sheridan, “Modern Historiography,” 207– 8, 212, with reference to volume 11 of the magisterial study by Louis-Sébastien Le Nain de Tillemont, Memoires pour servir a l’histoire ecclesiastique des six premiers siecles (16 vols.; Paris: Charles Robustel, 1693–1712). 74 For an edition of the Greek text with English translation and commentary, see Goehring, Letter of Ammon. 75 On Ammon’s life and the occasion of the letter, see Goehring, Letter of Ammon, 103–4; Veilleux, La liturgie, 108–11. 76 Ep. Am. 26 (Goehring, Letter of Ammon, 148–49, 175–76). While Goehring notes the Origenist tone of Patchelphius’ teaching, he also suggests that it might be understood against the background of “Gnosticism” as represented in the Nag Hammadi Codices (Letter of Ammon, 274). When Gnosticism is removed from the equation, Goehring’s observation reinforces our 71 72

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closely with the anti-Origenist position of the Alexandrian episcopate of his own time, after the outbreak of the Origenist controversy.77 But there is little reason to doubt the gist of the story. It is quite plausible that in the 350s, two Pachomian monks could have espoused different positions on the resurrection of the flesh, one of which would later be branded as the “Origenist” position. Indeed, Ammon’s account lends credibility to the concern expressed by the anonymous redactor of the Greek Life of Pachomius, that teachings and even books of Origen were circulating in Pachomian monasteries. According to the Greek Life, Pachomius “hated the man called Origen … because he recognized him as a blasphemer, having heard that there were dreadful things in his writings.”78 He ordered the monks not to read Origen’s books or listen to his teachings, but despite this prohibition, he once found a book of Origen in the monastery at Tabennesi and threw it in the river. A similar concern is expressed by the redactor of another Pachomian chronicle, the Paralipomena, which states that Pachomius could smell the stench emitted from Origen’s “doctrines of impiety” and preached that “every man reading Origen and accepting his writings is going to reach the bottom of hell.” Here, Pachomius orders his monks to “take all of Origen’s books” and “cast them into the river.”79 These anecdotes clearly reflect the ecclesiastical controversies and ideologies of their fifth-century redactors in the wake of the Origenist controversy, rather than those of the historical Pachomius and his monasteries in the fourth century. As Goehring observes, “it is hard to avoid the conclusion that the Greek version [of the Life], both through its revisions and additions, has posthumously aligned Pachomius with the Alexandrian episcopacy and the anti-Origenist faction.”80 While the depiction of Pachomius as a hater of Origen is suspect, the idea that teachings and books associated with Origen could be found in Pachomian monasteries of the fourth argument that many of the teachings in the Nag Hammadi texts would probably have appealed to so-called Origenist monks. 77 Cf. Goehring, Letter of Ammon, 104; Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 244–45. 78 G1 31 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:317–18). Origenist notions (specifically on the topic of the resurrection) are also confronted in one of the Sahidic versions of the Life of Pachomius (S3c = Lefort, Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 309–10; cf. Gerhard Hoehne, “Drei koptischsaidische Texte aus der Königlichen Bibliothek zu Berlin.” ZÄS 52 [1914]: 124). 79 Paral. 7 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:28–29). 80 Goehring, “Monastic Diversity,” 75–76; cf. Rubenson, “Origen in the Egyptian Monastic Tradition,” 329–31. The Greek Life of Pachomius shapes its image of Pachomius as a champion of Alexandrian orthodoxy by carefully placing its anecdote about Pachomius’ disdain for Origen in an inclusio that stresses the holy man’s deference to Athanasius and his episcopal successors. In the preceding episode, Pachomius goes out to salute Athanasius, literally singing his praises in psalm, as the archbishop’s barge sails by Tabennesi. Pachomius “gazed at [Athanasius] on the boat, and recognized him as a holy servant of God” (G1 30; trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:317). Then, directly after the passage about Origen, G1 goes on to relate how Pachomius “gave to the orthodox bishops and successors of the apostles and of Christ himself the heed of one who sees the Lord ever presiding upon the episcopal throne in the church and teaching through it” (G1 31; trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:318).

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century (and perhaps later) seems quite plausible, and is probably why such antiOrigenist stories were added to the hagiographical tradition in the first place. What kind of books actually circulated in Pachomian monasteries in the fourth century remains very much a matter of conjecture, but there seems to have been more than the canon of Scripture defined by Athanasius in his 39th Festal Letter. As we discussed in greater detail in chapter six, the Pachomian sources express a real concern to censor not only books of Origen but also biblical apocrypha and other heretical books present in Pachomian monasteries. Even in the idealized hagiographical tradition, Theodore’s attempt to suppress apocrypha after Athanasius’ decree of 367 is presented as a reform and “healing” of existing practices, and not as the mere formalization of a policy that was already the norm.81 The Nag Hammadi Codices could very well have been among the apocryphal books which circulated in Pachomian monasteries and instigated such censorship. Indeed, what is meant by books “of Origen” in the Pachomian sources might have included more than Origen’s own writings, and could be understood to refer also to some of the Nag Hammadi texts, such as the examples we discussed above. As we have seen, they are the kind of books that came to be associated with socalled “Origenist” monks by critics such as Shenoute and archbishop Dioscorus in the fifth century. Objections to the Pachomian hypothesis, however, stress that the relatively orthodox character of the Pachomian monks would have prevented them from reading and copying books as seemingly heterodox as the Nag Hammadi Codices. As we discussed in chapter four, Khosroyev maintains that the Pachomians were too dedicated to the Bible to read books which, in his view, contain so many “anti-biblical” teachings. He reasons that the Pachomians adhered so carefully to their monastic rule, according to which every aspect of the monks’ lives was controlled, that nobody among them would have had the opportunity to copy the Codices without being censored.82 In a similar vein, Mark Sheridan has argued that associating the Nag Hammadi Codices with the Pachomians “creates the impression of a freethinking syncretistic mentality difficult to reconcile with what is really known of the monastic world of the fourth century.”83 Although Sheridan does not clarify what he means by “what is really known,” he seems to have in mind the rather orthodox way early Pachomians are portrayed in the Pachomian Lives, Rules, Paralipomena and Instructions, as he goes on to point out that proponents of the Pachomian hypothesis must posit that “the sources have 81

SBo 189. Khosroyev, Die Bibliothek, 89–90: “Läßt es sich vermuten, daß in den pachomianischen Klöstern, die nach einer strengen Vorschrift lebten und wo jeder Schritt des Mönches kontrolliert wurde, ein Scriptorium (order mehrere) existieren konnte, in dem die Bücher ohne Zensur abgeschrieben wurden? Eine derart reglementierte Lebenweise ließ kaum Möglichkeiten für eine illegale Tätigkeit, zu der nicht nur eine Person, sondern das gesamte Kollektiv (jene, die Papyrus und Leder kauften, die Schreiber, die Buchbinder etc) herangezogen worden wäre.” 83 Sheridan, “Modern Historiography,” 210. 82

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been censored.”84 According to Sheridan, this interpretation of the Pachomians and their souces is very much in the spirit of Walter Bauer’s influential hypothesis that heterodoxy preceded orthodoxy. In response, Sheridan refers to “extensive documentation … that this was not the case in Egypt,”85 and maintains that the orthodoxy of the late fourth century was more restricted than that of the period of Origen … and for this very reason it is even more difficult to imagine Evagrius and the Pachomian monks reading and being influenced by treatises such as those found in the Nag Hammadi collection than it would be to imagine Origen himself reading them.86

Yet the Origenist controversy itself, and the persistent concern over UpperEgyptian monks reading heretical books, as expressed by Epiphanius, Shenoute, Dioscorus, and the Pachomian sources, calls into question just how “restricted” and well-defined orthodoxy was in this period. At any rate, whether or not early Pachomians produced and read the Nag Hammadi Codices cannot simply be reduced to the question of whether they were heterodox or orthodox. The real difficulty with the challenges posed by Khosroyev and Sheridan is that they rely on too static a picture of the Pachomian movement, without attending to issues of divergences in beliefs and practices within the federation, or to changes it underwent from one generation to the next. In light of Goehring’s seminal article “New Frontiers in Pachomian Studies,” first published in 1986, such a view of the Pachomian movement can no longer be maintained.87 As Goehring showed, Pachomian sources such as the Lives and Paralipomena were composed and redacted in the generations after the death of Pachomius and his initial successors, when the need was felt to routinize the founder’s charismatic authority and respond to problems of theology and practice that arose within the federation. The sources therefore represent the early Pachomians in accordance with the way later generations wanted and needed them to be remembered. Their redactors did not mindlessly chronicle past events, but consciously crafted their narratives to provide models of spirituality for monks to imitate. Because of the paraenetic function of the hagiographic genre, they naturally made decisions over which stories to include and what ideological interpretation to give them, as in the case of the anti-Origenist passages discussed above.88 84

Sheridan, “Modern Historiography,” 211. He cites Roberts, Manuscript, Society, and Belief, and Alain Le Boulluec, La notion d’herésie dans la littérature grecque, II e–III e siècles (Paris: Etudes augustiniennes, 1985). 86 Sheridan, “Modern Historiography,” 211. 87 Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 236–47. It is surprising that Sheridan, in an article entitled “The Modern Historiography of Early Egyptian Monasticism,” published in 2004, shows no awareness of Goehring’s important contributions. 88 Cf. Goehring, “Pachomius’ Vision of Heresy”; Rousseau, Pachomius, 37–55; Veilleux, La Liturgie, 11–15. For a stimulating analysis of Athanasius’ redactional rationale in Vit. Ant., perhaps even in response to patterns of ascesis encouraged by Nag Hammadi texts, see Michael A. Williams, “The Life of Antony and the Domestication of Charismatic Wisdom,” in Charisma 85

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Nevertheless, stories in these idealized sources themselves clearly reveal that there were tensions and divergences within the Pachomian federation throughout the fourth century. The observation expressed by one Pachomian monk that “in a community there are all kinds of people”89 succinctly captures a difficult reality that must have constantly challenged the federation’s ideals of unanimity. Diversity and conflict should be expected in a complex organization such as this, which by its founder’s death (347) already included many monasteries, as well as “satellites” of semi-anchoritic monks living in nearby caves. Some of these monasteries had independent histories before they joined the Pachomians.90 Conflicts over beliefs and practices evidently arose from the beginning. Pachomius was remembered for constantly struggling with unruly brothers91 and monks with “carnal minds,”92 the overly ambitious on the one hand,93 and the negligent on the other,94 as well as murmuring brothers who were reluctant to obey the rules.95 Despite the ideal of conforming to the rule, and whatever measures were taken to enforce it, monks would nevertheless break it. We hear of some brothers who kept secret stashes of private property,96 and of others who left their cells at night to secretly attend lessons in other houses.97 The monastery at Thmoushons is reported to have observed a more permissive diet than the other monasteries of the federation,98 and one of its abbots, Apa Apollonios, is said to have taken a more lenient position regarding private property, wanting to “buy for himself superfluous goods.”99 Apollonios’ divergent policies eventually led to outright conflict with Pachomius’ successor Horsiesios. According to the Life of Pachomius, Apollonios convinced the elders of Thmoushons to secede from the federation (after all, it had once been independent), and “provoked numerous disturbances with the result that all the monasteries were following his words … saying ‘We will have nothing to do with Horsiesios nor will we have

and Sacred Biography (ed. Michael A. Williams; JAAR Thematic Studies 48/3–4; Chico, Cal.: Scholars Press, 1982), 23–45. 89 G1 121. 90 See chapter two. Diversity should also be expected on the level of the individual. Éric Rebillard has recently highlighted the “internal plurality” of the individual, and the fact that real people tend to deal perfectly well with contradiction in their daily lives (Christians and Their Many Identities in Late Antiquity: North Africa, 200–450 CE [Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2012], esp. 3–5). 91 S1 10–19; cf. G1 15. 92 G1 38. 93 G1 42. 94 G1 116. 95 G1 100. 96 G1 31, 91. 97 Ep. Am. 26. 98 G1 55. 99 G1 127.

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anything to do with the rules which he lays down.’”100 The mutiny eventually led Horsiesios to step down and transfer power to Theodore, who subsequently implemented a series of reforms, including the transfer of monastery leaders from one job and/or community to another twice a year, lest anyone get too powerful in any one place.101 As we have seen, Theodore also took measures to censor apocryphal books in the monasteries, and instituted Athanasius’ biblical canon “as a law” in the federation.102 Once the reading of apocrypha became controversial, enforcement of a ban is not likely to have been easy or uncontested, especially in light of the decentralized nature of Pachomian book collections as we discussed in chapter six. Indeed, Goehring points out that Theodore’s reforms were not entirely successful, and that challenges to authority continued in the second administration of Horsiesios (ca. 368–387).103 Stories such as these illustrate that the history of the Pachomian movement cannot be conceived of in such static terms as “orthodox” or “heterodox,” but involved a much more complicated range of beliefs and practices, only some of which are reflected in the surviving sources. The possibility that Pachomian monks produced and read the Nag Hammadi Codices should not, then, be discounted on the grounds of the Pachomians’ strict orthodoxy. But this does not necessarily imply that they were heretics or that they possessed a “freethinking syncretistic mentality.” As Goehring has emphasized, the alternative to the traditional picture of the Pachomian movement as “orthodox” “is not a heretical movement but a movement that did not yet define its being in these either/ or terms. … it was not impossible for one to support Athanasius and read the Nag Hammadi texts.”104 The notion that the Pachomians could be considered in some sense “orthodox”105 and still read the Nag Hammadi Codices should not be lightly dismissed. It is hardly reasonable to expect that the Pachomians would, 100 SBo 139 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:195), cf. G1 127. On the revolt of Apa Appollonios and its aftermath, see Rousseau, Pachomius, 157–58; Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 243–44; Joest, Theodoros, 39–41. The schism is also mentioned in Theodore, Instr. 3.46 (Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 3:119). 101 SBo 144; cf. G1 146. 102 SBo 189. 103 James E. Goehring, “The Fourth Letter of Horsiesius and the Situation in the Pachomian Community Following the Death of Theodore,” in Ascetics, Society, and the Desert: Studies in Early Egyptian Monasticism (SAC; Harrisburg, Penn.: Trinity Press, 1999), 221–40; Goehring, “Abraham of Farshut’s Dying Words: Reflections on a Literary Motif in the Ascetic Literature of Early Christian Egypt,” Coptica 8 (2009): 34–35. On Horsiesios, see also Joest, Theodoros, 36–44. 104 Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 247. 105 Though “orthodoxy” itself was not a stable concept in the fourth century, as Athanasius’ troubled career (with five exiles), the reign of Arian archbishop George (356–361), and Theophilus’ sudden turn against Origenist theology illustrate. The Pachomians could be considered generally “orthodox” in terms of their allegiance to the archbishop of Alexandria, his ecclesiology, theology, and even biblical canon, while also deviating on specific points, such as the question of which books could be read in addition to Scripture.

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or could, believe in everything expressed in the various books they kept in their niches. We simply cannot reconstruct people’s beliefs based on what books they read. We can only conjecture, based on those books, what topics they might have been interested in. In a corpus as large and diverse as the Nag Hammadi Codices there are certainly many topics that could have appealed to the Pachomians, such as Scriptural exegesis, ethical exhortation, ascetic practice, revealed wisdom, accounts of visions and heavenly journeys, instructions about demons, the struggle against harmful passions, and the salvation of their souls, to mention just a few. And, as we have argued, there is little reason to suspect that the monks did not possess a capacity for selective and critical reading. Given Pachomian monks’ commitment to the study, memorization, and exegesis of Scripture, the Nag Hammadi Codices would certainly have offered much “food for thought.”106 Far from being unlettered, Pachomians promoted literacy, and reading played an important role in their spiritual development. The Rule stipulates that “there shall be no one whatever in the monastery who does not learn to read and does not memorize something of the Scriptures … at least the New Testament and the Psalter.”107 New monks who entered the monastery “uninstructed” should learn “twenty psalms or two of the Apostle’s epistles, or some other part of the Scripture,” while an illiterate neophyte would be subject to remedial reading lessons, “and even if he does not want to, he shall be compelled to read.”108 The Rule also assumes that the monks, or at least a significant number of them, could in fact read, as it prescribes policies for borrowing books from the house collections, and for their proper handling and storage.109 The personal study and memorization of Scripture in Pachomian monasteries was accompanied by communal instruction, biblical exegesis, and discussion. The father of the monastery was supposed to offer three lessons each week, which were then supplemented by two more from the individual housemasters.110 According to the Greek Life, “it was their custom from the beginning to sit together every evening after work and meal to search the Scriptures.”111 Pachomius was 106 On the importance of Scriptural study among the Pachomians, see Veillex, La liturgie, 262–75; Veilleux, “Holy Scripture in the Pachomian Koinonia,” MonS 10 (1974): 143–53; Ruppert, Das pachomianische Mönchtum, 128–58. For a helpful survey with extensive references to scholarly studies, see William A. Graham, “God’s Word in the Desert: Pachomian Scriptural Practice,” in Islamic and Comparative Religious Studies: Selected Writings (Ashgate Contemporary Thinkers on Religion: Collected Works; Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), 263–84, esp. 268 n. 20. On the effects of communal practices of memorization, see Lundhaug, “Memory.” 107 Pr. 140 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:166). 108 Pr. 139 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:166). 109 Pr. 24–25, 100–1, G1 59; cf. Scholten, “Buchbesitz,” 145–47. 110 Pr. 19–20, 115, 138; G1 28; Inst. 15. Cf. Veilleux, La liturgie 269–73. Jerome’s translation of Pr. 20 says the three weekly instructions should be given “by the housemasters” (a praepositis domorum), not the father of the monastery as stated in the other sources. This may be a variant reading introduced by Jerome (cf. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:186 n. 1 on Pr. 20). 111 G1 125 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia 1:385).

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remembered for teaching the brothers every evening, sometimes all night,112 and for his gifted exegesis: “He would often sit to instruct the brothers … And then he would interpret for them the divine words of Scripture, especially the deep and not easily understood parts (μάλιστα τὰ μὴ εὐνόητα καὶ βαθέα), and the incarnation of the Lord, the cross, and the resurrection.”113 Pachomian monks were not merely passive recipients of instruction and biblical exegesis, but discussed the meaning of Scripture with each other. Each lesson was to be followed by communal reflection. According to the Rule, “everything that is taught to them in the assembly … they must absolutely talk over among themselves.”114 The Greek Life narrates how, after Pachomius would teach, the brothers returned to their individual houses, recited the texts they had memorized, prayed, and then “sat to talk together and to recall each one of the things they heard.”115 Τhe monks would discuss “visible” and “spiritual” issues, such as visions, spiritual sayings, healings both physical and spiritual, and other “hidden things” (τὰ κρυπτά).116 Exegetical commentaries were also composed. For when Pachomius would teach “the word of God,” some of the brothers “wrote down many interpretations of the scriptures,” and Pachomius himself composed “a book of those spiritual writings.”117 Biblical exegesis among the Pachomians often took the form of parables and allegories,118 which evidently led to concerns over misguided exegesis and too much allegorical reading. In the Fifth Sahidic Life, an angel appears to Theodore as he mulls over a difficult passage in the prophet Micah, and teaches him the importance of understanding the literal meaning of Scripture before the “spiritual.” Then, in accordance with the vision, Theodore teaches the other monks to differentiate between the two: “Every verse of Scripture which we examine we should try to understand first of all on the literal level (ϩⲣⲏⲧⲱⲥ) before we speak of its spiritual meaning (ⲃⲱⲗ ⲡ︤︤ⲛ︦ⲓ︦ⲕ︦ⲱ︦ⲥ︥), unless it is a saying which will not edify the person who hears it on the literal level at all.”119 Whether or not this reflects the actual view of Theodore, or is that of the Coptic redactor, its emphasis on the primacy of Scripture’s literal meaning should be understood as part of a discourse on exegetical practices among the Pachomians, and as the counterpoint 112

G1 61, 88. G1 56 (Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 38); cf. G1 10. 114 Pr. 138 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 2:166); cf. Pr. 19, 123; P. Corbinian Gindele, “Die Schriftlesung im Pachomiuskloster,” EuA 41 (1965): 114–22, esp. 116. 115 G1 58 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:338); cf. SBo 29, on the non-Pachomian monastery in which Theodore once lived: “it was their habit to assemble and for each one to pronounce what he knew of the holy Scriptures.” 116 G1 46–48, 71, 125. 117 G1 99 (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:365, 367). Veilleux suggests that Pachomius’ book was an account of his visions (Pachomian Koinonia, 1:418 n. 5 on G1 99). 118 G1 34, 75, 118, 122. 119 SBo 155 (Lefort, Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 197; trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:215– 16). 113

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to a tendency toward too much allegory. Hence Theodore adds that the angel delivered this message to him “as a word of caution for us.” While allegorical interpretation could create problems for a community in any time and place, we know that it was a point of contention in the Origenist controversy too, as expressed by critics such as Epiphanius and Shenoute.120 While the Pachomians placed great emphasis on reading, memorizing, interpreting, and discussing the meaning of Scripture, there is no reason to assume that their commitment to the Bible would prohibit them from reading extracanonical books for edification as well. They might very well have had an attitude toward apocrypha similar to that of Priscillian and Ps.-Evodius, who, as we discussed in chapter six, maintained that apocryphal books and traditions could be valuable supplements to Scripture if the reader was spiritually mature and possessed a discerning mind. Although there is no way to know precisely how Pachomians would have used books such as the Nag Hammadi Codices in their habitual study and religious instruction, one could imagine a scenario in which these books, with their complicated, often opaque teachings, were restricted to the more mature monks, who possessed the capacity to read discerningly and who would not be easily led astray by the more questionable contents, whatever that might have been in their eyes. The “perfect” or “mature” (ⲧⲉⲗⲉⲓⲟⲥ), the “spiritual” (ⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁⲧⲓⲕⲟⲥ) and “holy ones” (ⲧⲟⲓⲥ ⲁⲅⲓⲟⲓⲥ) are, after all, the addressees specified at the end of Codex II, while the colophon in Codex VII says that the book belongs to “the fatherhood” (ϯⲙ︤ⲛ︦ⲧ︥ⲉⲓⲱⲧ), that is, to the abbot and/ or monastery seniorities.121 Accordingly, such books would not have been made available to neophytes and those still on the path to spiritual maturity. But for more advanced readers, the books could have offered a wide range of theological, exegetical, and ethical perspectives which, at the very least, would have raised questions for the monks’ theological discussions, even if they did not agree with every point of content. The vast amount of biblical interpretation and allegory offered in the Nag Hammadi Codices should indeed have appealed to scrutinizers of Scripture as devoted as the Pachomians. To cite just one example, the interpretation of Paul’s letters concerning the present reality of “the spiritual resurrection” (ⲧⲁⲛⲁⲥⲧⲁⲥⲓⲥ ⲛ̄ⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁⲧⲓⲕⲏ)122 articulated in the Treatise on the Resurrection reconciles nicely with Pachomius’ own teaching on that subject, even as it is presented in the idealized Greek Life. There, Pachomius teaches the brothers that they need to understand Paul’s letters with “true knowledge” (ἐπιγνώσεως ἀληθινῆς), to realize that “we have already risen” with Christ, and that while believing in the future 120 Epiphanius, Pan. 64.4; Anc. 52–55, 58–63; Shenoute, I Am Amazed, 331–32 (HB 25–26); Jacobsen, “Genesis 1–3.” 121 See chapter seven. As we pointed out there, the terms ⲧⲉⲗⲉⲓⲟⲥ and ⲡⲛⲉⲩⲙⲁⲧⲓⲕⲟⲥ are used in Pachomian texts to refer to the mature monks among them. 122 Treat. Res. 45.40–46.1.

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resurrection, “we ought also to know about the spiritual resurrection” (τὴν πνευματικὴν ἀνάστασιν).123 The Treatise on the Resurrection teaches accordingly that one needs to realize that one has already risen, and associates the current resurrection life with ascetic practice (ⲁⲥⲕⲉⲓ) and training (ⲅⲩⲙⲛⲁⲍⲉ).124 In fact, the exact term “spiritual resurrection” does not appear in 1 Cor 15, but is shared by the Treatise on the Resurrection and the Life of Pachomius.

Implications While there were also other ascetics in the area,125 the Pachomian monks who lived close to the Jabal al-Tarif, at the monasteries of Sheneset and Pbow, are in our view the most likely people to have owned the Nag Hammadi Codices. Even if one doubts that the owners were specifically Pachomians, the evidence from the colophons, cartonnage, location of manufacture and discovery, and from the controversial history over apocryphal books and “Origenist” teachings in Egyptian monasteries, not to mention the Coptic (not Greek) language of the texts, point overwhelmingly to a cenobitic monastic community. Why would the Pachomians, or any other Egyptian monks, have read such books as the Nag Hammadi Codices?126 How would these texts, which have usually been labeled “unorthodox” and “gnostic,” have appealed to monastic readers in late antique Egypt? What would monks have found edifying about them? These are substantial questions which we cannot hope to answer adequately within the confines of the present book. Here we can offer only a few suggestions to point the way forward for future studies of these texts in their Egyptian monastic context. It has long been noted that “a common ascetic emphasis” shared among many of the Nag Hammadi texts would have been a major draw for monastic readers.127 This is certainly the case with the Teachings of Silvanus, with its exhortation to “struggle against every folly of the passions of love and base wickedness” and “obtain the austerity of good discipline.”128 In terms of its style and theol123 G1 56–57 (Halkin, Vitae Graecae, 38–39; trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:337). The present reality of the resurrection is also stressed in Theodore, Instr. 3.29, 37. 124 Treat. Res. 49.9–25; 49.30–33. Gos. Phil. and Exeg. Soul express similar views (see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth). Cf. also Theodore, Instr. 3.29, 37. 125 See chapter two. 126 Khosroyev poses this question with specific reference to the Pachomian hypothesis: “wenn man vermutet, daβ gerade die Pachomianer, aber nicht irgendjemand anderer diese Texte gelesen habe, sollte man fragen: Warum lasen sie sie?” (Die Bibliothek, 83). 127 Wisse, “Gnosticism and Early Monasticism,” 440. Ascetic exhortation is especially noteworthy in Treat. Res., Gos. Thom., Gos. Phil., Orig. World, Exeg. Soul, Thom. Cont., Acts Pet 12 Apost., Auth. Teach., Plato Rep., Teach. Silv., Testim. Truth, Dial. Sav., and Sent. Sextus. 128 Teach. Silv. 85.19–21, 87.16–17.

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ogy, the text has much in common with the letters of Antony and his disciple Ammonas, as well as the Coptic texts attributed to the fourth-century ascetics Paul of Tamma and Stephen of Thebes.129 Indeed, a passage parallel to the Teachings of Silvanus is attributed to none other than St. Antony himself in another manuscript.130 To take another example, monks in the late fourth or early fifth century who read the Exegesis on the Soul would find its exhortation to repentance and prayer consistent with contemporary monastic writings. The Exegesis on the Soul teaches that “it is appropriate to pray to God night and day, stretching our hands up to him,” and “if we truly repent, God, the patient and abundantly merciful, will hear us.”131 The text advocates weeping as well as silent and heartfelt prayer to the Father, “with all our soul, not with the external lips, but with the spirit within.”132 Its use of Scripture, with extensive quotations and allusions applied to the ideals of repentance, prayer, renunciation, rejection of evil, and attachtment to Christ as one’s savior, resembles the writings of Pachomius and his successors 129 Teach. Silv.’s exhortation “Do not become an animal with the men pursuing you, but rather become man, pursuing the evil beasts” (Teach. Silv. 86.1–4: ⲙ̄ⲡ︤ⲣ︥ϣⲱⲡⲉ ⲛ̄ⲧ︤ⲃ︥ⲛⲏ ⲉⲣⲉ’ⲛ̄’ⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲡⲏⲧ ⲛ̄ⲥⲱⲕ· ⲁⲗⲗⲁ ϣⲱⲡⲉ ⲛ̄ⲧⲟϥ ⲛ̄ⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲉⲕⲡⲏⲧ ⲛ̄ⲥⲁⲛ̄ⲑⲏⲣⲓⲟⲛ ⲉⲑⲟⲟⲩ·) finds a close parallel in an untitled White Monastery manuscript (MONB.GU) attributed to Paul of Tamma: “Do not become like animals that drive the man, but rather the man who drives the animal” (Paul of Tamma, Untitled treatise, 109; Tito Orlandi, Paolo di Tamma: Opere: Introduzione, testo, traduzione e concordanze [Unione Accademica Nazionale: CMCL; Roma: C. I. M., 1988], 66: ⲙ̄ⲡⲣ̄ⲉⲣⲑⲉ ⲛ̄ⲛⲓⲧⲃⲛⲏ ⲉⲧϫⲱⲣ︤ⲙ︥ ⲛ̄ⲥⲁⲡⲣⲱⲙⲉ· ⲁⲗⲗⲁ ⲁ̄ⲣⲓⲡ̄ⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲛ̄ⲧⲟϥ ⲉⲧϫⲱⲣⲉⲙ ⲛ̄ⲥⲁⲡ̄ⲧⲃ̄ⲛⲏ). Stephen of Thebes similarly exhorts the reader: “Do not be like an ox being driven, but be like the person driving the ox” (Stephen of Thebes, Ascetic Discourse, 43; trans. Vivian, Words to Live By, 298). Orlandi suggests that the works attributed to Paul of Tamma may be among our earliest Coptic compositions (“Forgotten Names,” 177, 194). They deal with the ascetic life and provide rules and exhortations comparable to those in the works of Antony, Ammonas, Macarius the Egyptian, Pachomius, Theodore, and Horsiesios (Orlandi, Paolo di Tamma, 14). 130 The passage is found on one side of a parchment leaf in the British Library (BL Or. 6003). The parallel with Teach. Silv. was identified by Wolf-Peter Funk, “Ein doppelt überliefertes Stück spätägyptischer Weisheit,” ZÄS 103 (1976): 8–21. In contrast to our view, Funk maintains that “der spezifischen Mönchsideale” are absent from Teach. Silv., and that its exhortation to “not keep company with anyone” (98.15–16) suggests against its use in a cenobitic community (ibid., 9). This does not take into account its following qualification, however: “if you do keep company with them, be as if you do not” (98.17–18). The view of community in Teach Silv. is thus consistent with the way monastic literature often presents the solitary life as the ideal even for cenobitic monks. Hist. mon. 3.2, for example, in Rufinus’ Latin translation, describes Pachomian table habits as follows: “There is great silence among them as they eat, so that one would not think another person was there when sitting at the table. And such a way of life has been established for each one of them in the multitude, as if he were in solitude …” See similarly Palladius, Hist. Laus. 32.6. Indeed, the ambivalent attitude towards friendship in Teach. Silv. (90.21–33; 97.18–98.22) finds a close parallel in Horsiesios, Instr., where evil and worldly friendship is contrasted with the good and heavenly (Horsiesios, Instr. 7; Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 3:145–51). 131 Exeg. Soul 136.16–18, 137.22–25. 132 Exeg. Soul 135.4–7. Repentance and prayer are also major concerns of Dial. Sav.

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Theodore and Horsiesios in style and mode of exegesis.133 In its metaphorical application of Old Testament imagery of Jerusalem as a fornicator and whore to the life of the soul, the Exegesis on the Soul is also strikingly similar to Shenoute’s So Listen, as both texts vividly describe the soul’s prostitution and fornication with demons illustrated with Scriptural quotations from Ezekiel and Hosea.134 Interpretations of Adam and Eve found in the Exegesis on the Soul and other Nag Hammadi texts135 would also have tapped into Egyptian monks’ aspirations of becoming like Adam in Paradise – celibate, powerful, even luminous. As Peter Brown observed, “The men of the desert were thought capable of recovering, in the hushed silence of that dead landscape, a touch of the unimaginable glory of Adam’s first state.”136 Several texts in Codex II describe Adam’s original luminosity and intellectual superiority over demons, and interpret the primordial union of Adam and Eve in allegorical ways that encourage celibacy, as humanity’s union with its divine intellect. Although humanity lost its intellect in the Fall, and became subject to lusts and demonic passions, Christ has, through his teaching and death, restored them to their original condition by reuniting humanity with its intellect, Adam with Eve,137 sometimes understood as the union of one’s soul with Christ, the second Adam.138 Along similar lines, Louis Painchaud and Jennifer Wees have drawn attention to an interesting passage in On the Origin of the World (II,5),139 which describes Adam and Eve’s ability, after eating from the 133 See Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 142–45. Compare, e. g., the use of Isa 30:15 in Theodore, Instr. 3.37 with its use in Exeg. Soul 136.5–8. On Pachomius’ style, see Joest, “Josef in der ‘Wüste’: Der achte Brief Pachoms und seine Botschaft,” JCoptS 8 (2006): 119; On Theodore and Horsiesios’ style, see Rousseau, “Successors of Pachomius,” 152. On the literary styles of Pachomius, Theodore, and Horsiesios in comparison, see Joest, Theodoros, 215–23. Rousseau suggests that “people who thought like Theodore and Horsiesios would have found the Nag Hammadi codices useful, once the originally ‘gnostic’ material had been rearranged  – ‘recycled’  – according to new patterns. We do not have to believe that Theodore and Horsiesios themselves knew of the codices we now possess (though that remains possible); rather, their comparable habits of exegesis and catechesis make it entirely likely that the Nag Hammadi documents could have taken their surviving form within Christian ascetic society” (ibid., 157). 134 Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 146–48. 135 E. g., Ap. John, Gos. Phil., Orig. World, Exeg. Soul, Testim. Truth. 136 Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 220. In texts such as Exeg. Soul and Gos. Phil., this is the state before Eve’s separation from Adam. 137 Lance Jenott, “Recovering Adam’s Lost Glory: Nag Hammadi Codex II in its Egyptian Monastic Environment,” in Jewish and Christian Cosmogony in Late Antiquity (ed. Lance Jenott and Sarit Kattan Gribetz; TSAJ 155; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 222–43; Elaine Pagels, “Exegesis and Exposition of the Genesis Creation Accounts in Selected Texts from Nag Hammadi,” in Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism, and Early Christianity (ed. Charles W. Hedrick and Robert Hodgson Jr.; Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1986), 257–85. 138 This is the case with Exeg. Soul and Gos. Phil. (see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth). 139 Louis Painchaud and Jennifer Wees, “Connaître la différence entre les hommes mauvais et les bons: Le charisme de clairvoyance d’Adam et Ève à Pachôme et Théodore,” in For the Children, Perfect Instruction: Studies in Honor of Hans-Martin Schenke on the Occasion of

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Tree of Knowledge, to discern between good and bad people.140 As this spiritual gift was important to Pachomian monks, and Pachomius himself was famous for exercising it, one could see here yet another way that monastic readers of Codex II would find a model to aspire to in its expanded narratives of Adam and Eve.141 Since combat with demons played a key role in the regimens of Egyptian ascetics, the monastic literature of the period abounds with stories of temptation, struggle, and victory over wicked spirits.142 In the Life of Antony, for example, the hero preaches a sermon about the malicious tricks demons play on aspiring ascetics, taking as his starting point the Apostle Paul’s observation that our contest is not against flesh and blood but against “the world rulers of this aeon” (Eph 6:12). “The mob of them is huge in the air around us,” says Antony, “and they are not far from us. But the differences among them are many.” According to Antony, there is much more to learn on this subject than his brief introduction provides: “A speech about their natures and distinctions would be lengthy, and such a discourse is for others greater than us.”143 This kind of detailed information about demons  – the differences among them, their names, ranks, and which parts of the body they haunt, etc. – is precisely what a monk would find recorded in Nag Hammadi texts such as the Apocryphon of John and On the Origin of the World, to name only two examples from those conventionally regarded as “gnostic.”144 We cannot know whether or not the monks who read these books would have believed that demons created the human body, as the texts teach; but the extensive narratives about humanity’s ongoing struggle with evil spirits, and the promise of protection from the power of God the Father, Jesus the Savior, the Holy Spirit, or divine Word,145 would have been at home in the Berliner Arbeitskreis für koptisch-gnostische Schriften’s Thirtieth Year (ed. Hans-Gebhard Bethge et al.; NHMS 54; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 139–55. 140 Orig. World 119.2–4: “you will know the difference between the bad men and the good.” 141 Painchaud and Wees, “Connaître la difference,” esp. 153–55 (with reference to SBo 107, S6 [Lefort, Vitae Sahidice Scriptae, 264], and G1 112). They suggest that Orig. World was probably transmitted and edited in the Pachomian federation (or its vicinity), and argue that it constitutes a good reason to read the Nag Hammadi texts in light of contemporary Coptic literature. On the controversy caused by Pachomius’ clairvoyance, see Jenott, “Clergy, Clairvoyance, and Conflict.” 142 See, for example, Brakke, Demons and the Making of a Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Christianity (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006). 143 Athanasius, Vit. Ant. 21. 144 Ap. John (NHC II) 15–19, for example, specifies the names of over a hundred demonic powers who helped create Adam’s psychic and material bodies, which part of the body each controls, and the names of their chiefs. On the Origin of the World, in addition to its own detailed information about demonic names and ranks, refers the reader to further books where one can find “the effect of these names,” their “force” and “influences,” etc. (102.7–11, 107.2–3, 14–17). The important reference to demonic powers in Eph 6:12 quoted by Antony is also the starting point for a discourse on that subject in Hyp. Arch., and is quoted in Exeg. Soul 131.9–13 concerning the soul’s struggle with fornicating spirits. 145 Ap. John (NHC II) 30–31; Orig. World (NHC II) 125.14–23 (cf. 105.26).

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Egyptian monasticism. Jesus’ exclamation in the Book of Thomas (NHC II,7), “woe to you who are in the grip of the forces of the evil demons,”146 would have resonated with Egyptian monks who read Codex II, yet at the same time they might have been encouraged by Jesus’ teaching in the Apocryphon of John (NHC II,1) that he who receives the Spirit “will be saved and become perfect … and become purified in that place from all wickedness and involvements with evil … without anger or envy or jealousy or desire and greed of anything.”147 Monks who read in the Apocryphon of John and several other Nag Hammadi texts about becoming “immovable,” that is, cultivating apatheia and no longer being subject to the bodily passions aroused by demons, would have found the same ideal in the letters of Antony.148 An interest in heavenly ascent may also have been among the reasons why monks read the Nag Hammadi Codices. The topos of making journeys into heaven appears frequently in Egyptian hagiographic literature, where it serves to distinguish ascetic heroes. In the Life of Onnophrius, for example, the protagonist explains how, after learning about the virtues of the anchoritic life from the “perfect ones” in his cenobitic monastery, “I became like those whose minds travel to the other aeon (ⲡⲕⲉⲁⲓⲱⲛ).”149 Onnophrius then goes on to explain how monks who spend long periods of time in solitude can be “taken up into the heavenly places” where they are “greeted” by the saints, rejoice, receive hearts “filled with light,” and are comforted by God. “Afterwards, they return to their bodies and they continue to feel comforted for a long time,” and “if they travel to another aeon through the joy which they have seen, they do not even remember that this kosmos exists.”150 Pachomius himself was remembered for ascending to “the other aeon” (ⲡⲓⲕⲉⲉⲱⲛ),151 and similarly marvelous stories were told about Antony and Evagrius.152 Given the importance placed upon heavenly ascent in Thom. Cont. 144.12–13. Ap. John (NHC II) 25. 148 M. A. Williams, Immovable Race; Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony, 66–67. While demons are portrayed in Vit. Ant. as visible and external to the body, “in the air around us,” in Antony’s own letters they are invisible and internal, causing unnatural movements in the body (e. g., Ep. 1:41; Rubenson, Letters of St. Antony, 199; cf. Brakke, Demons, 16–17; Blossom Stefaniw, “Of Sojourners and Soldiers: Demonic Violence in the Letters of Antony and the Life of Antony,” in Violence, Education and Social Reproduction [ed. Kate Cooper and Jamie Wood; Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming]). Both views are expressed in Ap. John. 149 Life of Onnophrius 9a (Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 212). 150 Life of Onnophrius 11b–12a (Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 213–14; trans. Vivian, Histories, 156, modified). 151 SBo 114; cf. SBo 88. That Pachomius claimed to have ascended to heaven was an accusation leveled at him by bishops at the Synod of Latopolis, at least according to the version in the Arabic Life of Pachomius (not in the Greek Life); see Jenott, “Clergy, Clairvoyance, and Conflict.” 152 Vit. Ant. 65; Life of Evagrius 24 (Vivian, Four Desert Fathers, 86). Evagrius himself theorized that “prayer is a communion of the mind with God” and “the ascent of the mind towards God” (On Prayer 3 and 35, trans. Robert E. Sinkewicz, Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic 146 147

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Egyptian monastic culture, the monks who read the Nag Hammadi Codices would certainly have found inspiration in those texts which recount heavenly journeys made by biblical figures such as James, Peter, Paul, and Shem, and even by legendary sages such as Hermes Trismegistus, Zostrianos, and Allogenes.153 In addition to the heavenly ascent literature, the way many Nag Hammadi texts purport to record visions received by biblical figures, often revelations of the risen Christ to his disciples, would have appealed to monks like the Pachomians who had a strong interest in learning about visions received by their elders.154 Monastic readers of the Nag Hammadi Codices would probably also have seen direct references to themselves in Coptic texts which speak of the virtues of the ⲙⲟⲛⲁⲭⲟⲥ. Thus, in the Gospel of Thomas, Jesus proclaims “Blessed are the monks (ⲙⲟⲛⲁⲭⲟⲥ) and elect, for you will find the kingdom.”155 He promises salvation to those who understand the deeper meaning of his sayings,156 and teaches that while there are many who stand by the door, “it is the monks (ⲙⲟⲛⲁⲭⲟⲥ) who will enter the bridal chamber.”157 Similarly, readers of the Dialogue of the Savior would find Jesus teaching a prayer to the Father stating that “you are [the] thought and the complete carefreeness of the monks (ⲙⲟⲛⲟⲭⲟⲥ).”158 And they would find Jesus telling his disciples that “when I came, I opened the path and I told you about the crossing that the chosen ones and the monks (ⲙⲟⲛⲟⲭⲟⲥ) [who] have known the Father and believed in the truth shall cross.”159 The question here is not what these texts would have meant in their hypothetical “original” contexts, but rather how Coptic readers living in a monastic community in the fourth and fifth centuries would have understood them. Indeed, features and themes of the Nag Hammadi texts that would likely have been of interest to monks in late antique Egypt can easily be multiplied, and Corpus [OECS; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003], 193, 196). On the theme of ascent in Evagrius’ theology, see Doris Sperber-Hartmann, Das Gebet als Aufstieg zu Gott: Untersuchungen zur Schrift de oratione des Evagrius Ponticus (ECCA 10; Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2011). 153 At least six ascent accounts are preserved in the Nag Hammadi Codices: Ap. Jas. (NHC I 15.6–34), Apoc. Paul, Disc. 8–9, Paraph. Shem (NHC VII 1.6–16), Zost., and Allogenes. Acts Pet. 12 Apost. could also be counted as an ascent text, if the apostles’ journey to the city of “Nine Gates” was read metaphorically. 154 Ap. John, Soph. Jes. Chr., 1 Apoc. Jas., 2 Apoc. Jas., Apoc. Adam, Apoc. Peter, Ep. Pet. Phil. For interest in visions in the Pachomian Lives, see G1 48, 71, 99, 125, 135; cf. SBo 33–34, 66, 83–84, 86–87, 103. 155 Gos. Thom. (49), 41.27–29. 156 Gos. Thom. (1), 32.12–14. 157 Gos. Thom. (75), 46.11–13. Cf. Horsiesios, Test. 20: “Let us imitate the wise virgins who were worthy to enter the bridal chamber with the bridegroom and had the oil of good works in their jars and lamps. Then the foolish virgins found the door of the bridal chamber closed; they had been unwilling to prepare oil for themselves before the wedding feast” (trans. Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 3:185). 158 Dial. Sav. 121.16–18. ⲙⲟⲛⲟⲭⲟⲥ is a spelling variant of ⲙⲟⲛⲁⲭⲟⲥ that is also found in Nag Hammadi cartonnage fragment C8. 159 Dial. Sav. 120.23–121.2.

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Painchaud and Wees have, based on their findings, advocated readings of the Nag Hammadi texts in light of contemporary Coptic literature.160 Such readings have also been called for by Stephen Emmel and Tito Orlandi.161 As Orlandi has pointed out, “all sorts of ideas and religious sects have been called forth to comment upon the corpus and to explain, it seems, everything except what was common in the Nile valley in the fourth and fifth centuries.”162 Elsewhere he laments the fact that there has been a clear tendency to treat the Nag Hammadi texts, monastic texts, hagiographical texts, and apocryphal texts separately, “with the consequence that a general view of the Coptic literature, on the basis e. g. of style, rhetorical choices, relationship of literary genres, transmission of texts, has been neglected.”163 Emmel, for his part, focuses on the problem of textual transmission and highlights our lack of access to the hypothetical (Greek) originals of the Nag Hammadi texts. He advocates a “theory of Coptic reading and Coptic readers,” and recommends a change in perspective, whereby The task is to read the texts exactly as we have them in the Nag Hammadi Codices in an effort to reconstruct the reading experience of whoever owned each of the Codices. This reading would have to be undertaken in full cognizance of contemporary Coptic literature, and the culture of Upper Egypt, during, say, the third to the seventh centuries.164

With this call for Coptic readings of the Nag Hammadi Codices we can only concur, but we would also go further on the basis of the results of the present study, and call specifically for Coptic monastic readings. For as we have shown, it is likely that the Nag Hammadi Codices were produced in order for their texts to be read by monks in Upper Egypt. We propose that a Coptic monastic reading of the Nag Hammadi Codices provides us with, in the words of Emmel, “the shortest distance into the minefield of the texts’ complex history of transmission.”165 This Coptic monastic reading would involve in-depth analyses of the Nag Hammadi texts, exactly as they have been preserved, in light of early Egyptian monasticism.

160

Painchaud and Wees, “Connaître la difference,” esp. 153–55. See esp. Emmel, “Religious Tradition”; Tito Orlandi, “Nag Hammadi Texts and the Coptic Literature,” in Colloque international “l’Évangile selon Thomas et les textes de Nag Hammadi”: Québec, 29–31 mai 2003 (ed. Louis Painchaud and Paul-Hubert Poirier; BCNH.É 8; Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval, 2007), 323–34. 162 Orlandi, “Catechesis Against Apocryphal Texts,” 85. 163 Orlandi, “Nag Hammadi Texts,” 327. 164 Emmel, “Religious Tradition,” 42. 165 Emmel, “Religious Tradition,” 42–43. 161

Chapter 10

The Secret Books of the Egyptian Monastics … to study them as part of a gnostic, rather than monastic, trajectory is peculiar at best  – Michel Desjardins1

The first scholar to study the Nag Hammadi Codices, Jean Doresse, concluded that “whoever may have possessed them, they cannot have been monks.”2 Many scholars have concurred with this conclusion. Mark Sheridan, for instance, has appealed to what he regards as our established knowledge of early Egyptian monasticism, stating that the association of Gnosticism of the type represented in the Nag Hammadi documents with Origenism and with Pachomian monasticism creates the impression of a freethinking syncretistic mentality difficult to reconcile with what is really known of the monastic world of the fourth century.3

Yet as we have shown throughout this book, “what is really known” of Egyptian monasticism in this period is far more complex, and less harmonious, than Sheridan’s conclusion would allow. In the fifth century, when the Nag Hammadi Codices circulated, the presence of apocrypha and other “heretical” books (such as the writings of Origen) among the monks of Upper Egypt sparked controversy and drew the critical attention of archbishop Dioscorus and his ally, Shenoute, among others. Their attempts to censor such illicit reading material, which, as Shenoute says, teach about “other worlds” and “mysteries” not found in Scripture, evidently did not win the day. Extant manuscripts from libraries of Egyptian monasteries demonstrate that apocryphal books that reveal such mysteries (including post-resurrection appearances of Jesus to his disciples, etc.) and expand upon Scripture continued to be read, copied, and distributed by monks well into the medieval period. In Coptic culture, ficticious figures such as Evodius of Rome defend the value of using extra-canonical traditions as supplements to Scripture, along similar lines as those expressed by bishop Priscillian in Spain. Thus a balanced picture of the monastic culture of late antique Egypt must take into account all the evidence, including books like the Nag Hammadi Codices. Michel R. Desjardins, “Rethinking the Study of Gnosticism,” R&T 12:3/4 (2005): 379–80. Doresse, Secret Books, 135. 3 Sheridan, “Modern Historiography,” 211. 1 2

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In light of our analysis, the question is no longer who produced and read the Nag Hammadi Codices, but how these codices would have appealed to, and contributed to, the ideals of the monastic life in Egypt. While we cannot hope to reconstruct the theology of those who owned the Nag Hammadi Codices in antiquity, we can study the issues addressed in the texts, and relate them to what we know about Christianity in Egypt in the fourth and fifth centuries when the codices circulated. How would any of these texts’ views on, for example, Christology, be understood in the wake of the Arian or Nestorian controversies? How would teachings on resurrection, Eucharist, the pre-existence of the soul, or the apokatastasis, be understood in the context of the Origenist controversy? What would these texts have offered to someone interested in interpreting difficult passages of Genesis? Or to someone seeking visions in contemplative prayer? Or to someone concerned with how best to combat demons and the nagging passions of “the flesh”? The texts preserved in the Nag Hammadi Codices speak to so many issues beyond those typically regarded as “gnostic.” In our view, there have been two main obstacles to studying the Nag Hammadi Codices as part of Egyptian monasticism. First, overly idealized portraits that present monks as completely severed from society, often illiterate, and adhering only to the Bible, have exercised a strong influence on studies of early Egyptian monasticism (despite evidence to the contrary in the ancient sources themselves). Such portraits have been especially influential in scholarship on Pachomian monks, who hold pride of place in Christian tradition as the founders of the cenobitic way of life. And second, the persistent classification of the Nag Hammadi texts as “gnostic” has led to the impression that they are somehow alien to “authentic” Christianity, and therefore beyond the pale of Christian monasticism. The presupposition that the Nag Hammadi Codices belong to the phenomenon of “Gnosticism” inevitably leads to the picture of two distinct phenomena, “Monasticism” on the one hand, and “Gnosticism” on the other, each with their own “essential” traits and characteristics that can be compared and contrasted. As one scholar has put it, “We have the impression of being in the presence of two universes of thought that have evolved on parallel courses.”4 The category of “Gnosticism” thus creates a great gulf between early Egyptian monasticism and the Nag Hammadi Codices that is difficult to reconcile with the evidence we have presented in this book. There are no indications that so-called Gnostic communities existed in Egypt in the fourth and fifth centuries. Heated controversies certainly split the Egyptian church in this period – the Melitian and Arian schisms, for example, and the Origenist controversy – but “Gnostics” are not mentioned by any of the Egyptian authorities embroiled in these disputes, such as Athanasius, Theophilus, Shenoute, Cyril, or Dioscorus.5 The idea that 4 5

Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 291. On Epiphanius’ references to “Gnostics” in Egypt, see chapter three.

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Gnostics owned the Nag Hammadi Codices appears to us to be a rabbit hole of research which should be plugged and permanently sealed. Following Michael Williams’ groundbreaking dismantling of the category of “Gnosticism,” discussions of the Nag Hammadi Codices, especially in their Coptic manuscript context, may now proceed along different routes.6 Philip Rousseau anticipated this shift in a new preface to the paperback edition of his study on Pachomius, published in 1999. Rousseau acknowledged that Williams had managed to “unscramble the rigid polarization that has encouraged scholars to limit to Gnostic circles the attribution of, among other things, certain rigorist tendencies, and to exclude from those same circles, on the other hand, all supposedly orthodox religious beliefs and inclinations.”7 Thus “a less interrupted spectrum of opinion and practice” may be seen “across all those communities that regarded themselves, in one sense or another, as Christian.”8 In order to see a clearer picture of how the Nag Hammadi Codices fit into the world of late antique Egypt, it is equally important that we dispense with popular but misleading caricatures of early Egyptian monks which portray them as adhering only to the biblical canon as defined by Athanasius, and unable, or unwilling, to read extra-canonical literature. James Goehring has, in many important publications, painted a compelling picture of early Egyptian monasticism that is more doctrinally diverse and complex than scholarly treatments of this subject have tended to allow. His thought-provoking suggestion that it would have been possible for an Egyptian monk to support Athanasius while simultaneously reading the Nag Hammadi Codices should not be discounted.9 In a more recent article, Goehring has called for scholars to imagine “a more complex world,” one that was more ideologically interwoven than what seems readily to emerge from surviving sources.10 We wholeheartedly agree with Goehring’s timely suggestion, and would add that imagining such a world also involves attending to the complexity of individuals. As Éric Rebillard has recently argued, we need to remember the fact that in late antiquity, as today, people had multiple identities and did not necessarily fit readily into one clearly defined group. Like today, people in antiquity possessed the capacity to entertain different and even

6 Cf. Desjardins, “Rethinking,” 380: “Almost all the sources we now call gnostic are in fact Christian, although many interpreters have invested in not recognizing that fact”; and Samuel Rubenson, “Wisdom, Paraenesis and the Roots of Monasticism,” in Early Christian Paraenesis in Context (ed. James Starr and Troels Engberg-Pedersen; BZNW 125; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2004), 523: “earlier debates about the relations of early monasticism to Gnosticism have become outdated.” 7 Rousseau, Pachomius, xxviii–xxix. 8 Rousseau, Pachomius, xxix. 9 Goehring, “New Frontiers,” 247. 10 Goehring, “Some Reflections.” See also Hugo Lundhaug, “Nag Hammadi-kodeksene og den tidlige monastiske tradisjon i Egypt,” MCPL 24 (2009): 33–59.

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contradictory points of view.11 Indeed, they could hold notions and read literature that did not necessarily reconcile with their own worldview, not to mention the views of their community leaders. On this point, the defense of apocrypha voiced by Priscillian and pseudoEvodius proves instructive, since they maintained that such traditions could be used fruitfully by Christian exegetes as supplements to Scripture, as long as the reader possessed a mature and discerning mind that could separate the wheat from the chaff. If Pachomian monks were the ones who manufactured and read the Nag Hammadi Codices, which we have shown to be probable, then this does not necessarily imply that they were “heretics” or lacked an interest in conforming to “orthodoxy.”12 Reading such extra-canonical literature could rather have been in line with their commitment to the ideals of the monastic life, including biblical study and interpretation, the pursuit of wisdom, visionary experiences, ascetic practice, and their struggle against demons, etc. There is every reason to conclude that the monks who read these codices also read Scripture. The biblical citations and allusions which appear throughout the texts would not have made sense without a solid knowledge of the Bible, and indeed, fragments of Genesis were discovered among the cartonnage documents, from a codex that once resembled the Nag Hammadi Codices themselves and might very well have been produced by the same people. Armand Veilleux recognized this complexity, and although he was critical of the Pachomian theory, he aptly concluded that If some day it could be proved that the Nag Hammadi Library was assembled by Pachomian monks, I would like to think that they did it not out of ignorance or because they did not care for orthodoxy, but because, beyond all that separated them from the gnostic Weltanschauung, they perceived in those writings the same spiritual thirst and the same search for primordial Unity that animated their whole life.13

In discussing those who owned the Nag Hammadi Codices, one must also ask how representative these texts were of their theology and reading habits. As Roger Bagnall has rightly pointed out, “a text, or even a whole library of texts, does not make a sect or a community.”14 It is an important point of methodology that we cannot reconstruct people’s theological beliefs and identities based on the variety of books they owned. We can only hope to infer what kind of topics they might have been interested in reading, and try to contextualize those topics in the culture of late antique Egypt. There certainly are theological views in the Nag 11 Rebillard, Christians and Their Many Identities, esp. 3–5; cf. Desjardins, “Rethinking,” 380: “when we engage ancient authors, we should assume that they are at least as clever, complex and contradictory as we are, and that some of their concerns are different from ours.” 12 Indeed, some Nag Hammadi texts arguably betray influence from post-Nicene “orthodoxy,” either through redaction or at the level of composition. See, e. g., Lundhaug, “Begotten, Not Made.” 13 Veilleux, “Monasticism and Gnosis,” 306. 14 Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity, 304.

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Hammadi texts which would have been deemed “heretical” from the viewpoint of Alexandrian orthodoxy. However, we do not know how the monks who read these texts would have assessed, for example, those demiurgical theologies which portray the god of creation as a malicious, satanic figure (a feature which scholars usually regard as a hallmark of “Gnosticism”). It is possible that some readers believed in this type of theology, while others did not. Perhaps they chose to ignore such theology altogether, focusing instead on different aspects of the texts that were more congenial to their theological interests. We should not dismiss the possibility that the monks who read these texts, Pachomian or otherwise, were capable of reading selectively, finding edification in one passage while disagreeing with another. This possibility needs to be taken into more serious consideration, especially in light of the fact that less than half of the Nag Hammadi texts propagate malicious demiurgical theology. In the conclusion to his perceptive study of the use of Scripture in the Apocalypse of Peter, Birger Pearson states that the “study of the real data of Christian history, and history in general, always produces surprises,” and that the results of his investigation “offer no help to those who like to keep their categories neat and tidy.”15 Our analysis of the monastic owners of the Nag Hammadi Codices likewise produces no simple solution for those who prefer to continue interpreting the history of early Christianity and Egyptian monasticism in terms of conventional and binary paradigms such as “Gnosticism” and “the Great Church.” Despite the arguments of Alexandr Khosroyev, we find that cenobitic monks in Upper Egypt are the most likely people to have produced and read this collection of books. The scribal colophons and cartonnage papyri point overwhelmingly to a monastic setting for the codices, and while it is impossible to identify with certainty which monastic organization these monks belonged to, our analysis has shown that the Pachomians remain their most likely affiliation. The close proximity of early Pachomian monasteries to the place where the codices were discovered along the Jabal al-Tarif, and the letter addressed to “beloved father Pachome” found among the cartonnage papyri, point in the direction of the Pachomian koinonia. For some scholars, however, incorporating the Nag Hammadi Codices into the world of early Egyptian monasticism poses insurmountable challenges, and there seems to be more at stake in this question than locating the codices in their proper historical context. One scholar goes so far as to state that the theory of Egyptian monks reading the Nag Hammadi Codices, “ruins the basis of the reconstruction of monastic spirituality created by various researchers in the last quarter of the century.”16 We hope, however, to have shown that there is still much to be learned about early monastic communities in Egypt, and that new 15 16

Pearson, “Apocalypse of Peter,” 97–98. Wipszycka, “Nag Hammadi Library,” 183.

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avenues of research into the Nag Hammadi Codices can contribute to that history. We hope that the present book will enourage further studies of these codices as part of the monastic culture of Upper Egypt, taking individual, social, and historical complexity into full consideration. Using the monastic context as the starting point for further studies promises to enrich our understanding of both the texts themselves and the history of early Christian monasticism. In the final analysis, it seems the only way we can hope to understand the Nag Hammadi Codices in their proper historical context is by acknowledging a much higher degree of complexity than we may be accustomed to, by discarding all-too-convenient categories that have proven to be unhelpful in interpreting these fascinating sources, and by comparing individual Nag Hammadi tractates to contemporary material. From this perspective it is easy to agree with Pearson’s expectation that the Nag Hammadi Codices “still have a lot of surprises waiting for students of early Christianity who are willing to study them.”17

17

Pearson, “Apocalypse of Peter,” 98.

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Index of Ancient Sources Hebrew Bible Genesis 2 1:1–4:2 6:6 1 Kings 19:10 2 Chronicles 9:29 12:15 13:22 20:34 25:26 28:26 33:18–19

243 228 88n81

Psalms (LXX) 33:2–34:16 228n77 51–93 40 Song of Songs 6:8 66

148n7

148n7 148n7 148n7 148n7 148n7 148n7 148n7

Isaiah 30:15

258n133

Ezekiel 38:14 38:17

148n7 148n7

Daniel 13:5

148n7

Biblical Apocrypha Tobit 4:13

148n7

New Testament Matthew 2:14–15

148n7

Mark 10:1–12

81n41

Luke 11:50–51

148n7

Acts 1:21–26 6–7 6:5 18:25 20:35

185n24 159 157 173 148n7

1 Corinthians 2:8 90 15 256

302

Index of Ancient Sources

2 Corinthians 1:19 81n40

2 Thessalonians 1:1 81n40

Galatians 1:8 6:1

172 189

Hebrews 11:5 12:6

148n7 53, 130

Ephesians 4:13 6:12

185n27 90, 259, 259n144

1 Peter 5:12

81n40

2 Peter 2:17

82

Jude 14–15

148n7

Philippians 2:15 Colossians 4:16

193n55

148n7

1 Thessalonians 1:1 81n40

Nag Hammadi Codices and Papyrus Berolinensis 8502 Acts of Peter and the Twelve Apostles (NHC VI,1) 8.14–19 160n71 9.30–32 160n71 10.31–11.26 160n71 (Second) Apocalypse of James (NHC V,4) 58.2–8 87n74 Apocalypse of Paul (NHC V,2) 22.24–23.29 86n73 23.26–29 86n73 Apocalypse of Peter (NHC VII,3) 79.24–31 82n49 82.20–25 87n76 Apocryphon of James (NHC I,2) 1.8–10 178n1, 236n8 1.28–31 236n8 15.6–34 261n153

Apocryphon of John (NHC II,1, III,1, IV,1, P. Berol. 8502,2) NHC II 15–19 259n144 25 260n147 30–31 259n145 Asclepius (NHC VI,8) 66.35–67.34 86n69 Authoritative Teaching (NHC VI,3) 23.12–24.22 243n51 25.27–26.26 86n66 Book of Thomas (NHC II,7) 138.1–4 185n24 144.12–13 260n146 145.17 183n22 145.17–19 183n19 145.18–19 183n23, 206n100 145.20–23 183n20

303

Index of Ancient Sources

Concept of Our Great Power (NHC VI,4) 40.5–9 11n37 48.9–11 87n75 Dialogue of the Savior (NHC III,5) 120.23–121.2 261n159 120.26 47n125 121.5–7 87n79 121.16–18 261n158 121.18 47n125 127.19–131.15 86n65 129.20–21 87n79 144.9–10 86n65, 87n79 146.19–20 87n79 Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth (NHC VI,6) 55.24–56.11 86n67 56.8 86n67 59.20–22 201n85 Exegesis on the Soul (NHC II,6) 131.9–13 259n144 135.4–7 257n132 136.5–8 258n133 136.16–18 257n131 137.22–25 257n131 Gospel of the Egyptians (NHC III,2, IV,2) NHC III 56.22–58.26 86n64 57.22–26 86n64 69.6–17 191n47 Gospel of Philip (NHC II,3) 55.14–19 88n83 56.18–20 244n58 56.26–30 244n60 57.12 245n61 57.18 245n62 58.14 246n69 58.20–22 242n41 61.5–10 168n104 66.16–20 244n57 67.17–18 242n39 68.23–26 86n72 71.24–27 86n72 73.3–5 244n58

74.1–12 75.2–10

86n72 86n72

Gospel of Thomas (NHC II,2) 32.12–14 261n156 41.27–29 261n155 46.11–13 261n157 47.1–8 213n30 Gospel of Truth (NHC I,3, XII,2) NHC I 16.31–33 80n34 Hypostasis of the Archons (NHC II,4) 88.10–12 88n84 96.11–14 88n84 On the Origin of the World (NHC II,5, XIII,2) NHC II 102.7–11 259n144 105.26 259n145 107.2–3 259n144 107.14–17 259n144 119.2–4 259n140 125.14–23 259n145 Paraphrase of Shem (NHC VII,1) 1.6–16 261n153 Prayer of Thanksgiving (NHC VI,7) 63.33 201n85 64.25 86n68 Scribal Note (NHC VI,7a) 65.8–14 197n76 Second Treatise of the Great Seth (NHC VII,2) 54.15 180n9 61.29 180n9 61.34–35 180n9 66.29 180n9 67.2–3 180n9 Teachings of Silvanus (NHC VII,4) 85.19–21 256n128 86.1–4 257n129

304 87.16–17 90.21–33 97.18–98.22 98.15–16 98.17–18 115.16–19 116.5–9 117.8–9

Index of Ancient Sources

256n128 257n130 257n130 257n130 257n130 86n70, 88n80 86n70, 88n80 194n64

Testimony of Truth (NHC IX,3) 41.4–9 74n2 Three Steles of Seth (NHC VII,5) 127.28–31 178n2 Treatise on the Resurrection (NHC I,4) 45.40–46.1 255n122 47.38–48.3 244n55 48.3–6 244n56 49.9–25 256n124 49.30–33 256n124 Trimorphic Protennoia (NHC XIII,1) 35.11–20 88n83 47.19–27 88n83

53.34–36 56.30–35 58.7–8 76.23–77.1 95–102 100.19–36 104.20–30 107.26–108.17 127.23–25 132.20–23

242n43 242n41 242n41 242n40 86n63, 88n82 86n63, 88n82 242n40 242n40 242n39 242n39

A Valentinian Exposition (NHC XI,2) 35.24–31 86n71, 88n81 35.31 88n81 37.20–31 88n81 37.28–38 86n71, 88n81 38.37–39 86n71, 88n81 Wisdom of Jesus Christ (NHC III,4, P. Berol. 8502,3) NHC III 114.13–24 88n84 Zostrianos (NHC VIII) 132.7–9 194n59

Tripartite Tractate (NHC I,5) 51.12–15 242n42

Pachomian Writings Epistula Ammonis 12 237n15 25 166n91 26 116n41, 247n76, 251n97 Horsiesios Instructions 7

257n130

Testament 7 20 35 55

196n69 185n27, 261n157 193n55 193n55

Life of Pachomius G1 2 185n27, 188n39 6 22n1, 32n37, 52n171, 68n56 10 254n113 12–29 29n28 15 251n91 20 34n52 22 185n26 24 53n182 26 133n136, 167n95 27 134n144, 135n145, 236n12 28 133n136, 167n95, 253n110 29 112n33, 116n46

305

Index of Ancient Sources

30 31 32 33 34 38 39 40 42 46–48 48 49 54 55 56 56–57 58 59

60 61 64 65 68 71 75 76 79 80 81 83

84 88 91 94 98 99

248n80 29n27, 167n98–99, 248n78, 248n80, 251n96 19n52, 39n84, 134n142, 185n27, 212n25 34n55 254n118 251n92 133n136, 140n165, 141n168 34n58, 51n167, 53n182 34n56, 251n93 254n116 261n154 188n39 30n29–30, 34n54, 185n27, 188n39, 212n25 251n98 254n113 256n123 254n115 133n136, 137n152, 137n155, 165n85, 165n90, 166n93, 167n95, 212n25, 253n109 137n155 137n155, 254n112 116n45 53n182, 136n149 34n55, 53n182 254n116, 261n154 254n118 34n53 133n136, 136n149, 137n152, 167n95 34n54, 140n167 30n30, 37n69 30n30, 34n54, 110n28, 133n136, 137n155, 167n95, 212n25 185n27 254n112 185n27, 188n39, 251n96 49n146 185n27, 188n39 167n97, 185n27, 188n39, 188n41, 196n69, 212n25, 254n117, 261n154

100 103 106 107 109 112 114 116 117 118

149

251n95 19n52, 39n84 136n149, 185n27 185n27 53n182 259n141 136n149 19n52, 39n84, 251n94 19n52, 39n84 137n155, 185n27, 188n39, 254n118 53n182 185n27, 193n55, 193n58 53n182, 136n150, 251n89 254n118 136n149 253n111, 254n116, 261n154 185n27, 188n40 251n99, 252n100 185n27 23n7, 113n36, 134n142 261n154 185n27, 188n39 19n52, 39n84 19n52, 39n84, 39n84, 252n101 19n52, 39n84

G4 10

116n45

S1 10–19 14

251n91 134n139

S2 fr. 5, § 9

116n45

119 120 121 122 124 125 126 127 129 134 135 136 139 146

S3c (page numbers in Lefort’s edition) 309–10 248n78 334 168n102 S5 (page numbers in Lefort’s edition) 180 237n15

306

Index of Ancient Sources

S6 (page numbers in Lefort’s edition) 264 259n141 S10 fr. 4 SBo 3 10 10–11 14 16 17–26 18 24 25 27

29 29–31 33–34 37 38 39 40 41 42 43–44 49 50 50–51 51 54 56 59 60 63 66 68 71 79 81

117n46

185n27, 188n39 32n36–37, 51n168, 52n171, 68n56, 116n46 116n45 32n38–39 32n39 29n28 32n39 34n52 116n46, 134n144, 135n145, 236n12 19n52, 39n84, 134n142, 167n96, 185n27, 188n39, 212n25 185n27, 188n39, 254n115 34n55 261n154 134n142 136n149 129n112, 133n136 33n50, 34n53, 34n58 134n142 34n56 116n45 30n29 30n30 34n54 30n30–31 30n30, 37n69 34n54, 140n167, 141n172 110n28 185n27 234n2 261n154 34n53 110n28, 133n136, 167n95, 212n25 185n27 134n144

82

207

19n52, 39n84, 116n45, 185n27, 188n39 261n154 261n154 260n151 49n146 49n146 185n27, 261n154 189n42 185n27, 259n141 260n151 108n20, 122n70 136n149 19n52, 39n84 234n2 185n27, 188n39 237n15 19n52, 39n84 193n58 193n55 136n150, 185n27 252n100 185n27, 188n39, 211n20 252n101 116n46, 133n136 111n28, 167n95 254n119 19n52, 39n84 150n19, 151, 167n99, 169n105–6, 249n81, 252n102 185n27, 188n39 138n160, 185n27 49n146 19n52, 39n84 185n27, 188n39 193n58 23n7, 185n27 185n27, 193n55 19n52, 39n84, 49n146, 185n27 19n52, 39n84

Pachomius Instructions 1.46

122n70

83–84 86–87 88 89 91 103 106 107 114 118 119 123 125 128 129 130 132–33 133–34 134 139 142 144 145 147 155 181 189

193 194 196 198 199 201 202 204 205

307

Index of Ancient Sources

Letters 1 2 3 6 9 11

196n69 196n69 196n69 196n69 196n69 196n69

Paralipomena 1 6 7 15 35

53n182 19n52, 39n84 167n99, 248n79 116n44–45 116n45

Praecepta 19 19–20 20 24–25 25 27 45 49 50–52 51 52 54 56–57 82 84 86 90 92–93 100

254n114 253n110 253n110 253n109 166n92 110n28, 167n95 122n70 140n165 34n58 34n59 134n142 122n70 134n139 165n85, 165n87 134n139 134n139 134n139 116n45 165n88

100–1 101 (Copt.) 104 105 115 119 123 127 128 138 139 139–40 140

253n109 165n89 116n45 116n45 253n110 134n142 254n114 19n52, 39n84 19n52, 39n84 253n110, 254n114 253n108 212n24 166n94, 253n107

Praecepta ac Leges 7 166n93 15 140n165 Praecepta et Instituta 15 253n110 Prophecy of Apa Charour M586, 99 166n91 Regulations of Horsiesios 16 212n24 29 167n95 Theodore Instructions 3.8 3.29 3.37 3.40 3.46

193n55 256n123–24 256n123–24, 258n133 53n177 252n100

Other Christian Writings Ammonas Letters 5 11

193n58 193n58

Antony the Great Epistulae 1.41 260n148

3.5 5 5.1–2 5.36 6 6.78

193n56 243n49 193n57 234n1 243n49 193n57

308

Index of Ancient Sources

Apophthegmata Patrum Antony 33 74n1 Sisoes 48 237n15 Sopatrus 1 146n1 Athanasius of Alexandria Contra gentes 1 39n85 Epistulae festales 39 146–47, 146n2, 147n3, 147n5, 150n19, 151, 164, 169, 172–74, 205, 235, 236n6, 249 39.21 147n5 39.23 149n11 Vita Antonii 3 10 14 21 65 81 84–87

32n35 185n26 49n158 259n143 260n152 49n158 49n158

Augustine Epistulae 31.7 31.7–8 237

205n96 203n91 149n14

Cyril of Alexandria Epistulae 81,2 243n48 81,5 243n48 Dioscorus of Alexandria Epistula ad Sinuthium XZ 66 37n70, 237n14 XZ 66–71 36n67 XZ 67 37n71–72, 39n83, 176n150 XZ 67–68 176n151 XZ 68 37n70, 97n113, 136n146, 170n112, 175n149 XZ 70 38n74 XZ 71 37n68, 38n73, 176n153 XZ 72 37n68, 176n153

XZ 72–73 XZ 73

36n67 37n69, 176n152, 176n154, 240n29

Ps.-Dioscorus of Alexandria Panegyric of Makarius of Tkow 15.1 181n15 Egeria’s Travels 9.1 24n9 9.6 24n9 Epiphanius Ancoratus 13.6 52–55 58–63 82–100 82.3 87.2–3

239n22 242n45, 255n120 242n45, 255n120 242n45 238n19, 244n52, 245n63, 247n72 238n20

Panarion Proem I.4.3 Proem I.4.8 Proem I.5.4 Proem I.5.9 Proem II.2.4 26 26.1.3 26.2.5 26.2.6 26.3–5 26.3.5–7 26.8.1 26.11.12 26.13.2 26.17.8–9 26.18.1 26.18.4 30.15.1 35.3.5–6 39.1.1 39.5.1 39.6.1 40 40.1.1–7 40.1.4

66n42 66n39 66n39, 66n42 66n39 67n48 66n45 66n45 66n45 66n45 66n46 66n42 66n45 66n45 66n45 67n50 67n48 67n49 69n60 66n40 66n38 57n4 69n60 66n43 68n52 68n54, 69n58

309

Index of Ancient Sources

40.1.5–6 40.1.7 40.2.1 40.2.1–2 40.2.4 40.5.3–7 40.6.5–9 40.7.4 40.7.4–7 51.3.1–2 63.1.4 63.3.4 63.5 64 64.3.8–4.1 64.3.10 64.4 64.4.1 64.70.5 64.71.10

68n53–54 68n54 69n59 66n45, 69n57 68n55 168n103 168n103 69n60 69n57 66n39 154n38 174n141 239n22 65 154n38 239n22 242n45, 255n120 65n37, 168n101, 239n21, 247n72 69n60 69n60

Eusebius Historia ecclesiastica 6.12 149n11 6.14.1 26n17 Evagrius Ponticus On Prayer 3 260n152 35 260n152 Ps.-Evodius of Rome Homily on the Passion and the Resurrection 40 150 41 150 42 150 44 150–51

Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt 5 33n46 7 33n48 7a 33n41, 33n44 10 33n48 11b 33n44 16 33n46 23 33n49 25 33n45 27 33n48 37 33n48 38 33n48 38b–39b 33n43 39a 33n44 40 33n48 40b 181n15 41b 41n95, 185n26 42a–45b 33n43 45b–48b 33n42 46 33n49 48 33n48 48b–52b 33n43 49a–50a 33n42 49b 33n41 53b 41n95 54a 33n46 54a–55b 33n42 56a 33n43 56b 32n40 89 33n47 95 33n48 106 33n48 Investiture of St. Gabriel the Archangel (page numbers in Müller’s edition) 61 159, 159n67 71 160n72

Hippolytus Refutatio omnium haeresium V.22 57n4

Investiture of St. Michael the Archangel (page numbers in Müller’s edition) 2 159, 159n68 6 160n70 57 160n69

Historia Monachorum in Aegypto 3 23n6 3.2 257n130 77 234n2 Epilogue 23n5

Jerome Epistulae 5 5.2

202n89 203, 203n90

310 10.3 47.3 49.4 84

Index of Ancient Sources

203n90–91 203n90 203n90 245n64

Preface to the Rules of Pachomius 1 215n39 To Pammachius Against John of Jerusalem 29 244n59 John Cassian Conferences 10.3–4

239n25

Institutes 4.4 4.6 4.12 4.13

140n165 140n165 213n29 213n29

John of Parallos On Heretical Books 47 161n75 48 161n74 49 161n75 Life of Apa Onnophrius 2a 33n49 3a 33n49 7a 185n27 9a 185n27, 260n149 10b 33n49 11b–12a 260n150 15a 33n49 Life of Apa Phib (page numbers in Vivian’s translation) 219 181n15 221 181n15 Life of Evagrius 24 260n152 Origen Commentarii in evangelium Joannis 20.18 242n43

De principiis 1.2.2–3 1.2.10 1.6.2

242n41 242n42 242n39

Palladius Lausiac History prol. 2 234n2 prol. 5 27n23 8.6 27n23 18.12 234n2 18.12–16 27n21 29–30 26n19 32 27n21, 28n24 32–33 27n22, 234n2 32–34 27n23 32.4–5 196n69 32.5 189n43 32.6 257n130 32.7 189n44 32.9 113n36 32.9–10 51n168 32.9–12 212n26 32.10 117n46 32.12 113n36 35 24n11, 49n146 58 25n14, 39n82, 52n171, 92n94 58–60 24n12 59 25n15 60 26n17 Paul of Tamma Untitled Treatise 109 257n129 Philastrius of Brescia Diversorum hereseon liber 88 185n28 Priscillian of Avila Book on Faith and Apocryphal Writings 184–89 148n10 263–64 148n9 Rufinus Apologia ad Anastasium papam 4 245n65

311

Index of Ancient Sources

Apologia adversus Hieronymum 1.9 245n65 Shenoute of Atripe A Beloved Asked Me Years Ago XH 14 189n45 Ad Timotheum archiepiscopum Alexandrinum HD 301 181n15 And It Happened One Day AV 233 240n30, 246n67 Canon 1 XC 8 YW 10 YW 209 YW 210 YW 211

175n147 175n147 171n114 174n143 171n116, 172n122

Canon 9 BV 39

113n37

God Who Alone Is True FM 191 237n14 I Am Amazed 101 103 103–4 308 309 311 312 319 331–32 348 350 359–60 363 370–76 374 375–76 376 377 378–79

174n140 173n135 173n136 172n124 173n134 174n139 174n141 151n19, 172n125 255n120 246n67 246n69 173n137 173n138 181n15 186n30 173n128 173n129, 181n15 173n131 173n132

381 384 DS 221

173n133 174n142 172n127

I Have Heard about Your Wisdom XH 277–78 36n65 So Listen XO 35

36n65

There is Another Evil that has Come Forth GP 108–10 38n78 GP 109 38n79 We Will Speak in the Fear of God GP 106 38n80 Who Speaks Through the Prophet DD 80 244n53 ZM 44 172n125 ZM 60 244n54 You, God the Eternal XS 336 174n144 XS 385–86 174n145, 205n98 Sokrates Historia ecclesiastica 6.7 239n25 Sozomen Historia ecclesiastica 8.11 239n25 8.12.12 239n23 Stephen of Thebes Ascetic Discourse 43 257n129 Theophilus of Alexandria Epistulae festales 14 239n25 16 72, 172, 177n157, 239n25, 239n27, 243n46 17 239n25 18 239n25 19 239n25

312

Index of Ancient Sources

Homily on the Mystical Supper PG 1027B–C 239n26

Letter Written at Constantinople (403) 11 243n46–47

Documentary Papyri and Ostraca Amherst Papyri (P. Amh.) II 145 185n29, 186n29 Ashmolean Museum Papyri (P. Ash.) 3 153n33, 153n36, 204n95 Bala’izah Fragments frg. 7 162n78 frg. 47 162n78 frg. 52 162n80 Berlin Papyri (P. Berol.) 8508 10n33, 163n82 10677 98n114 Chester Beatty Papyri 2554 10n32 Columbia University Papyri (P. Col.) VII 127 119 VII 129 119–20 Epiphanius of Thebes Monastery Ostraca (O.Mon.Epiph.) 127 182n16 129 182n16 131 182n16 141 182n16 146 182n16 163 182n16 168 182n16 172 182n16 175 182n16–17 180 182n16 190 182n16 211 194n62 217 182n16 219 182n16 223 182n16 225 182n16 227 182n16

241 243 253 256 263 266 268 269 277 279 281 296 299 300 301 312 319 323 327 328 330 336 337 342 354 375 376 377 381 387 389 415 431 432 433 436 449 480 482 483 489

182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16, 194n62 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 202n89 202n89 202n89 203n91 212n23 202n89 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16

Index of Ancient Sources

501 554 577

182n16 205n95 194n62 C6

Grenfell and Hunt, New Classical Fragments (P. Grenf. II) 95 142n174 111 153n32, 204n95 Hermopolis Papyri (P. Herm.) 7 46n115 7–10 45 Institut français d’archéologie orientale (IFAO) 13315 154n41 John Ryland’s Library (P. Ryl. Copt.) 268–76 45 292 46n117 301 46n117 310–14 46n117 396 46n117 London Papyri, British Library (P. Lond.) VI 1913, 3 116n41 VI 1914, 20 237n15 VI 1914, 56 51n167 VI 1914, 60 51n167 VI 1915 49n158 VI 1916 49n158 VI 1917, 18 237n15 VI 1920 186n29, 188n36–37 VI 1921 186n29, 188n36 VI 1922 52n172 Nag Hammadi Cartonnage Papyri (P. Nag Hamm.) C2 47n123–24, 189n46, 222–23 C3 47n124, 128, 129n111, 189 C4 47n124, 47n126, 48n130, 48n138, 49n147, 52, 53n177–78, 129n110–11, 130, 131n128 C5 47n124, 48n127, 48n130, 48n144, 49n147, 50n162, 51n169, 52, 52n173–74,

C7 C8

C15 C15–19 G1

G2 G3 G4 G17 G18 G22–23 G22a–i G22c G22d G22e G22f G22g G22h G22i G23 G23a–d G23b G23c G24 G25 G26 G27 G29 G31 G44 G44a G44a–e G44b G44–45

313 53n178–79, 53n181, 129n110–11, 129n113, 130, 130n118 47n124, 48n129, 48n142, 105, 129n110, 130, 132, 135–38, 138n161 130, 130n123 47, 47n124, 48n127, 49n147, 49n153, 129n110– 11, 129n115, 130, 261n158 47n126, 129n111, 131 131 105, 105n5, 105n7, 111n29, 112n35, 113–16, 117, 132n131 111n29, 112n35 111n29, 112n35, 113, 116 131n128 111n30, 121 111n30 111n30, 118n57, 119, 119n59, 120, 120n63, 141 118 22n2, 107n17, 117n49 118n53 118n53 118n51 117n50, 118n52 22n2, 117n48 117n48, 118n53 107n17 118 107n17 22n2, 107n17, 117n48, 118n53 111n30, 118n53, 119n58 119n58 111n30, 117n50, 118n57, 119n58 107n17, 111n30, 117n50, 118n57 107n17 105n7, 132n131 48n128, 107n17, 131n129 123n74 123n73 123n74 47n126, 112n31, 131

314 G45 G45a–e G45b G45d G46 G47 G48 G49 G50 G51 G52 G53 G54 G55 G56 G58 G59 G62 G61 G63 G64 G65 G66 G67

G68

G69

G70 G71 G72

Index of Ancient Sources

107n17, 131n129 123n73 123n74 123n74 111n30 112n31 111n30, 112n31 112n31, 123n74 111n30 111n30 112n31, 123n74 107n17, 122 112n31 111n30 108n17, 122n72 111n30 111n30 47n120, 111n29, 112n35 112n31 47n121, 111n29, 112, 112n32 47n121, 111n29, 112, 112n32 47n122, 111n29, 112, 112n32 47n124, 47n126, 48n139, 49n155, 53, 130, 131n128 47, 47n124, 49n147, 51n164, 129, 129n110–11, 130n120–21, 133n136 47n124, 48n127, 48n129, 48n144, 49n147, 49n149, 49n150, 49n155, 50n159– 60, 52n175–76, 129n110– 11, 129n113, 129n115, 130n117, 130n119, 130n121–22, 136n146 47n124, 48n127–28, 48n130–31, 48n145, 49n149, 51n166, 51n170, 52n174, 129n110–11, 129n113, 130n120 49n155, 130n124 47n124, 48n141, 49n155, 54n184, 129n110, 130n124 47, 47n124, 48n127, 48n132, 48n143–44, 49n148–49, 49n155,

G73 G74

G75

G76

G77

G78

G79 G82 G83 G87 G91 G100 G143 G143a G143b G143c–e G143f G143g–l G144 G144a G144b–h G144h G145 G146 G146–47

50n161, 52n175–76, 129n110, 129n113–14, 130n119, 130n121 48n133, 48n144, 49n149, 49n154, 129n113, 129n115 47n124, 48n140, 49n155, 54n184, 130n120, 130n124, 131n128 47n124, 48n127, 48n134, 48n144, 49n150, 51n165, 52n174, 129n110, 129n113, 129n115, 130n120, 131n128 47n124, 48n127, 48n135, 48n144, 49n151, 49n155, 129n110, 129n113, 129n115 47n124, 48n127, 48n134, 48n136, 48n144, 49n147, 49n154, 49n156, 50n161, 52n176, 129n110–11, 129n113, 129n115–16, 130n121 47n124, 48n127, 48n136– 37, 48n143–44, 49n154–55, 49n157, 129n110, 129n113–16 47n124, 49n155, 129n110– 11 47n119, 111n30, 123n75, 130, 130n125 123n74 123n74 123n74 47n119 123 124, 125n92 124 124 124 124 123 124–25 125 125 131 131n129 131

315

Index of Ancient Sources

G147 G153

48n126, 131n129 47n126, 105n7, 131n128, 132n131

Nepheros Archive (P. Neph.) 15 186n29 16 186n29 Oslo Papyri, University of Oslo (P. Oslo) 518 119 Oxyrhynchus Papyri (P. Oxy.) 2192 203n91 4365 153n31, 202n88, 203n91 Papyrologica Lugduno-Batava (P. L. Bat.) 25, 13 153n32, 204n95 Prague Papyri (P. Prag.) 87 153n30, 153n35, 204n95 178 153n30, 204n95 Vienna Ostraca (O. Vind. Copt.) 169 182n16 171 182n16, 188n34 184 182n16 189 182n16 197 182n16 201 182n16

202 203 204 221 223 227 228 235 238 241 244 253 258 276 281 287 292 295 299 303 314 347 349 353 356 386

182n16 182n16 188n34 188n34 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16, 188n34 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16 182n16

Vienna Papyri (P. Vindob. Gr.) 26015 153n33–34, 204n95

Index of Modern Authors Alcock, Antony 186n29 Allen, Thomas W. 196n66 Amélineau, Emile 141n173 Arns, Paulo Evaristo 203n94 Attridge, Harold W. 80n34, 242n38, 244n55 Bacht, Heinrich 165n84 Bacot, Seyna 122n70 Bagnall, Roger S. 10n32, 11n36, 22n2, 30n32, 37n69, 43n103, 50, 51n165, 91n90, 94, 96n107, 98n114, 102n125, 109n22, 116n44, 117n50, 119–20, 130n122, 140, 141n170, 141n173, 185n29, 224n67, 266 Bainbridge, William Sims 58 Barnard, Leslie W. 169n108 Barnes, Timothy D. 147n3 Barns, John W. B. 1n4, 6n23, 22n2, 47n119, 49n112, 53n177, 53n180–81, 53n183, 54n185, 75, 104–10, 112–13, 115, 116n42, 117n47, 118–19, 121n68, 125, 128, 129n109, 130n123, 131n128– 29, 132, 136, 137n156, 138, 139n162, 142, 189n46 Barnstone, Willis 79n25–26 Bell, H. Idris 44n107, 44n109, 46n115, 127n98, 182n16, 188n36–37, 220n55, 220n60, 238n15 Bellet, Paulinus 58n7, 191n51 Biedenkopf-Ziehner, Anneliese 96n107 Blount, Justine Ariel 5n20 Böhlig, Alexander 90, 191n47–48, 191n50–51, 212n22 Boon, Armand 29n27, 165n89 Boud’hors, Anne 186n29 Boulluec, Alain Le 238n18, 250n85 Bouriant, Urbain 154n41–42, 176n149 Bovon, François 147n5

Bowman, Alan K. 91n90, 94n98 Brakke, David 57n8, 92n93, 146n2, 147n3–5, 149n11, 259n142, 260n148 Bregman, Jay 90n89 Brennecke, Hanns Christof 126n93 Britain, David 216n44 Broek, Roelof van den 241n36 Bronk Ramsey, Christopher 218n51 Brown, Peter 91n91, 258n136 Browne, Gerald M. 22n2, 44n108, 46n112, 47n119, 53n177, 53n180–81, 106, 113n38, 117n47, 119n58, 121n68, 128n105–6, 128n108, 130n123, 131n128–29, 136n147, 138n156, 139n157, 189n46 Bucher, Paul 40 Budge, E. A. Wallis 32n40, 41n95, 126, 155n45, 158n61, 158n63, 169n65, 181n15, 183n21, 185n27, 188n32–33, 218n51, 220n55–58, 260n149–50 Burrus, Virginia 148n7–8 Butler, Cuthbert 23n7, 24n10, 26n18, 189n43–44, 212n26 Cain, Andrew 203n94 Cameron, Alan 97n110 Camplani, Alberto 146n2, 236, 240n31, 241n36, 242n38 Carruthers, Mary J. 40n91 Cavallo, Guglielmo 224n67 Chadwick, Henry 2n4, 106n11, 148n6, 149n12, 183n18 Chadwick, Owen 140n165 Chambers, Jack K. 216n44 Chapman, Paul 150n15 Choat, Malcolm 22n3, 43n103, 44n105, 45n112–14, 46n115, 46n117, 48n126, 123n77, 138n161 Clackson, Sarah J. 96, 122n70, 185n29

Index of Modern Authors

Clark, Elizabeth A. 241n35 Claude, Paul 180n6 Clédat, M. Jean 25n13 Coblentz, David 209n11, 213n31 Conti, Marco 148n6–7,148n9–10, 149n13 Coquin, René-Georges 146n2, 154n41, 204n95 Cribiore, Raffaella 25n14, 94n98 Cristea, Hans-Joachim 35n61, 151n19, 172n123–26, 173n128–29, 173n131–42, 186n30, 246n67, 246n69 Cromwell, Jennifer 122n70 Crum, Walter Ewing 1, 40n92, 44n107, 44n109, 45n115, 46n117, 53n180, 122n70, 154n41–42, 162n79, 170n109, 173n130, 180n8, 181n16, 182n17, 185n27, 188n35, 194n62, 203n91, 205n95, 205n97, 212n23 Davis, Stephen J. 30n32 Dechow, Jon F. 37n69, 65, 66n40, 67n47, 108–9, 168n101, 176n151, 177n157, 238n16, 239n21, 239n25, 240n31, 247n71 Delattre, Alain 25n13 Denzey Lewis, Nicola 3, 5n20, 17n45, Depuydt, Leo 10n32, 33n49, 127n99, 155n46, 157n55–61, 159n67, 178n4 Desjardins, Michel R. 81n38, 263, 265n6, 266n11 Dewart, Joanne E. McWilliam 245n64–65 Dieleman, Jacco 194n62 Dochorn, Jan 160n70 Doresse, Jean 1–2, 4, 8, 11–12, 14, 16–17, 19, 22, 56–57, 61, 64, 74–75, 77, 194n60, 199n79, 208n5, 263 Dubois, Jean-Daniel 242n38 Dummer, Jürgen 216n43 Dzierzbicka, Dorota 122n70 Edgar, Campbell Cowan 142n174 Ehrman, Bart D. 79n27 Elliott, Neil 93n95 Emmel, Stephen 3, 10n31, 11, 13, 15, 20, 35n61–62, 37n69, 42n96, 78, 94, 97n112, 98–100, 136n146, 142n174, 155n44, 155n46, 157n55, 170n109, 170n112, 171, 172n125–27, 175n145, 209n9, 209n11,

317

211n28, 218n51, 220n56, 239n27, 244n53, 262 Emmenegger, Gregor 217n45 Engberg-Pedersen, Troels 93n95 Evans, Craig A. 83n54 Evelyn White, Hugh G. 40n92, 155n43, 156, 182n16–17, 194n62, 203n91, 205n95, 212n23 Falkenberg, René 84n58 Fournet, Jean-Luc 94n100, 185n29 Funk, Wolf-Peter 101n124, 128n103, 186n29, 209n11, 214–16, 231, 257n130 Gamble, Harry Y. 202n87, 212n27 Gardner, Iain 46n117, 187n29 Gardthausen, Victor 196n66 Gerstinger, Hans 97n109 Gilhus, Ingvild Sælid 83n55–56 Gindele, P. Corbinian 254n114 Ginzberg, Louis 168n103 Giorda, Mariachiara 51n167, 133n138 Godlewski, Włodzimierz 40n92 Goehring, James E. 2n4, 3n13, 7, 28n25– 27, 30n31, 30n33, 31n34–35, 36n63, 36n65, 38n76, 40n92, 41, 41n94, 42, 44n110, 70n62, 74, 88, 89n85, 91n90–91, 106n11, 108–9, 113n39, 118n56, 126n94, 133–34, 141–42, 166n91, 167n99–100, 177n157, 178n2, 189n45, 216n43, 225n70, 233n89, 235n3, 236–37, 247n75–76, 248, 250, 252, 265 Gonis, Nikolaos 46n117 Goodacre, Mark 17n49 Gould, Graham 238n18 Graham, William A. 253n106 Greer, Rowan A. 240 Griggs, C. Wilfred 82n49 Grillmeier, Aloys 37n67, 240n31, 241n35 Grossmann, Peter 42n96–97 Guérin, Henri 38n77–80 Guillaumont, Antoine 110n27, 241n35 Habachi, Labib 40n86 Hagen, Joost L. 158n61 Haines-Eitzen, Kim 186n32, 202, 212n28 Hainthaler, Theresia 240n31 Halkin, François 29n27, 110n28, 116n41,

318

Index of Modern Authors

116n44–45, 167n95, 167n97, 185n26, 188n40–41, 212n26, 254n113, 256n123 Hallock, Frank H. 155 Hammond, Philip C. 16n46 Harrauer, Hermann 97n109, 153n35–36, 154n40–41, 182n16 Havelaar, Henriette W. 81–82 Hays, Richard B. 83n56 Hedrick, Charles W. 2n4, 6n25, 70–71, 106n11, 158n61 Heil, Uta 126n93 Heylen, F. 185n28 Hoehne, Gerhard 248n78 Holl, Karl 67n50, 238n19–20, 239n22, 244n52, 245n63 Hunt, Arthur Surridge 142n174 Hurst, André 224n67 Hyvernat, Henri 157n55 Jacobs, Andrew S. 149n14 Jacobsen, Anders Lund 239n24, 242n45, 255n120 Janz, Timothy 72n71 Jenott, Lance 26, 28n25, 81n38, 86n64, 199n78, 199n79, 201n85, 209n11, 242n37, 258n137, 259n141, 260n151 Joannou, Périclès-Pierre 146n2, 236n6 Joest, Christoph 29n28, 30n31, 33n51, 169n107, 196, 225n70, 252n100, 252n103, 258n133 Johnson, Benton 58n10 Johnson, David W. 72n69, 72n71, 181n15 Johnson, William A. 202n86 Jonas, Hans 5n18 Judge, Edwin A. 43n103, 133n138 Kahle, Paul E. 116n41, 126n94, 155n47, 162n77–79 Kasser, Rodolphe 16n49, 126n95, 127, 140n163, 223–24, 228–29, 233n88 Keenan, James G. 91n90 Kelly, John Norman Davidson 245n65 Kennedy, George 93n95 Kenyon, Frederic G. 220n58, 231n86 Khosroyev, Alexandr 2–4, 6n21, 8, 58, 60, 63, 71n66, 74–79.81n39, 84–85, 90–91, 93–96, 98, 106n12, 109n24, 118n56, 131n126, 144, 180–81, 185, 191n49,

199n79, 200–1, 207n3, 208n4, 209–11, 213n30, 217–19, 231, 235n4, 249–50, 256n126, 267 Kilpatrick, George D. 224n67 Kim, Young Richard 242n45 King, Karen L. 57n8, 81n38, 85 Kiss, Zsolt 30n32 Koch, Hal 242n40 Koenen, Ludwig 92n93, 154n39, 235n4 Kopecek, Thomas, A. 11n37 Koschorke, Klaus 189n45 Kotsifou, Chrysi 1n3, 207 Kramer, Bärbel 44n108, 45n112 Krause, Martin 5n18, 5n20, 16n49, 17n50, 57n7, 75, 77, 199n79, 208n4, 208n5 Krawiec, Rebecca 35n61, 175n146 Kruit, Nico 121 Krutzsch, Myriam 10n33, 142n177, 163n82–83 Kugel, James L. 168n103 Kuhn, Karl Heinz 157n56–57 Lampe, G. W. H. 39n85, 116n41, 124n82, 125n89, 180n8, 185n26, 239n23 Lantschoot, Arnold van 98n115, 161n73– 75, 178n3, 180n4, 194n63 Larsen, Lillian 51n167, 92n92 Layton, Bentley 27n20, 32n40, 33n49, 36n63–65, 57n7–8, 79n30, 95n103, 101n123, 101n125, 108, 113n37, 117n46, 122n70, 126, 171, 174n143, 175n146–47, 180n5, 183n19–20, 193n55, 194n59, 213n30, 220n55–56, 220n60, 237n14 Lease, Gary 42n96–97 Lefort, Louis Théophile 14n40, 29n27, 30n31, 33n50, 101n123, 110n28, 138n160, 146n2, 165n89, 166n91, 167n95–96, 168n102, 188n38–39, 193n55, 225n71, 236n6, 237n15, 240n30, 246n67, 248n78, 254n119, 259n141 Leipoldt, Johannes 35n61, 117n46, 174n144–45, 181n15, 205n98, 237n14 Lewis, Naphtali 94n98, 94n100, 117n50, 119n60, 120n61, 141n170 Llewelyn, S. R. 133n138, Lodge, John 94n95 Logan, Alastair H. B. 3–5, 8, 56–70, 79n31

Index of Modern Authors

Loon, Gertrud J. M. van 25n13 López, Ariel G. 37n69 Lucchesi, Enzo 99–100, 176n152 Luisier, Philippe 35n62, 233n88 Lundhaug, Hugo 10n31, 11n37, 36n67, 38n75, 43, 72n71, 72n73, 73n75, 81n38, 83n57, 84n58–59, 86n72, 96n106, 100n102, 168n104, 172n123, 212n24, 240n31, 241n33, 242n41, 243n50, 244n56, 244n58, 244n60–62, 245n66, 246n68–70, 253n106, 256n124, 258n133–34, 258n138, 265n10, 266n12 MacCoull, Leslie S. B. 43n102, 97n111 Maehler, Herwig 1n3, 96n109, 97n111, 102n125, 153n35–36, 154n40–41, 171n119 Markschies, Christoph 199n77, 214n37 Marrou, Henri 92n92 Martin, Victor 224n67, 228n77 McEnerney, John I. 126n93, 243n48 McGing, Brian C. 45n110, 237n15 Meyer, Marvin W. 40n92, 41n94, 79n26, 188n35 Meyer, Robert T. 24n10, 26n17, 27n23, 28n24, 189n44 Minnen, Peter van 43n103, 46, 49n158, 141n171 Mirecki, Paul A. 158n61 Montserrat-Torrents, Josep 8, 200n80–81, 235n5 Müller, C. Detlef G. 159n67, 160n69–70, 160n72 Munck, Johannes 80n36 Munier, Henri 36n67, 37n68–69, 171n114, 172n122, 176n152–54, 240n29 Nagel, Peter 220n56 Nau, François 193n58 Nongbri, Brent 127n101, 225 Oertel, Friedrich 112n34, 117n50, 141n170 Orlandi, Tito 22n2, 71n69, 72, 97n109, 97n112, 100n123, 152n25, 155n44, 156, 157n53, 170–72, 240–41, 257n129, 262 Otranto, Rosa 152–54, 202n88, 204n95

319

Pack, Roger 96n109 Pagels, Elaine H. 79n29, 81n38, 81n44, 82n49, 242n37–38, 258n137 Painchaud, Louis 41n94, 72n71, 242n38, 242n43, 258, 259n141, 262 Papaconstantinou, Arietta 51n167 Parker, David C. 212 Parrott, Douglas M. 197n76, 199n77, 199n79, 205n99 Parsons, Wilfrid 205n96 Pearson, Birger 82, 267, 268 Peel, Malcolm L. 244n55 Perkins, Pheme 242n38 Pestman, Pieter W. 118n51, 141 Petrie, William Flinders 1n2, 17n50 Pickering, Stuart R. 43n103 Poethke, Günter 10n33, 142n177, 163n82–83 Preisigke, Friedrich 115n40, 117n49–50, 124n81, 130n125 Puech, Henri-Charles 242n38 Quecke, Hans 36n65, 138n153, 212n25 Quibell, James E. 122n70, 165n86 Quispel, Gilles 242n38, 242n40 Rasimus, Tuomas 192n54 Rathbone, Dominic W. 30n32, 118n51, Rebillard, Éric 251n90, 265–66 Rees, Brinley Roderick 46n115 Reimer, Paula J. 218n51 Reintges, Chris H. 101n123 Reverdin, Olivier 224n67 Roberts, Colin H. 153n36, 177n156, 250n85 Robinson, James M. 1n4, 10n32, 11n37, 11n39, 14, 16–19, 39n85–89, 42n99–101, 70n62, 72n72, 80, 91n90, 104, 105n4, 106n11, 121n69, 124n78, 127, 128n108, 131, 142, 143n180, 166n88, 169, 178n2, 189n46, 208–11, 220n60, 224–25, 234n88 Römer, Cornelia E. 152–54, 155n44, 170n109, 170n112, 171n114, 200, 207 Rose, Els 149n12, 149n14, 185n28 Rossi, Francesco 150n15, 152n25 Rousseau, Philip 4n13, 29n27, 91n90, 132n134, 135n145, 250n88, 252n100, 258n133, 265

320

Index of Modern Authors

Rubenson, Samuel 24n4, 91n90, 92, 167, 193n56–57, 234n1, 237n15, 238, 241n36, 243n49, 247n73, 248n80, 260n148, 265n6 Rudhardt, Jean 224n67 Rudolph, Kurt 74n3 Ruppert, Fidells 167n95, 253n106 Russell, Norman 23n5, 239n26, 243n46– 47, 246n67 Rustafjaell, Robert de 155n45, 159n64 Säve-Söderbergh, Torgny 1n4, 6n23, 39n85, 40n86, 105, 106n9, 106n11 Schenke, Hans-Martin 11n33, 63n31, 160n72, 163n82, 180n5, 199n77, 205n99, 217n47–48, 218n52, 219 Schmidt, Carl 163n82 Scholer, David M. 88n81, Scholten, Clemens 2n4, 7, 75, 85n60, 106n11, 165n84, 165n86, 180n6, 181n13, 212n22, 212n25, 225n70, 253n109 Schroeder, Caroline T. 35n61, 51n167 Sharpe, John Lawrence 217n51 Shelton, John C. 2n5, 9n30, 22n2, 44n108, 45n112, 47n119, 50n163, 51n164, 53, 54n184, 104, 106–23, 125, 126n96, 128n105–6, 128n108, 129, 130n123, 131n126, 131n128, 131n129, 134, 135n145, 136n146, 136n147, 137–39, 141, 143, 189n46, 235n3, 236 Sheridan, Mark 3, 241n35, 247n73, 249–50, 263 Shisha-Halevy, Ariel 100n121 Shorrock, Robert 97n110 Sijpesteijn, Petra J. 11n36, 119–20 Sinkewicz, Robert E. 260n152 Skeat, Theodore Cressy 120n63 Smith, Geoffrey S. 65n35, 80n37 Smith, Morton 56, 79n28 Smith, Terence V. 82 Sophocles, Evangelinus Apostolides 117n50, 124n82 Sperber-Hartmann, Doris 261n152 Stark, Rodney 58 Starr, Raymond J. 202n87 Stefaniw, Blossom 260n148 Stewart, Columba 24n4, 140n165

Stockhausen, Annette von 126n93 Stowers, Stanley 93n95 Stroumsa, Guy 85 Suciu, Alin 158n61, 194n63, 218n51 Szirmai, János A. 208n5 Tervahauta, Ulla 243n51 Testuz, Michel 224n67, 228n77 Thomas, David J. 141n170 Thomassen, Einar 242n38, 242n43 Thompson, Herbert 36n67, 37n68, 37n70–74, 39n83, 97n113, 112n70, 136n146, 170n112, 175n149–51, 176n153, 220, 237n14 Tibet, David 157n54 Till, Walter C. 10n33, 163n82, 182n16, 188n34 Tillemont, Louis-Sébastien Le Nain de 247n73 Timbie, Janet A. 171n114, 177n157 Timm, Stefan 37n68, 189n45 Treu, Kurt 10n33, 108, 163n82 Tröger, Karl-Wolfgang 199n77, 201n84 Trudgill, Peter 216n44 Turner, Eric G. 9–10, 105n5, 183n19–20, 203n90, 223–25, 228n79, 233n88 Turner, John D. 90n89 Tutty, Paula 5n20, 17n49 Vandorpe, Katelijn 44n104, 142n171–73 Van Elderen, Bastiaan 16n47, 17n49, 19n51, 207n3, 224n68, 225n70, 231, 233n87 Van Nuffelen, Peter 44n106, 44n111 Veilleux, Armand 2n5, 5n19, 6, 27n23, 29n27, 39n84, 71, 106n12, 109–10, 113n39, 117n46, 118, 126n96, 131n126, 137n155, 138, 139n162, 140n166, 142n174, 150n19, 151n23, 165n87–88, 165n90, 166n91–95, 167n97, 168, 169n105–6, 188n38, 193n55, 196n69, 215n39, 235–36, 237n15, 247n75, 248n78–80, 250n88, 252n100, 253n106– 8, 253n110–11, 254n114–15, 254n117, 254n119, 256n123, 257n130, 261n157, 264n4, 266 Vivian, Tim 32n40, 33n49, 41n95, 180n15, 257n129, 259n150, 259n152

Index of Modern Authors

Vliet, Jacques van der 10n32, 39, 155n44, 158n61 Wallis, Richard T. 90n89 Walters, Colin Christopher 165n86 Ward, Benedicta 74n1, Wasserman, Tommy 228n77 Webb, Robert L. 83n54 Weber, Max 74 Wees, Jennifer 258–59, 262 Wendel, Carl 165n86 Wiebe, Richard A. 83n54 Wilkinson, John 24n8–9 Williams, Francis E. 65n37, 66, 67n50, 68n52, 69n58–60, 239n21 Williams, Jacqueline A. 80n37 Williams, Michael A. 7, 10n34, 57n8, 58n10, 59, 64n32–33, 66–67, 70, 77–78, 80n38, 83, 85n61–62, 88, 96n105,

321

132n130, 180n6, 192, 194–97, 199n78– 79, 201n85, 209–11, 213, 250n88, 260n148, 265 Wilson, Robert McL. 2n6, 74n3, 160n72 Winlock, Herbert E. 40n92, 154n41–42 Wipszycka, Ewa 2–3, 27n21, 43n102, 45n114, 47, 54n185, 78n21, 91n91, 106n12, 109n24, 132–34, 135n145, 138n161, 139–40, 142–43, 210–11, 267n16 Wisse, Frederick 2, 6n24, 70, 75, 90n87, 106n11, 151n22, 163n81, 180n6, 186n31, 189n45, 191n47–48, 191n50–51, 194n61, 194n63, 256n127 Worp, Klaas A. 96n107, 121, 176n149 Young, Dwight W. 71n69, 72 Zuckerman, Constantine 45n114–15

Index of Subjects Aaron, Apa 33n5741, 33n44, 41, 181n15, 185n26 Abbaton (see also Discourse on Abbaton) 158–59 Abel 156n51, 162 Abraham, biblical patriarch 148n7, 193 Abraham of Farshut 29n26, 31, 32n34 Abu Hinnis 25n13, 26 Abyssinians 156 Act of Peter 163 Acts of John 157 Acts of Paul 233 Acts of Peter and the Twelve Apostles 63n31, 91, 160, 200, 261n153 Acts of the Apostles 220 Adam 38, 156, 162, 243, 258–59 – apocalypses of 66n45 – transgression of 86n72 Adamas 63 Akulas, Pachomian accountant 111n28, 167n95 Alexander II, Coptic patriarch 98 Alexandria 11n37, 27, 30, 110n27, 125n93, 134, 217 Alexandrian orthodoxy 6–7, 168, 177, 247, 248–49, 252, 267 Allegorical exegesis 239, 242, 246, 254–56 Allogenes 57, 61, 66n45, 69, 98, 261n153 Alms giving: see Charity Al-Mudil Codex 217–18 Alogi 66 Ambrosiaster 149n12 Ammon, bishop 247–48 Ammon, Pachomian abbot 23 Ammonas 193, 257 Anchorites 19, 22, 24, 32–34, 41, 49, 54–55, 68–69, 139, 235, 237n15, 251, 260 Ancoratus: see Epiphanius Andrew the apostle 157

Angels 89, 159, 161–62, 177, 185n27, 234 – apostate angels (see also Demons) 86n64, 88n81 Anomoeans 11n37 Anthropomorphites 239nn23.25 Anticosmicism 80, 84–89 Antidicomarians 66 Antinoë 22n2, 23–26, 39, 54, 92 Antony, Saint (see also Life of St. Antony) 32, 49, 54, 74, 185n26, 193, 234, 259–60 – letters of 92, 193, 238, 241, 257 Apatheia 260 Aphrodisios, monk (in P. Nag Hamm. G69, C4–5) 48, 49n147, 51–53, 130 Aphthonius, Pachomian administrator 27 Apocalypse of Adam 242n44, 261n154 Apocalypse of Elijah 156–57, 220, 233 Apocalypse of James, First 63n31, 261n154 Apocalypse of James, Second 63n31, 261n154 Apocalypse of Paul 63n31, 261n153 Apocalypse of Peter 81–83, 181, 261n154, 267 Apocalypse of Zephaniah 157 Apocryphal books (see also Extra-canonical books) 8, 38, 69, 72–73, 96, 145, 146–77, 214n37, 233, 235–36, 240, 246, 249, 252, 256, 262–63, 265 Apocryphon of Ezekiel 69n60 Apocryphon of Isaiah 236 Apocryphon of James 178, 236n8 Apocryphon of John 59, 61–63, 64n32, 83, 86n64, 87, 160, 162–64, 210, 220n60, 227, 236n8, 242n44, 259–60, 261n154 Apocryphon of Moses 236 Apokatastasis 239, 242, 264 Apollo, monastery of 122n70 Apollonius, Pachomian abbot 251, 252n100

Index of Subjects

Apology of Phileas 186, 228n77 Apophthegmata Patrum 23n4, 153n35 Apotactics 91n91 Apotropeia 39 Archontics 56, 65–66, 68, 168n102 Arians 11n37, 64, 147, 264 Aristophanes 102n125 Aristotle 95 Arius 38 Army, Roman 46n115, 53, 107, 110–11, 119, 121, 142 Arsenios, monastery of 92n93, 154 Ascension of Isaiah 66n45, 69 Ascent to heaven 59–60, 160, 234, 253, 260–61 Asceticism 6, 23, 25, 32–33, 41, 59–62, 68–69, 85, 89, 234, 240, 250n88, 253, 256 Asclepius 63n31, 197–201, 205n99 Ashmunein (see also Hermopolis) 45, 220 Assemani, Joseph Simon 155n43 Aswan 33 Asyut 155, 161 Athanasius, archbishop of Alexandria 27n23, 54, 64, 72, 91, 125n93, 127n101, 155, 161, 176–77, 185n26, 188, 193n55, 248n80, 250n88, 252, 264–65 – Festal Letter of 367 146–51, 164, 169, 172–74, 177, 205, 235–36, 249, 252 Athribe 26 Atripe 26, 35n60, 64 Augustine 149n14, 205n96 Authoritative Teaching 63n31, 243 Autogenes / Self-Begotten 86n64 Bala’izah, monastery of 109, 116n41, 126n94, 155, 161, 164 Baptism 64n32, 234 – of five seals 59n17, 60–62 Barbelo 61, 63, 66 Barbelo Gnostics / Barbelites 56, 65–66 Bartholomew the apostle 156–57 Basil of Caesarea 153n35 Bechne, Pachomian nunnery 113 Bedouins 16 Bel and the Dragon, book of 231n86 BG 8502: see Codex Papyrus Berolinensis 8502 Bible, the / Scripture 2, 9, 24, 33, 62, 66,

323

74, 78–84, 130, 144, 146–51, 161, 163, 166, 171–74, 177, 204, 231, 236, 242, 249, 263–64, 266 – interpretation of (see also Allegorical exegesis) 78–84, 93, 149, 154, 163, 167, 174, 177, 212n25, 234, 239, 246–47, 253, 257–58 – manuscripts of 207–8, 216–33 – memorization of 28, 33n49, 40n91, 54, 84, 253, 253–55 – recycled as cartonnage 126–28 – Sahidic translations of 215–16 Bilingualism 24, 48, 94–101, 185 Birth of Mary 66n45 Bishops 24, 34n53, 37, 49, 67n50, 82, 112n33, 175, 205, 248n80 Boats 47, 50, 52, 129–30, 133n136, 140 Bodmer, Martin 224n68 Bodmer Miscellaneous Codex (see also Dishna Papers) 186n32, 212n28, 228 Bodmer Papyri: see Dishna Papers Bohairic dialect 219, 228 Book of the Dead 5 Book of Thomas 60, 63n31, 183, 206, 209n9, 260 Books (see also Extra-canonical books; Apocrypha) 28, 33 – censorship of 146–52, 164, 166, 169, 182, 239, 249 – networks of exchange 9, 197–206, 212n28, 213–14 – production of 207 Booksellers 200n80 Borborians 66 British Library manuscripts – BL Or. 5000 (Psalter) 218n51 – BL Or. 6003 257n130 – BL Or. 6783 (Psalter) 126 – BL Or. 6799 (Gospels) 126 – BL Or. 7021 (biblical lectionary) 126 – BL Or. 7025 188n33 – BL Or. 7029 188n33 – BL Or. 7594 (Deuteronomy Codex) 126, 183n21, 186, 220–21 – BL Or. 7597 (Gospel of John) 126 Cain 156n51, 162, 168 Callimachus 102n125

324

Index of Subjects

Camels 50, 130n122 Camp, the (monastery near Panopolis) 37, 176 Canon 146–49, 151, 169, 249, 252, 265 Canopus 30, 215n39 Cartonnage (of NHC: see Nag Hammadi Codices, cartonnage of) 9–10 Catechumens 147 Catholic Church 58, 64 Caves 19, 25, 37, 39, 54, 68–69, 176, 251 Cave T8 (Psalms cave) 19, 39 Cave T65 39–40 Cave T117 19 Cemeteries / tombs 5, 14, 16–17, 19 Cenobites 19, 22, 24, 32–34, 52, 54, 107, 129, 140, 208, 231, 235, 256, 261, 264, 267 Chaff 50, 107, 117, 130 Chalcedon, Council of 36n67, 172 Chalcedonians 31 Charity 32, 33n49, 51, 68, 116 Charour, Prophecy of 166 Chenoboskion (see also Sheneset) 4–5, 32, 46, 58, 105, 113, 115–16, 131n128, 132 Chester Beatty Codices IX, X, and XII 231n86 Chester Beatty papyrus 2554 10n32 Children – in monasteries 51 Christ 61–62, 66n40, 147, 159, 185n27, 243, 245, 248n80, 257–58, 261 – descent into the underworld 156 – incarnation of 254 – passion of 149, 156–57, 162, 196–97, 254, 258 – resurrection of 149, 150, 196–97 Cities 2, 8, 22, 24–25, 33, 54, 74, 76, 90–101, 144, 176 Clairvoyance (see also Prophecy; Visions) 33, 258–59 Clement of Alexandria 26, 54 – Hypotyposeis of 26n17 Clergy (see also Bishops; Priests) 26n16, 129, 134, 161 Codex Papyrus Berolinensis 8502 10, 61, 62n25, 142, 160, 163–64 Codex Tchacos 58

Codicology (of NHCS: see Nag Hammadi Codices, codicology of) Colophons (of NHCs, see Nag Hammadi Codices, colophons of) Colossians, Pauline epistle to 244 Concept of Our Great Power 63n31 Constantine I, Emperor 125 Constantinople 238n17 Coptology 2 Copts 17, 75–76, 91, 95 Counsel of the Savior 161 Crucifixion: see Christ, passion of Crux ansata 186 Cryptography 188, 195–97, 206, 212n25 Cynopolite nome 45n112 Cyril of Alexandria 36n67, 64, 97, 243, 264 Cyrus of Panopolis 97 Daniel, book of 127, 153n35, 220n60, 231n86 Daniel, monk (in P. Nag Hamm. C4) 48, 49n147, 52–53, 130 Deacons 82 Deir al-Malak 19 Demiurge 84–89 Demons 39, 189, 234, 253, 258–60, 264, 266 Demosthenes 102n125 Deuteronomy 128, 183n21, 186n32, 220–21 Devil, the 159, 160n70, 162, 168 Dialect mixture 216–17, 228, 231 Dialogue of the Savior 87, 90, 261 Didache 147 Didymus the Blind 92n93, 153n35 Diocles, anchorite and philosopher 25, 54, 92 Dioscorus, archbishop of Alexandria 34–38, 64, 73, 97, 136n146, 154, 164, 170n112, 175–77, 205, 237, 240, 249–50, 263–64 Dioscorus of Aphrodito 97 Diospolis Parva 5, 17n50, 109, 112n35, 113n39, 115 Diospolite nome 113 Discourse on Abbaton 158–59

Index of Subjects

Discourse on the Archangel Michael 158n61, 188n33 Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth 63n31, 199n79, 201n85, 205n99, 261n153 Dishna Papers 42, 170, 210, 223–33 – Chester Beatty ac. 1486 22n69 – Chester Beatty ac. 1494 and 1495 225n69 – Chester Beatty ac. 2556 225n69 – Chester Beatty Ms. W. 145 225n69 – P. Bodmer II 127n101, 225–27, 229n85 – P. Bodmer III 228–29 – P. Bodmer V 228n77 – P. Bodmer VII 228n77 – P. Bodmer VIII 228n77 – P. Bodmer IX 228n77 – P. Bodmer X 228n77 – P. Bodmer XI 228n77 – P. Bodmer XII 228n77 – P. Bodmer XIII 228n77 – P. Bodmer XIV–XV 127, 223, 225–27 – P. Bodmer XVI 226–27 – P. Bodmer XIX 216n45 – P. Bodmer XX 228n77 – P. Bodmer XXI 228–30 – P. Bodmer XXIII 228–30 – P. Bodmer XXXIX 224n69 – P. Bodmer XLIII 232–33 – P. Köln 8 and 9 225n69 – P. Köln 174 225n69 Dishna plain 18, 22, 28, 30n31, 32–33, 35, 39–40, 55, 144, 224 – archaeological excavations of 16, 19, 39, 41–42 Donkeys 47, 50, 53, 107, 130n122, 134, 140 Dorotheus, anchorite and priest 25 Drovetti, Bernardino 152n25 Dumps: see Rubbish heaps Easter 23, 108, 196–97 Eastern desert, Egypt 45 Ebonh, Apa (in Life of Pachomius) 34 Ebonh, archimandrite of White Monastery 35 Edfu 32n40 Education 22, 24, 25–26, 33, 54, 90–101, 106

325

Egeria 23 Egypt – Lower 24, 101, 215n39, 247 – Middle 22n2, 44–45, 236, 237n15 – Upper (see also Thebaid) 1, 3, 9, 22–24, 35, 37–39, 43, 45, 54, 72n70, 77–78, 84, 88, 97, 101–2, 108, 110, 143, 150n15, 154, 163, 176–77, 181n15, 205, 208, 215–17, 219, 224n67, 231, 235, 237, 240–41, 262–63, 268 Egypt Exploration Society 46n115 Elephantine 33 Eleutheropolis 66 Elijah of Athribe 26 Elijah of the Camp monastery 37–39, 176 Elohim 87n76 Encomium on the Four Living Creatures 158n61 Encomium on St. Gabriel the Archangel 158n61, 160 Encratism (see also Asceticism) 85, 89 Enoch 148n7, 236 Enoch, first book of 231n86 Ephesians, Pauline epistle to 244 Ephesus, Council of 172, 175n149 Epiphanius, bishop of Salamis 57, 61, 64–69, 154, 168, 238–39, 243–45, 247, 250, 255 – Ancoratus of 65, 238 – Panarion of 65–66, 238 Epiphanius, monastery of at Thebes 39n81, 40n92, 182, 212 Esna (see also Latopolis) 32n40, 33n49 Esther, book of 147, 231n86 Eucharist 25, 122n70, 134, 234, 240, 245–46, 264 Eugnostos 191–92 Eugnostos the Blessed 63n31, 191–92 Eusebius 26n17, 125 Evagrius Ponticus 24, 71, 72n70, 238n17, 241, 250, 260 Eve 38, 156, 168n102, 243, 258–59 Evodius of Rome 150–51, 156–57, 164, 172, 177, 255, 263, 266 Excommunication 67–68 Exegesis on the Soul 60, 63n31, 83, 90, 242n44, 243, 257–58 Exodus, book of 226–27

326

Index of Subjects

Extra-canonical books (see also Apocryphal books) 7, 37, 66–67, 71, 255, 265–66 Ezekiel, book of 231n86, 258 Ezra, book of 202 Faw Qibli (see also Pbow) 16n47, 30, 41n94, 41–43, 188n35 Fayum 1, 22n2, 33n49, 44–45, 97n109, 119, 150n15, 152, 155, 157, 158n60 Fayumic dialect 219 First Peter 186n32, 228n77 Flooding 16n47 Four Illuminators, the 63 Galatians, Paul’s epistle to 81n41 Gebel et-Tarif: see Jabal al-Tarif Genesis, book of 47, 60, 62, 104, 126–29, 144, 153n31, 156, 162–68, 189n46, 220, 222–23, 228, 239, 242, 264, 266 Gennadius, bishop 175n49 George, Arian archbishop of Alexandria 252n105 Glazier Codex 217–18 Gnostics 3–8, 16, 55, 56–73, 77–78, 153, 181n15, 207, 223, 228, 231, 234, 235n4, 241, 256, 265 Gnosticism 4, 7–8, 56–74, 78, 83, 200, 263–64, 266 God 87n76, 130, 149, 182, 193, 234, 243, 257, 259–60 Gongessos 191–93, 206 Gospel of Bartholomew 157 Gospel of Eve 66n45 Gospel of Jesus the Son of God 173 Gospel of John 126, 225, 226n74, 227–29, 229n85 Gospel of Luke 127, 225–26 Gospel of Mary 62n25, 163 Gospel of Matthew 216n45, 218–19 Gospel of Perfection 66n45 Gospel of Peter 149n11 Gospel of Philip 60, 63n31, 66n45, 83, 86n72, 168, 226, 242n44, 244–46 Gospel of the Egyptians 56n3, 59–61, 64n32, 86n64, 189, 191–92 Gospel of the Savior 158n61

Gospel of Thomas 60, 63n31, 83, 220n60, 226, 261 Gospel of Truth 80, 87, 98 Government administration 107–9, 111, 117–21, 123, 139n162, 141 Graffiti 40–41 Grain 47, 50–51, 54n184, 111, 129n112, 133n136 Graves: see Cemeteries / tombs Greater Harmony, book of 66n45, 69 Gregory of Nazianzus 153n35 Hamra Dûm 1, 11, 18 Hamuli 157 Hathor monastery 44–45, 49, 51n167, 52, 116n41, 188, 236, 237n15 Hebrews, epistle to the 162 Heracleopolite nome 45n112 Heresiologists 4, 57, 64–65, 89, 239 Hermes Trismegistus 199n77, 205n99, 261 Hermeticists 57 Hermogenes, bishop 175n49 Hermonthis 30n31 Hermopolis (see also Ashmunein) 22n2, 23, 30, 45, 176n149, 220 Hesiod 102n125 High Dam 16 Historia Lausiaca (see also Palladius) 24, 189 Historia Monachorum in Aegypto 22n2, 23, 45 Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt 32–33, 41 History of Joseph the Carpenter 157 History of Stephen the Protomartyr 157 Holy Spirit, the 88n83, 150, 173, 241, 259–60 Homer 90, 102n125 Horsiesios, Pachomian archimandrite 29n27, 31, 99n118, 167, 185n27, 188, 193nn55.58, 224, 251–52, 257n129, 258 Hosea, book of 258 Hypostasis of the Archons 60, 90, 220n60, 242n44, 259n144 Hypsicrates 203n90 Imperial ordinances 104–5, 107, 110, 112, 123–26, 139

Index of Subjects

Inflation 11, 110, 119–20 Interpretation of Knowledge 153 Introduction to the Knowledge of the Holy Resurrection 153 Investiture of St. Gabriel the Archangel 159 Investiture of St. Michael the Archangel 157, 158n61, 159, 161 Irenaeus 64–65 Isaac, biblical patriarch 148n7, 193 Isaiah, book of 228–30 Israel 128 Jabal Abu Mana 22, 40, 42, 224–25 Jabal al-Tarif / Gebel et-Tarif 11–18, 22, 30n31, 32n38, 39–40, 42, 54, 224, 256, 267 – talus of 16, 19 Jacob, biblical patriarch 148n7, 193 James, brother of Jesus 81, 158, 261 James, son of Alphaeus 157 James the apostle 157 Jeremias, monastery of at Saqqara 122n70 Jerome 29n27, 129, 165, 203, 204, 215n39, 244–45 Jerusalem 23, 158–59, 238n17, 258 Jesus (see also Christ) 87–88, 149, 156, 162–63, 185, 191–92, 194, 259–61, 263 Jews 38, 181n15 Jinn 17n49 John, Apa, and archive of 44–46, 49, 138n161 John Cassian 140, 212, 213n29 John Chrysostom 158 John the apostle 62, 81, 156–57, 159, 162–63 John the Baptist – church of at Thinis 150n15, 152 – see also Passion of John the Baptist John of Lycopolis 23–25, 45, 49n146, 138n161, 186n29 John of Parallos 161, 177 John Rylands Library 45n115, 46 Jonah, book of 220–21 Joshua, book of 228–30 Jubilees 69n60, 153n31 Judas Iscariot 185n24 Jude, epistle of 228n77

327

Judgement Day 156 Judith, book of 147 Justinian, Emperor 31 Kaior 23, 30n31 Karanis 119 Kellis 186n29 Kelsey, Francis Willey 158n60 Koddians 66 Kurrah b. Sharik, Arab governor 126n94 Labla monastery 44–45, 237n15 Laodiceans, Epistle to 148n7 Latopolis (see also Esna) 30, 32n40, 33, 34n49, 214 Laughter of the Apostles 161 Lesser Harmony, book of 66n45, 69 Letter of Peter to Philip 59–60, 63n31, 261n154 Libraries (see also Pachomians, libraries of; White Monastery, libraries of) 5, 8, 69, 151–52, 156, 204, 205, 263 – Library of the Apostles 158–59 Life of Apa Onnophrius 33n49, 185n27, 260 Life of Apa Phib 181n15 Life of Pachomius 28, 32–33, 123, 132, 140, 154, 166, 170, 188, 196n69, 212n25, 249–51 – Arabic Life 141, 260n151 – Bohairic Life 29n27, 138, 141, 151, 167–69, 188 – composition and redaction of 28, 29n27, 92, 154, 167–69, 248, 254 – Fifth Sahidic Life 254 – First Greek Life / G1 29n27, 154, 167–68, 248, 253–56 – Sahidic lives 29n27, 248n78 – Third Sahidic Life 168 Life of St. Antony 27n23, 91–92, 259 Life of Stephen the Protomartyr 157 Literacy: see Education Lithargoel 160 Liturgy (see also Eucharist) 25, 214n37, 237n14 Logos, the 87–88 Luke the evangelist 156 Lycopolis 22n2, 23, 161

328

Index of Subjects

Macadonius, bishop and monk 33n49 Macarius of Alexandria 27n21 Macarius monastery at Scetis 29n27, 155, 156, 158n61, 161, 164 Macarius the Egyptian 257n129 Makarius of Tkow, panegyric of 181n15 Mani 38, 235n4 Manichaeans 1, 99, 149n14, 235n4 Maria, sister of Pachomius 167–68 Mark the evangelist 156–58 Marsanes 60, 90 Martyrius, Pachomian archimandrite 32n34 Matthew the evangelist 156–57, 185n24 Melchizedek 81, 162 Melitians 6, 9, 38, 44, 45, 61, 64, 71–72, 144, 147, 172n125, 182n16, 235–39, 264 Melito of Sardis 186n32, 228n77, 231n86 Memoirs of Pilate 153 Menander 102n125 Mercurius Monastery at Edfu 32n40, 33n49, 155, 158n61, 159, 164, 188n33 Metanoia, Pachomian monastery at 30, 215n39 Micah, book of 254 Michael the archangel (see also Investiture of St. Michael the Archangel; Discourse on the Archangel Michael) 156, 159n68, 160–62 – monastery of at Phantoou 33n49, 127, 150n15, 152, 155, 157, 158n61, 159–60 Migration 214–17, 231 Military: see Army, Roman Moses 81n41 Mount of Olives 159 Muhammad Ali 17n49 Mysteries of St. John 156 Naasenes 56 Nag Hammadi Codices – bowl discovered with 41 – burial of 5–6, 19, 41, 151, 177 – cartonnage of 5n19, 8, 11, 22n2, 46–54, 62, 104–45, 236, 256, 267 – Codex I 10, 11n35, 41n94, 61, 104–5, 107, 109, 113, 114, 131, 187, 199, 208–9, 211, 213, 223, 225n73, 228n78, 242 – Codex II 5–6, 11n37, 48, 57n7, 60–61,

63, 83n55, 131, 183–89, 207, 208–9, 213, 220n60, 223, 225n73, 228, 255, 258–59 – Codex III 48, 60–63, 131n127, 189–93, 207, 208n5, 209n10, 215, 226–27, 229–30 – Codex IV 59–61, 104, 107, 109, 120–22, 191, 208–9, 211, 213, 219 – Codex V 5n19, 11, 60, 104, 107, 109, 117–121, 123, 141, 208–9, 211, 213, 226 – Codex VI 47, 57, 60, 90, 95n103, 104, 104, 107, 109, 120–22, 131, 197–206, 208–9, 211, 213–14, 223, 225n73, 226 – Codex VII 9–11, 11n37, 34, 46–48, 52–54, 56n3, 61–62, 104–5, 107, 109, 113, 123, 126, 129–31, 144–45, 178–83, 194–96, 206–9, 211, 213, 220, 226, 238, 247, 255 – Codex VIII 47, 59–62, 104, 109, 120, 125–26, 194, 206, 208–9, 211, 213, 219, 233 – Codex IX 47, 48n126, 104, 109, 131, 208–9, 211, 213, 226 – Codex X 48, 60, 131, 208, 209n10, 211, 223, 225n73 – Codex XI 10, 47, 61, 105, 109, 131, 208–9, 211, 213, 223, 225n73 – Codex XII 48, 60, 131n127, 208n5, 209n10 – Codex XIII 48, 60–61, 63, 131n127, 208n5, 209, 223, 225n73 – codicology of 9, 126–27, 207–33 – colophons of 6, 8, 5, 17n49, 53, 143–144, 178–207, 255–56, 267 – covers of 3, 10, 46, 104–5, 139, 142, 209n13 – dating of 9–11 – dimensions of 143, 225 – discovery of 11–19, 256 – jar buried in 6, 14, 17n49, 41–42, 177 – quires of 104–5, 142–43, 210–11, 225 – scribes of 6, 9, 57, 60, 104, 142, 153, 178–233 – sub-groups of 9, 131, 132n130, 208–14, 231 Nag Hammadi texts – dialects of 208, 214–17 – translation of 92, 94–101, 180

Index of Subjects

– transmission of 77, 92, 191, 214–17, 231, 262 Nativity of Mary 186n32, 228n77 Nepheros, Apa, and archive of 44–45, 186n29 Nestorian controversy 264 Nestorius 38 Nile, the 16, 17n50, 22, 26, 30n31, 39, 54, 214n36, 262 Nitentori: see Tentyra Nitria 24, 247 Noah 148n7, 162 Nomina sacra 48n126, 49n155, 54n184, 130, 200 Nonnus 97 Noria, book of 66n45 Noui 23, 30n31 Nubia 22n2 Nuns / nunneries (see also Pachomians; White Monastery) 26, 35, 54–55, 61 Ode of Solomon 228n77 Oil 108, 109, 112n35, 113–16 Olympiodorus of Thebes 97 On the Origin of the World 60, 90, 242n44, 258–59 Ophites 56 Origen 29n27, 38, 64–65, 71, 72n74, 73, 151, 153–54, 167–68, 172, 235, 238–45, 247–50, 263 – Commentary on John 153 Origenist controversy 29n27, 153–54, 238–50, 255, 263–64 Origenists 6, 9, 38, 64–65, 71–72, 92, 235, 238–50, 256 OxCal calibration 218n51 Oxyrhynchite dialect 217–18 Oxyrhynchus 45, 163, 200n80, 202, 217 P66 (Gospel of John): see Dishna Papers, P. Bodmer II P75 (Gospels of Luke and John): see Dishna Papers, P. Bodmer XIV–XV Pachomians 1–3, 5–7, 9, 14n40, 23, 27–36, 39, 52, 58, 64, 70, 72n70, 75–76, 79, 104–10, 116, 117n46, 127, 130, 131n128, 132–41, 145, 151, 164, 188, 206, 210–16, 224–25,

329

231–39, 246–56, 259n141, 261, 263–67 – administrators (oikonomoi) of 52, 105, 110–11, 113, 123, 133–34, 167n95, 212n25 – annual audit of 108, 110 – clergy among 134, 236–37 – conflicts among 55, 250–52 – donations of property to 120, 140–41 – education of 28, 106, 212, 253–55 – exegesis of Scripture by 254–56, 258 – later history of 30n33, 31 – libraries of 165–69, 211, 231, 253 – nunneries of 26–27, 30n31, 34, 113, 167 – occupations of 27–28, 133, 134n139 – Passover celebration of 108, 122n70 – praecepta / rules of 29n27, 34, 54–55, 154, 165, 189, 212, 213n39, 237, 249, 251, 253, 254 – private property among 213n29, 251 – record keeping practices of 108, 110, 123, 167 – scribes and scriptoria of 28, 211–13, 215–16 Pachomius (see also Life of Pachomius) 19, 27n21, 29, 34–36, 55, 68, 122n70, 128, 132, 134–35, 138, 167, 185nn26.27, 189, 196–97, 237n15, 248, 250–55, 257, 260 – death of 33, 166, 235, 251 – letters of 29n27, 36n65, 188, 196, 212n25, 215n39, 224 Pachomius / Pachome (in P. Nag Hamm. C6) 48, 105, 130, 132, 135–37, 145, 238, 247, 267 Paieous, Apa, and archive of 44–45, 49, 51n167, 52, 116n41, 186n29 Palamon 19, 22, 32–33, 52, 68 Palestine 66, 68–69 Palladius 22n2, 24–27, 45, 54, 92, 113n36, 189, 212 Pamprepius 97 Panarion: see Epiphanius Panopolis (see also Shmin) 26–27, 30, 34, 36–37, 97, 113n36, 117n46, 136n146, 155, 176, 212, 214, 224n67, 240 Paphnoute, Pachomian oikonomos 105, 132, 136, 138

330

Index of Subjects

Paphnutius, Apa, and archive of 44–45 Paphnutius, Pachomian archimandrite 32n34 Paralipomena 116, 248–50 Parallos 161 Paraphrase of Seth 57n4, 66n45 Paraphrase of Shem 57n4, 261n153 Passion of John the Baptist 157 Patchelphius 247 Paul of Tamma 257 Paul the apostle 81, 83, 93, 157, 172, 189, 193, 253, 255, 259, 261 – apocryphal correspondence with the Corinthians 228n77, 233 Pbow (see also Faw Qibli) 16n47, 19, 27, 30, 105, 108, 113, 132, 136, 137n155, 151, 169, 212n25, 225n71, 231, 247, 256 – basilica of 16n47, 41–43 – flooding of 16n Pcol, founder of White Monastery 35–36 Pesterposen 30n31 Peter the apostle 23, 81, 149, 156, 159, 261 Peter the Archontic 68–69 Peter IV, archbishop of Alexandria 161 Petronius, Pachomian archimandrite 31, 34, 140–41 Phantoou 127, 150n15, 155, 157, 158n60, 159–60 Phibionites 66 Philae 33 Philastrius of Brescia 149n12, 185n27 Philemon, Paul’s epistle to 127 Philip the apostle 81, 156–57 Philosophy 25, 54, 60, 74–77, 90–95, 102, 235n4 Phnoum 30n31, 33, 136 Plato 91, 95 – Republic of 63n31, 90, 95n103 Platonism (see also Philosophy) 60 Pontius Pilate 150, 153 Prayer 6, 39, 52, 93, 183, 188, 207, 234, 254, 257, 260n152, 264 Prayer of Thanksgiving 63n31, 197–201, 204, 205n99 Prayer of the Apostle Paul 186, 22n78 Preaching of John 161 Priests 48–49, 134, 136n146, 236–37

Priscillian of Avila 148–49, 164, 172, 177, 255, 263, 266 Priscillianists 149n14 Prochoros the archdeacon 157 Prophecy (see also Clairvoyance; Visions) 24, 128 Proteria (in P. Nag Hamm. 72) 47–50, 134 Protest exegesis 80, 83 Psalms 19, 39–40, 153n35, 203, 228n77, 253 Pshenthbo, father of Petronius 140–41 Pshintbahse, Pachomian archimandrite 32n34 Pshoi, monastery of: see Red Monastery Ptolemais 30n31 Questions of Mary 66n45 Radiocarbon dating 10, 209n13 Recycling (see also Cartonnage) 140 Red Monastery 35n60 Remnuoth 129 Repentance 257 Resurrection 234, 238–39, 241–48, 254–56, 264 Rhossus, church of 149n11 Roman Empire 58, 70, 125 Romans, Paul’s epistle to 81n41, 93, 216n45 Rubbish heaps 108, 139, 143–44 Rufinus 245, 257n130 Sabakh 16 Sabinus, bishop 175n49 Sahidic dialect 215–16, 220, 229 Sakla(s) 86n64, 160 Saklatabôth 160 Sansnos, Apa, priest and monk 44, 47–53, 104, 107, 126, 129–30, 132, 134–35, 136n146, 142, 144, 236–37 Sansnos the shepherd 48 Saouina, estate manager and Pachomian monk 141–42 Saqqara 122n70 Sarah, biblical matriarch 193 Scetis 29n27, 32 Scheide Codex 217–18 Schøyen, Martin 11n35, 41n94, 114

Index of Subjects

Schøyen MS 2650 (Gospel of Matthew) 218–19 Scribes (of NHCs: see Nag Hammadi Codices, scribes of) 28 Scriptoria 28, 211–13, 217 Scripture: see Bible Second Peter 82–83, 186n32, 228n77 Second Treatise of the Great Seth 4, 56n3, 180–81 Secrecy 75–76, 96 Secundians 66 Sentences of Sextus 60 Septuagint 83 Serapion, bishop of Antioch 149n11 Seth 4, 56, 59, 69, 81, 192n53 Sethians 4, 56–65, 72n72, 74–76 Sheep 47n124, 51, 53–54, 130, 140 Shem 81, 261 Sheneset (see also Chenoboskion) 5, 19, 30n30–31, 32–33, 46, 52, 105, 116, 131n128, 237n15, 256 Shenoute 26, 34–38, 64, 71–73, 97, 113, 117n46, 122n70, 126n93, 128, 136n146, 138, 142n174, 154, 164, 166, 170–76, 182, 189, 205, 237, 239–41, 244, 246, 249–50, 255, 263–64 – And It Happened One Day 240 – canons of 171 – I Am Amazed 172–74, 175, 181n15, 240, 243n46 – rules of 36n63 – So Listen 258 – Who Speaks Through the Prophet 244 – You, God the Eternal 175n145 Shepherd of Hermas 147, 153 Shmin 30, 110n27 Silvanus, coworker of Paul 81n40 Simon the apostle 157–58 Sne 34 Socratists 66 Sophia 61, 63 Sophia of Jesus Christ: see Wisdom of Jesus Christ Sophocles 102n125 Souls 234, 239, 241–43, 246, 253, 257–58, 264 Spiritual names 193, 206 Spiritual progress 89, 253, 255

331

Stephen the protomartyr 159 Stephen of Thebes 257 Stratiotics 66 Susanna, book of 231n86 Swine 51n168, 117n46 Tabennesi 29–30, 34, 112n33, 132, 133n138, 167, 225, 234n2, 248 Tabennesiots (see also Pachomians) 23, 234 Tabula ansata 197–98 Talis, Amma 25–26 Taxation / tax collection 107, 109–10, 117n50, 120–21, 123, 125, 133n138, 139n162, 141 Teachings of Adam 161 Teachings of Silvanus 61, 81n40, 88, 194, 241, 256–57 Temples 37, 136n146, 176 Tentyra (Nitentori) 112 Tertullian 203 Testament of Our Holy Fathers 158n61 Testimony of Truth 63n31, 242n44 Thaddaeus the apostle 157–58 Thbew 30n31, 34, 140 Thebaid 9, 22, 23, 25, 32, 36–39, 45, 107, 110n27, 117–19, 120n63, 176, 216, 237n15, 238, 244, 247 – dukes of 97 – Lower 22n2, 33 – Upper 22n2, 33, 111n30, 117 Theban magical papyri 74 Thebes 155, 224n67 Theodore, Pachomian archimandrite 23, 30n31, 31, 34, 39, 136, 138, 150n19, 166n91, 167–69, 188, 193n55, 224, 247, 252, 254–55, 257n129, 258 Theodosius, Emperor 24 Theodotus of Ancyra 153n35 Theophilus, archbishop of Alexandria 30, 38, 64, 72–73, 154, 168, 238–40, 242, 247, 264 – Festal Letter of 401 72, 172, 239nn25.27, 243n46, 252n105 – Festal Letter of 402 239n25 – Festal Letter of 404 239n25 Thinis 150n15, 152 Thmoushons 30n30–31, 34, 251

332

Index of Subjects

Thomas, monastery of at Wadi Sarga 122n70 Thomas the apostle 81, 157, 185 Three Steles of Seth 4, 56n3, 61, 64n32, 98, 178, 180–81, 194 Thunder: Perfect Mind 63n31 Timothy II, archbishop of Alexandria 158–59, 181n15, 188n33 Tobit, book of 147 Torah 81n41 Touton monastery and scriptorium 127 Travels of Peter 69n60 Treatise on the Resurrection 83, 90, 153, 213, 244, 255–56 Trimorphic Protennoia 60, 88 Trinity, the 151, 196 Tripartite Tractate 83, 98, 213, 242 Triphiodorus 97 Tse 30n31 Tsmine 30n31 Tura papyri 92n93, 154 Turin 152n25

Wadi Natrun 29n27 Wadi Sarga 122n70 Wadi Sheikh Ali 40–42, 188n35, 224n67 Wagons 50, 52, 130, 140 Waste-paper trade 139–40, 143–44 Weaving 113 White Monastery federation 26–27, 34–35, 113, 122n70, 142n174, 150n15, 152, 155–56, 1569n66, 161, 164, 193n55 – inscriptions at 170n109, 185n27, 188n35 – libraries of 29n27, 35n61, 36, 156–57, 170–75, 182 – nunnery of 35 Wine 108, 111, 119–22 Wisdom of Jesus Christ 64n32, 90, 163, 261n154 Wisdom of Solomon 147 Wisdom of Sirach 147 Wool 53, 113, 130 World renunciation (see also Anticosmicism) 32, 68, 74, 85, 107, 133

Upper Egypt: see Egypt, Upper Urban intellectuals 90–101, 200, 217

Yaldabaoth / Yaltabaôth 86n64, 87, 160

Valentinian Exposition 88 Valentinians 57, 61 Vatican Library 155n43 Victor, Pachomian archimandrite 32n34 Victor, White Monastery scribe 194n63 Virgin Mary 156–57, 162 Visions (see also Clairvoyance; Prophecy) 6, 59, 70, 167n97, 234, 253–54, 261, 264, 266 Visions of Dorotheus 233

Zacchaeans 66 Zacharias, abbot 160, 164 Zeno of Verona 149n12 Zoroaster 194 Zosimus the alchemist 74 Zostrianos 59, 64n32, 98, 194, 232–33, 261n153