The Other Side: Apocryphal Perspectives on Ancient Christian “Orthodoxies” [1 ed.] 9783666540585, 9783525540589

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Tobias Nicklas / Candida R. Moss / Christopher Tuckett / Joseph Verheyden (eds.)

The Other Side: Apocryphal Perspectives on Ancient Christian “Orthodoxies”

Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus/ Studien zur Umwelt des Neuen Testaments

In cooperation with the “Bibel und Orient” foundation, University of Fribourg (Switzerland) edited by Martin Ebner (Bonn), Max Küchler (Fribourg), Peter Lampe (Heidelberg), Stefan Schreiber (Augsburg), Gerd Theißen (Heidelberg) and Jürgen Zangenberg (Leiden) Advisory Board Helen K. Bond (Edinburgh), Thomas Schumacher (Fribourg), John Barclay (Durham), Armand Puig i Tàrrech (Barcelona), Ronny Reich (Haifa), Edmondo F. Lupieri (Chicago), Stefan Münger (Bern) Volume 117

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht

Tobias Nicklas/Candida R. Moss/ Christopher Tuckett/Joseph Verheyden (eds.)

The Other Side: Apocryphal Perspectives on Ancient Christian “Orthodoxies”

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data available online: http://dnb.d-nb.de. ISSN 1420-4592 ISBN 978-3-666-54058-5 You can find alternative editions of this book on our Website: www.v-r.de © 2017, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht GmbH & Co. KG, Theaterstraße 13, D-37073 Göttingen/ Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht LLC, Bristol, CT, U.S.A. www.v-r.de All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher. Typesetting by SchwabScantechnik, Göttingen

Table of Contents

Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Christoph Markschies (Humboldt University Berlin) Models of the Relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy”. From Antiquity to Modern Scholarship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Tobias Nicklas (University of Regensburg) Beyond “Canon”. Christian Apocrypha and Pilgrimage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. References to Apocryphal Books and their Reception . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Stories in Apocryphal Writings about Holy Places . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Stories Connected to Holy “Biblical” Places or Persons Not Found in the Bible or in Apocryphal Writings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

23 26 29 35 38

Ismo Dunderberg (University of Helsinki) Recognizing the Valentinians – now and then . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Talking about Recognition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Irenaeus, the Valentinians and Textual Community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Stronger Recognition: Clement of Alexandria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Between Rejection and Approval: Origen and Heracleon . . . . . . . . . . 5. Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

39 41 42 46 49 52

Petri Luomanen (University of Helsinki) The Nazarenes: Orthodox Heretics with an Apocryphal Canonical Gospel? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. The history of the Nazarenes as Epiphanius’s fiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. The Nazarenes’ orthodoxy? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Origen and the two kinds of Ebionites . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

55 55 60 63 66 72

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Reidar Aasgaard (University of Oslo) The Protevangelium of James and the Infancy Gospel of Thomas: Orthodoxy from Above or Heterodoxy from Below? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   1. The twin stories of Jesus’ and his mother Mary’s childhood . . . . . . . .   2. The Protevangelium of James: reception and research history . . . . . .   3. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas: reception and research history . . . . .   4. Status quo of research, and a fresh approach: the importance of social level . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   5. A social level approach: Ramsay MacMullen’s “second church” . . . . .   6. Circumstantial evidence of social level: approaches and text samples   7. Language and style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   8. Intertextuality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   9. Educational level and cultural background . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10. The role of theology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11. Social world . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12. Social hierarchy and authority . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13. Reflections and conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

75 75 77 79 81 82 84 87 88 89 90 91 92 93

Meghan Henning (University of Dayton, Ohio) Lacerated Lips and Lush Landscapes: Constructing This-Worldly Theological Identities in the Otherworld . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 1. Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 2. Hermeneutics and the Otherworld: The History of Interpretation of Hell and the “Truth Games” of Proto-Orthodoxy and Canonicity . 100 2.1. The Otherworld as Reflexive: Finding the Heterodox in Hell and the Orthodox in Heaven . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 2.2. The Otherworld as Constructive: The Use of the “Apocrypha” in Christian Praxis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 3. The Otherworld as a Place to Keep them Separated: “Sorting” in Pre-Christian Depictions of the Otherworld . . . . . . . . . . 104 3.1. “Works” and the Reign of Christ in the New Testament . . . . . . . . 105 3.2. Otherworldly Categories that Demarcate Theological Identity in this World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106 4. Lacerated Lips: Defining Christian Identity through Heteropraxis in the Netherworld . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 5. Lush Landscapes: Constructing Christian Identity through Orthopraxis in the Heavenly realms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 6. Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115

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Judith Hartenstein (University of Koblenz-Landau) Wie „apokryph“ ist das Evangelium nach Maria? Über die Schwierigkeiten einer Verortung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Zur äußeren Bezeugung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Die Personen in der Erzählung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Inhaltliche Positionen der Schrift . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Die Verwendung von Traditionen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Überlegungen zum sozialen Hintergrund . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. Folgerungen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

117 117 119 122 125 129 132

Jens Schröter (Humboldt University Berlin) The Figure of Seth in Jewish and Early Christian Writings. Was there a “Sethian Gnosticism”? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. The Figure of Seth in Jewish Writings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. The Figure Seth in Nag Hammadi Texts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. “Sethians” in the heresiological reports of early Christian theologians 5. Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

135 135 139 141 146 148

Christopher Tuckett (University of Oxford) What’s in a Name? How “apocryphal” are the “apocryphal gospels”? . . . 149 1. What is “apocryphal”? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 2. Readership . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 2.1. Gospel of Thomas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 2.2. Gospel of Mary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 2.3. Gospel of Peter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 2.4. General Conclusions on Gos. Thom., Gos. Mary and Gos. Pet. . 160 3. Further Considerations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 4. Implied Readers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162 5. Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 Candida R. Moss (University of Notre Dame) Notions of Orthodoxy in Early Christian Martyrdom Literature . . . . . . . 1. Martyrdom as Orthopraxis in Justin Martyr . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Martyrdom of Polycarp and the Rejection of False Martyrdom . . . . . 3. Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

165 165 168 175

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Jacques van der Vliet (Leiden University/Radboud University Nijmegen) The embroidered garment: Egyptian perspectives on ‘apocryphity’ and ‘orthodoxy’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Coptic-language sources: Nature and heuristics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. The debate about apocryphity in late-antique Egypt I: Shenoute of Atripe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Apocrypha in defense of orthodoxy I: The Apocalypse of Paul (CANT 325) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jan Dochhorn (University of Durham) Menschenschöpfung und urzeitlicher Teufelsfall in Überlieferungen der Falascha. Der erste Teil von Teezâza Sanbat in der von Halevy veröffentlichten Version . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Einleitung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Teezâza Sanbat: Zum Stand der Forschung und zum Inhalt . . . . . . . . 2.1. Zur Editionsgeschichte . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2. Wie originär ist die Falascha-Literatur? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3. Wie originär ist Teezâza Sanbat? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.4. Zur Frage der Autorschaft . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.5. Zum Inhalt von Teezâza Sanbat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Menschenschöpfung und Teufelsfall im Einleitungsteil von Teezâza Sanbat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Gehört dieser Abschnitt ursprünglich zu Teezâza Sanbat? . . . . . . . . . 5. Zu den Traditionshintergründen der anthropogonischen und satanologischen Erzählungen im Einleitungsteil von Teezâza Sanbat 6. Schlussbemerkungen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Basil Lourié (St. Petersburg) Slavonic Pseudepigrapha, Nubia, and the Syrians . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Possible Non-Byzantine (and non-Western) Sources of the Slavonic Pseudepigrapha: a Review of the Existing Hypotheses . . . . . 2.1. The “Jewish” Paradigm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.2. The “Syrian” Paradigm-1: Vaillant and Jakobson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2.3. The “Syrian” Paradigm-2: Lourié . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Hallmarks of Syriac in 2 Enoch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.1. An Iranian Aramaism: the shift *t > d in the intervocalic position . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.2. The transliteration of sin by tsy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

177 177 181 187

193 193 195 195 198 203 204 206 209 211 214 223

225 225 227 227 230 232 233 234 235

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4. Two Recensions of 2 Enoch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Who Were Those Syrians? (Putting the Question) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6. St. Eleutherius’ Dossier and the Hagiography of Syrian Missions to Arabia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7. Who Were those Syrians: Longinus of Noubadia and the Paulists 8. The Earliest Slavonic Gospel Translation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9. Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

9 238 241 242 246 249 250

John Carey (University College Cork, Ireland) The Reception of Apocryphal Texts in Medieval Ireland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251

Foreword

We have a vast quantity of source materials from the past, much of it in only fragmentary form. In part we engage critically with such materials to seek to determine their perspectives, their function, and perhaps too possible events of the past (connected with their ‘ideas’) which might lie behind them. But if we also wish to try to construct from then a ‘story’, and perhaps one which justifies the description ‘history’, we have to work with categories that help to bring order to the material studied, as well as to the ideas, concepts and events concerned. At the same time, such categories can often decisively affect our own way of looking at things and our evaluation of the sources. Thus some critical reflection about the categories we use is necessary and essential for any historical work. Categories which we might use from our own time are in great danger of being anachronistic when applied to the past; but equally there are dangers of simply taking over categories from the past, especially from antiquity, using unexamined perspectives from an earlier time. This is particularly the case when certain categories are not neutral, but have been used in a polemical way to draw boundary lines, separating some groups, and with them their connected ideas and texts, from others. An extreme case, which makes for great difficulties today, is the use of the category of ‘apocryphal’ to refer to one group (however loosely defined) of ‘Christian’ texts. On the one hand the implications, already present in antiquity, that such texts are ‘false’, and on the other hand that they are ‘secret’ and thereby very ‘valuable’, are still prevalent today and affect the way in which we engage with the texts. Other categories can also create problems, for example: 1. The division between ‘apocryphal’ and ‘canonical’ literature creates problems in various ways. Many texts which we today would call ‘apocryphal’ (or which, in Dieter Lührmann’s terminology, ‘became apocryphal’) originated at a time when we cannot speak of a ‘canon’ of New Testament writings; making a distinction between canonical and apocryphal texts would, at the level of the production of the texts, as well as for a significant part of the reception of these texts in antiquity, be anachronistic. Even writers from the Constantinian and post-Constantinian era, who do have a clear idea about ‘canonical’ literature, do not simply assume a two-fold division of literature as being either ‘canonical’ or ‘apocryphal’: they use additional categories such as ‘ecclesiastical literature’, or things ‘useful for the soul’. Further, other texts which we today might call ‘apocryphal’ (e. g. the Doctrine of Addai or the Acts of Titus)

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Foreword

played an important role in at least certain parts of the church to establish the identity and authority of some Christians. 2. Other categories, which sometime lie behind work on apocryphal literature, are equally problematic. Apocryphal texts (or texts which became apocryphal) are not simply ‘heretical’, nor were they created by, or for, groups which one can describe as ‘heretical’. They cannot simply be placed in a simple binary opposition to ‘orthodox’. This has to do not only with what has been said above, but also with the fact that words such as ‘orthodox’, ‘heretical’ or ‘heterodox’ are just as problematic as ‘apocryphal’ in that they are dependent on the perspectives and images of the development of the church which go back to writers of the 2nd century such as Irenaeus of Lyons. The proposed volume of essays here is based on the papers given at a conference held in London (under the auspices of the University of Notre Dame) on 3–5 July 2014. The essays are concerned above all to show where the limitations in the categories discussed above play a role; but they also seek to show where these limitations might be overcome and hence how we perhaps should work with new categories (e. g. the significance, function and authority of texts in different contexts; ‘First & Second Church’) in order to understand better the significance of ‘apocryphal’ texts (or texts which ‘became apocryphal’) within the history of early Christianity, doing justice to the fact that this history was dynamic and multi-dimensional. The following questions play a specific role: 1. In what contexts, and among which groups, were texts which became apocryphal used? Where did apocryphal texts play a role in contexts which we today might describe as ‘orthodox’? 2. How far should the categories mentioned above (and other related ones) be re-thought, or even replaced, if we are to do justice to the realities of the past and to describe those realities better and/or more appropriately? The editors wish to thank the University of Notre Dame, London Center, for its hospitality, the editorial board of ‘Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus’ for accepting this conference volume in the series, Peter Hofer and Veronika Niederhofer for their help in preparing the manuscript and the Vandenhoeck & ­Ruprecht publishing house for a fruitful cooperation. September 2016 Tobias Nicklas, Candida Moss, Christopher Tuckett & Joseph Verheyden

Christoph Markschies (Humboldt University Berlin)

Models of the Relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” From Antiquity to Modern Scholarship The topic given to me by the organisers of the conference at which this paper originated sounds rather old-fashioned; or at least it sounds as if some old-fashioned material is about to be served up. Nearly every collection of early Christian Apocrypha contains at least a brief history of scholarship; indeed, the topic has been addressed specifically, among others, by Simone Claude Mimouni1. Nearly every one of these histories of scholarship deals in some way with the relationship between the so-called Apocrypha and orthodoxy, although the trend now, at least in the German-speaking world, is to follow Dieter Lührmann in referring to “texts that have become apocryphal” (“apokryph gewordenen Schriften”) and, instead of the normative term “orthodoxy”, to use the probably no less problematic and seemingly purely descriptive term “Majority Church” (or “Mainstream Church”)2. On the English- and French-language research landscape there are similar examples of modifications of traditional terminology that do not require further treatment here. The new terminology, based on certain fashions of recent years, clearly has no impact on the core finding: when we are talking about the so-called Apocrypha, regardless of how the group of writings thus described is circumscribed, we must also consider what has been called orthodoxy since antiquity. This naturally also applies to the history of scholarship, comprising almost 20 pages, which I myself wrote as part of the “Main Introduction” to the seventh edition of the collection of New Testament Apocrypha started by Edgar Hennecke and continued by Wilhelm Schneemelcher, which now bears the title Antike Christliche Apokryphen – Ancient Christian Apocrypha3. But if the problem of circumscribing a group of writings in a more or less coherent manner under the heading of “Apocrypha” (or, as we have seen, “texts that have become apocryphal”) is generally accompanied by a history of schol1 C. Markschies, “Neutestamentliche Apokryphen” – Bemerkungen zu Geschichte und Zukunft ­einer von Edgar Hennecke im Jahr 1904 begründeten Quellensammlung, Apocryphes 9 (1998), 97–132 and S.C. Mimouni, “Le concept d’apocryphité dans le christianisme ancien et médiéval”, in Apocryphité: Histoire d’un concept transversal aux religions du livre. En hommage à Pierre G ­ eoltrain (BEHE 113; Turnhout, 2002), 1–30. 2 C. Markschies, “Haupteinleitung” in Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung. I. Band: Evangelien und Verwandtes, ed. C. Markschies & J. Schröter in Verbindung mit A. Heiser (Tübingen, 72012 [7. Auflage der von Edgar Hennecke begründeten und Wilhelm Schneemelcher fortgeführten Sammlung der neutestamentlichen Apokryphen]), 1–180: 111–114 (here cited as ACA). 3 ACA I/1, 90–114.

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Christoph Markschies

arship, and in that history of scholarship the relationship between the “Apocrypha” (or “texts that have become apocryphal”) and “orthodoxy” (or rather Christian Majority or Mainstream Church) plays a very prominent role, this raises the simple question of why I should speak about “Models of the relation between “Apocrypha” and “orthodoxy” from antiquity to modern scholarship” – bis repetitio non placent. However, having now accepted the title proposed for this paper (in what was perhaps a brief mental lapse), I must now, for better or worse, attempt to avoid bringing the proverbial owls to Athens and re-covering already well-trodden ground. But how can I find a new approach to well-known ideas without simply conjuring up a few forgotten recent scholars of Apocrypha, or trotting out a few unheralded ancient critiques of the writings commonly counted among the “Apocrypha”? It seems to me that I can perhaps offer something new by first speaking specifically about “models”, then actually form models for a grouping of the history of scholarship, and in a third step, demonstrate the appropriateness of these models on the basis of a few characteristic examples. The rest can be read in the histories of scholarship already mentioned. Let me begin with a few introductory remarks on “models”. “Models” are, as the German philosopher of science Jürgen Mittelstraß once formulated it, “recreations of a real or imaginary object with the aim of learning something about it or though it”4. They are intended to simplify a complex reality or illuminate convoluted structures. In this sense they are, as the physicist Ludwig Bolzmann formulated it in the 1902 Encyclopedia Britannica, a “tangible representation”, although the English word tangible, with regard to mathematical models which of course lack any tactile quality in a literal sense, is rather poorly expressed by the German term “berührbar” – touchable, but is rather more like “greifbar” – graspable in the intellectual sense5. The advantage – both literally and figuratively – of the visual and tangible quality of models is clearly again though there is the ambivalence just mentioned, that non-tangible diversity is reduced. Thus the model lacks some part of the reality which it seeks to represent. In other words, a model presents a reduced version of the reality which it intends to embody. We can only escape from this tragic quandary, of which the Berlin art historian Horst Bredekamp remarked “the condition of resolution is also the basis of a captivity”, if we regard a model in the tradition of Plato and Augustine as an independent intellectual entity (according to Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz in debate with John Locke)6. For Leibniz, in the Platonic tradition such independent entities have the power to 4 J. Mittelstraß, “Anmerkungen zum Modellbegriff ”, in Modelle des Denkens. Streitgespräch in der Wissenschaftlichen Sitzung der Versammlung der Berlin-Brandenburgischen Akademie der Wissenschaften am 12. Dezember 2003 (Debatte Heft 2; Berlin, 2005), 65–67: 65. 5 Citation follows: H. Bredekamp & K. Pinkau, Einladung zum akademischen Gespräch – Rundbrief, in Modelle des Denkens, 9–12: 10.33 6 Additional evidence in F. Kaulbach, s.v. “Modell”, in Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie (vol. VI; Darmstadt, 1984), 45–47: 45.

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shape reality. They then create more reality rather than reducing it. If, by contrast, we join John Locke in regarding a “model” from an empirical and nominalistic viewpoint as a mere abstraction of existing “reality” (and recent philosophical debate seems to side with Locke over Leibniz), any formation of a model implies automatic and inevitable reduction. In spite of the general post-modern preference for the anti-essentialist description of “model”, what remains remarkable, in my view, in Leibniz’s position is the assertion that models have a reality-structuring power: they lead – in view of our dilemma, we could even say seduce – us to see the individual in the many. Or in post-modern terms: they possess the power essentially to force people into discourses. If we clearly recognise this fundamental structure of models, we see that some of the objections raised in recent times against monolithic constructions of the history of ancient Christianity based on the difficulty of drawing borders between the different forms of “Christianities” (in quotation marks) also get to the fundamental structure of models: in a model of reduced dimensions, the borders of the modelled phenomenon are by definition sharper than in a 1:1 representation of an object. We can see this even more clearly in the widely controversial example of the Gnostics: In a typological definition of this phenomenon on the basis of certain philosophical and theological positions, as I attempted some time ago, the fuzzy borders (as David Brakke rightly pointed out in the introduction to his book entitled The Gnostics7), of the “complex and often strikingly different mythologies” of the writings designated as “Gnostic” are indeed drawn more sharply than they would be in a more complex representation of the phenomena – the diffuse borders, as in any model, are drawn more sharply for didactic reasons in order to illuminate an obscure phenomenon. Also the definition “as a social category”, as Brakke himself attempts in modifying the views of his teacher Bentley Layton, reduces reality and draws borders more sharply than in the texts that the modelling describes. This becomes clear when Brakke himself first notes that the name “Gnostic” functioned to distinguish a “school of thought” from their contemporaries in the second century8. This sociological modelling is supplemented in the further course of his book by various pieces of contextual information, such as a description of the “Gnostics” as “ancient religious people” who were “interested in ‘mystical knowledge’”9, or the assertion that the religious people in question developed myth and ritual, described as “one distinctive attempt to tell the story of God and humanity in the light of the Jesus event”10. In other words: even those who are committed “to the blurring of the lines between these different forms of early Christianity” (as the invitation to contribute to this volume formulated it), must draw some borders for linguistic reasons alone. The question of whether a particular model has gone   7 D. Brakke, The Gnostics. Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity (Cambridge, Mass. & London, 2010), 26 f.  8 Brakke, The Gnostics, 47 f.  9 Brakke, The Gnostics, 27. 10 Brakke, The Gnostics, 42.

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too far with respect to the unavoidable reduction of reality, for example in that the model has been over-simplified or misdrawn, can only be determined once all phenomena that a model intends to describe have been examined. After these lengthy preliminary remarks, it will be clear without further ado that in the title of the essay itself, “Models of the Relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” from Antiquity to Modern Scholarship”, – we have the formation of a model, and not only later in our consideration of the models that are the subject of this essay. In other words, the title proposed to me seems to predicate that there are two entities, “Apocrypha” and “orthodoxy”, that have some relationship to each other, or more philosophically precisely, that are in a relation to each other. This is unquestionably an elegant model for a much more complex, perhaps even obscurely complex reality. I say “seems” because the quotation marks used with the words “Apocrypha” and “orthodoxy” in the title proposed to me naturally highlight that it is not so simple when it comes to the things which these terms describe. For my following remarks, I will begin by simply pretending that there are no quotation marks around the words and suppose that there are a finite number of generally recognized, contextually unambiguous definitions for them. When one is clear about the fact that the lecture title “Models of the Relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” from Antiquity to Modern Scholarship” already provides a constructed model, it also becomes clearer that this model relies greatly on certain prerequisites, and not only with respect to the two terms “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy”. Another prerequisite for the construction of this model is, of course, the fact that it is proposed as a dual entity. By doing so, it is assumed that we can in this case take a dual approach. And presumably we only accept the strong prerequisites of such a model with a dual approach without further explanation, because we love thinking in dual terms anyway and therefore often tend to reconstruct the history of early Christianity in such dualistic terms. Let me name a few of the particularly popular dual pairs: “orthodoxy” and “heresy”, “Arianism” and “Niceanism”, “Judeo-Christianity” and “Gentile Christianity” – it almost seems as if the notion that antithetically constructed dualities are the motor of historical development, which was made popular once again in the history of Early Christianity by Ferdinand Christian Baur11, still continues to have a profound influence on our reconstruction of the past. And if one bears this in mind, then the traditional duality of “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” is not only highly charged with prerequisites, but is also highly suggestive. What this duality suggests is namely, on the one hand, that there are only two entities, for which a description of the relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” is relevant, and not three or even several. On the other hand, the duality suggests that, in the sense of Aristotle, τὰ πρός τι applies for this relationship12, that something exists in relation to something and only in relation to 11 Cf. now: J. Zachhuber, Theology as Science in Nineteenth-Century Germany: From F C Baur to E ­ rnst Troeltsch (Oxford, 2013), 25–72. 12 Aristoteles, Metaphysica V 15 1021 b 6–8.

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something, that is, it is a something: accordingly, Apocrypha must be understood in relation to Orthodoxy, fully in the classical sense that what we understand as “Apocrypha” are those writings that have not been accepted into the authoritative canon of the Biblical writings that have been established as such by Orthodoxy. On the one hand, it requires only few words to be clear about the fact that “Apocrypha” has been defined in this way for a long time; but on the other hand, it is just as clear that such a definition only covers a part of the materials, that is, those that have been compiled in relevant collections and lists and identified as being “Apocrypha”. I wrote about this circumstance surrounding the definition of “Apocrypha” which underlies the first volume of the Early Christian Apocrypha published in 2012: “Apocrypha” “have not become – and to some extent also should not become – canonical. In parts they were a genuine expression of the religious life of the Majority Church and have often had a great influence on theology and the visual arts.” When we apply this definition to the question at hand, this means that with respect to these writings which “should not become canonical” at least, the question concerning the relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” does not really bring us beyond a specific point, because these texts are clearly understood as belonging within the context that is more or less happily described using the term “Orthodoxy”. There is no need for me to expand on this correlation at this point, because I analysed the “Apocrypha as a testimony to the piety of the Majority Church” using the so-called Gospel of Bartholomew as an example some time ago13. More interesting for our purposes here is the observation that, if we want to describe adequately the relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy”, we need to include – in addition to the duality just mentioned – the third term “Biblical canon”. This term is of course, like the two other terms “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy”, notoriously difficult, solely because no further explanation is given as to whether we are talking about, for example, the “Biblical canon” of Origen on which he bases his writings, or the “Biblical canon” of a provincial synod in Phrygian Laodicea to which we can hardly give a reliable date and which obviously describes in its lists a wide consensus within the Early Christian Majority Church and not only the views of the bishops of a single Church province. But how can we now construct a model for a “Relation between ‘Apocrypha’ and ‘Orthodoxy’” under the proviso that these two – “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” – adequately describe the relation or can be complemented without further ado by other aspects such as the Biblical canon? The most constitutive method for grouping together entities in a relation in my opinion arranges these entities according to the degree of stability of the relation in question: on the one hand, if we are to have groupings of different models of a relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy”, this relation can – like every other relation – be stable between two stable entities. However, this relation can 13 C. Markschies, “Apokryphen als Zeugnisse mehrheitskirchlicher Frömmigkeit – das Beispiel des Bartholomaeus-Evangeliums”, in The Apocryphal Gospels within the Context of Early Christian Theology, ed. J. Schröter (BETL 260; Leuven/Paris & Walpole, Mass., 2013), 333–355.

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also be dynamic, and in the extreme case dynamic between entities that are themselves dynamic. Such a dynamic is evident in the phrase by Dieter Lührmann mentioned earlier: “have become apocryphal”. The dynamic exists in the fact that something that was not originally apocryphal was then transformed into an “Apocryphus”. Terminology that was originally static has become dynamic here. There are to some extent comparable terminological transformations, also with respect to the second term. When, for example, Rowan Williams critically discusses the concept of “Pre-Nicene Orthodoxy” (for instance, in the Festschrift for Henry Chadwick in 1989)14, then he unmistakeably makes clear that, just as “has become apocryphal” exists, so does “has become orthodox”. The term “Orthodoxy” is then understood less as a theologically normative term and more as a descriptive, historiographical expression. If the term “Pre-Nicene Orthodoxy” is to make sense at all then it refers, according to Williams, to an ensemble of dogmas which, when transformed, characterise the confession of faith of the imperial synods of Nicaea and Constantinople which became orthodoxy. In other words: when apparently stable entities are described as dynamic structures, which perhaps even change in different times, then what emerges is of course a picture of great plurality. Accordingly, if the relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” describes dynamic and not stable entities, one would instead speak of relations in the plural, or of configurations. All of what I have just talked about is less theoretical than might appear at first glance. In the classical ancient concept of orthodoxy, “Orthodoxy” is of course by no means a dynamic entity, but rather – and we know the famous words quod ubique, quod semper, quod ab omnibus creditum est (“what is always, what is everywhere and what is believed by all”15) – a static entity and, according to the common Early Christian concept, is even a static entity that remains valid for eternity. Bearing this notion of orthodoxy in mind, it is also true that the second entity “Apocrypha” in line with this model of the relations is again fundamentally a stable entity – anything that as a text did not conform with the form and content of the orthodox was never canonical, even if the definitive declaration of what constitutes the canonical and/or non-canonical did not come from the Majority Church until later. Indeed, one must remind oneself again and again that this model of a stable orthodoxy with which we are all somehow familiar, and which defines what “Apocrypha” are against the background of a fixed canon, describes only a part of the relevant texts with any real precision in Early Christianity. Here a few observations that can verify this impression. For example, Origen speaks in his homily on the first psalm, which was written during his first phase of life in Alexandria before 232 AD, of “twenty-two books that belong to the Bible” and therefore – 14 R. Williams, Does it make sense to speak of pre-Nicene orthodoxy, in The Making of Orthodoxy. Essays in Honour of Henry Chadwick, ed. R. Williams (Cambridge, 1989), 1–23. 15 Vincentius Lerinensis, Commonitorium 2,5 (Vinzenz von Lerinum, Commonitorium, ed. M. Fiedro­ wicz, trans. Cl. Barthold [Mülheim, Mosel, 2011], 186).

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as the rare term ἐνδιάθηκος shows – refers rather to a literary unity than to one determined by the Church, because the term ἐνδιάθηκος is actually at home in a literary context: in the Lexicon of Hesychius, for example, which was compiled by a pagan scholar in the fifth century AD, the word ἐνδιάθηκος is explained as follows: ἐνδιάθηκος λόγος· πᾶς ἔγραπτος, a written text is such when “everything has been explained in writing”16. The information on the number twenty-two (matching the number of letters in them) in Eusebius in the passage of his Church History is the first to add an, as it were, metaphysical reasoning to the more literary-based reference to a collection of books against the background of a Platonising, essentialist theory of language. The actual existence of a tangible (in the truest sense of the word) book collection is archetypically justified as a reflection of the letters of the alphabet. “Apocrypha” are then simply those writings that are not contained within the existing collection recorded in writing. Similarly, Eusebius, the grand disciple of Origen, also uses very few static formulations in his famous passage about “the (already previously) mentioned writings of the New Testament” in the third book of his Church History17: certain writings belong to the “recognised” ones (καὶ ταῦτα μὲν ἐν ὁμολο­γουμένοις). However, Eusebius uses a word here which describes the dynamic act of building consensus far removed from any notion of the static; ὁμολογέω here means: I agree with the statements of another person, I show an interest in the proposals of another person, I agree with him in certain modes of conduct and customs18. In other words, Eusebius is referring back to a consensus which must be renewed in each case and which cannot be renewed if certain deviating consensuses are present. And this is precisely how the status of other writings is described: these belong to the “disputed” texts (τῶν ἀντιλεγομένων), and so, once again an extremely dynamic, communicative term is used – when a matter is disputed, the matter of whether the debate might not at some point end in a consensus has not yet been concluded. Within the body of disputed writings, there are some that are accepted by a greater number; instead of a theological, essentialist evaluation, Eusebius’ categorisation is, to put it pointedly, dominated by statistics, because the group of disputed writings includes those texts that “are known by most” (or “are familiar to most”) (γνωρίμων δ’ οὖν ὅμως τοῖς πολλοῖς), for example, the Epistle of James or the Epistle of Jude, the second Epistle of Peter or the so-called second and third Epistles of John. Eusebius’ categorisation does not gain more certainty until the last group, the “false” writings; what we have here is no longer a purely static description of text reception, but rather a clear, as it were juridical statement in which a falsehood and therefore a deceit is verified. However, this value judgement is also not particularly theological. As we know, the Bishop of Caesarea counts among the false writings (ἐν τοῖς νόθοις) “the Acts of Paul, the so-called 16 Hesychius, ed. M. Schmidt, 530,36. 17 Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica III 25,1–7 (GCS Eusebius II/1, 250,19–252,24 Schwartz); German translation in in ACA I/1, 154–156. 18 O. Michel, s.v. “ὁμολογέω κτλ.”, ThWNT V (1954), 199–220: 199.

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Shepherd, the Apocalypse of Peter, furthermore the Epistle of Barnabus and the so-called Didache and, as I have said, the Apocalypse of John, if one holds it to be good, which some, as mentioned, reject, but which others include among the recognised writings”. And one cannot make the dynamic nature of this recognition, which has to do very much with certain communication situations, clearer than in the closing remark about the Apocalypse of John: “if one holds it to be good” (εἰ φανείη); this is how a person writes who is either not quite sure about which direction he himself tends towards or who, in view of the very divided status of the debate, considers his own opinion on the matter to be insignificant. The dynamic constitution of the corresponding judgement plays a role even in the area of the apparently objective categorisation concerning the falsification of texts – and one gets the impression that here it is also the consensus that decides the day, and not the Church or an abstract theological norm. It is not until Cyril of Jerusalem in the middle of the fourth century that the, as it were, academic circumstances in how consensus was arrived at concerning certain texts – which in Origen and Eusebius tends to remind one of philological auditoriums in Alexandria – is placed within another context: “If you should ever hear a heretic …”19. The Bishop of Jerusalem made it quite clear to his catechumens that it wasn’t worth their while to proceed along the literarily grounded, dynamically structured path on the way to building consensus because, in the view of those who were not allowed to take part in the discourse, who nevertheless wanted to have their say like the heretics, the already standardised texts were valid: “If you know nothing of the generally accepted books, why make any efforts to learn the disputed books. Read the divine writings”. The dynamic process of collective recognition, which relied on majorities, gives way to a paternalistic pedagogy in which others have already long since reached a consensus and recommend those without a say simply to recognise and accept this consensus. I have gone into the trio of ancient authors Origen, Eusebius and Cyril because this can save us from the belief that the clear process of dynamisation that traditional static models have undergone is a result of modern research, or even a direct consequence of certain philosophical contributions towards the discourse in the twentieth century. In other words, there were dynamic models of the relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” long before the linguistic and cultural turn of the last century. If we are looking for an exact answer to the question of when and why dynamic models took the place of static ones and vice versa, referring to the modernity of the modern and the assumed ground-breaking influence of certain anti-essentialist philosophical propositions will not suffice. As we draw to a close, it is time to undertake a critical examination of this argument by looking more closely at what form the relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” takes, particularly with respect to the dynamics of this relation and in terms of its feeling of obligation towards the linguistic, if not 19 Cyrillus Hierosolymitanus, Catecheses IV 33 (I, 124 Reischl/Rupp, German translation in ACA I/1, 157).

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towards the cultural turn. In the proposal put forward by Tobias Nicklas eight years ago concerning how to deal with the term “Christian Apocrypha”20, the initial focus is on the literal meaning of the texts and text is understood in line with the demands of contemporary literary studies as a dynamic entity which is newly constituted in each case in a more or less orderly interaction between a linguistic entity and a recipient (“however, a recipient is necessary if a linguistic entity is to be recognised as a structured network that bears more meaning than the single words that make it up and therefore as a text”)21. In his approach to the subject matter, which for Nicklas is grounded in literary terms, he also does not want use the canon as a criterion for determining the “apocryphal” nature of the “Apocrypha”, but more or less wants them to be seen as collections of Christian Biblical writings that existed as books or groups of books, and in doing so he basically takes the term “Orthodoxy” out of a static category, placing it instead into a dynamic one: “In any case, a disparaging notion of the term “Apocrypha” in the sense of “contrary to the canon” or “heretical” should be avoided at all costs”22. Describing the relation between “Apocryphal” and “Biblical” texts with the aid of the literary category of the “privileged hypotext” (themes, motifs or contents of the “Biblical” hypotext play a decisive role in understanding essential information which the “apocryphal” hypertext aims at)23 assumes dynamic relations between several entities or actants, for example, a “model reader” posited with Umberto Ecco in mind24. If one now asks about the specific difference between an ancient model, which reconstructs dynamically the relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” (as in Origen and Eusebius) and a contemporary one (as in Nicklas), what first of all springs to mind are the structural analogies: both the Alexandrian theologians Origen and Eusebius as well as the Regensburg theologian Nicklas assign their contemporary recipients a decisive role in positioning a written text. The ancient and the contemporary theologian both fall back on contemporary standards from the area of literary studies and consequently, when researching into the relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” from the ancient to the modern field of study, one will not be able to reconstruct a perfectly straight-line teleology which leads from theologically normative dogma to the anti-essentialist, compact description that is grounded in literary studies. A model of ascertaining truth by building consensus that almost reminds one of Habermas greatly influ20 T. Nicklas, “Semiotik – Intertextualität – Apokryphität: Eine Annäherung an den Begriff ‘christ­ licher Apokryphen’”, Apocrypha 17 (2006), 55–78; cf. also ibid., “Christliche Apokryphen als Spiegel der Vielfalt frühchristlichen Lebens: Schlaglichter, Beispiele und methodische Probleme”, Annali di storia dell’esegesi 23 (2006), 27–44 and ibid., “‘Écrits apocryphes chrétiens’. Ein Sammelband als Spiegel eines weitreichenden Paradigmenwechsels in der Apokryphenforschung”, Vigiliae Christianae 61 (2007), 70–95. 21 Nicklas, “Semiotik – Intertextualität – Apokryphität”, 59. 22 Nicklas, “Semiotik – Intertextualität – Apokryphität”, 59. 23 Nicklas, “Semiotik – Intertextualität – Apokryphität”, 68. 24 Nicklas, “Semiotik – Intertextualität – Apokryphität”, 71 f.

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ences, albeit covertly, the views of the Alexandrian theologians who at the same time want to be philologists. It would be interesting at this juncture to add some comments about the static models – both in history and in the present day; however, I do not have the space for that here. I only have enough space left for one concluding question: in view of our findings, what sense does it make, if at all, to ask about the relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy”? Does the person who asks such a question not remain the prisoner, as it were, of a model which we have been discussing for eighty years now following the publication of the well-known mono­ graph by Walter Bauer (Rechtgläubigkeit und Ketzerei or Orthodoxy and Heresy first published in 193425)? What groups, what individuals, what writings should even be examined with the term “Orthodoxy” in mind? I admit that when faced with this term and the endlessly repetitive debate which it necessarily triggers, I am overcome by a mixture of boredom and anger. The organisers of this volume have nevertheless held on to the term “Orthodoxy” – presumably for well-considered reasons – and were obviously not asking about the exclusionary view of “Orthodoxies” and “Apocrypha”, which is apparent in their use of plurals and in the use of inverted commas in the conference title “Apocryphal Perspectives on Ancient Christian Orthodoxies”, but are rather far more interested in the view of Orthodoxy held by the “others” apparent in the title “The Other Side”. And I have perhaps contributed less to this main theme of our volume than I have to the subject given to me, namely “Models of the Relation between “Apocrypha” and “Orthodoxy” from Antiquity to Modern Scholarship”. However, it has perhaps become clear that, in my opinion, the theme of this volume – namely the view of the “Apocrypha” towards the “Orthodoxies” – if it does not lead us to ask more precise questions like the question, for example, about how so-called Gnostic groups saw “the other” Christians according to the statements of certain writings, it would once again lead to very general statements. The materials that we traditionally subsume under the term “Apocrypha” are too disparate, too colourful to achieve any other results – however, so that we do not conclude in a tone of resignation, it can be said that the apocryphal literature is a wonderful field in which to practice speaking in methodically precise terms and to critically analyse time and again the applied models to ascertain how adequate they still are. If I have been able to demonstrate this in this essay then a great deal has already been achieved.

25 Cf. on Bauer at lengh: C. Markschies, Christian Theology and Its Institutions in the Early Roman Empire. Prolegomena to a History of Early Christian Theology, trans. W. Coppins (Waco, Texas, 2015), 303–331.

Tobias Nicklas (University of Regensburg)

Beyond “Canon” Christian Apocrypha and Pilgrimage

In the Catalonian city of Tarragona, which was once the ancient capital of the Roman province Hispania citerior, a medieval Catholic cathedral towers on the site of a former Roman Temple. Although it was officially dedicated to St Mary, another female saint is featured inside the cathedral: both the iconography of the high altar and the main altar where the Eucharist is celebrated depict scenes from the apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, a part of the apocryphal Acts of Paul.1 This may appear surprising, since the Acts of Paul were viewed as false teaching as early as the end of the second century CE by Tertullian. In his tractate De baptismo 17, Tertullian wrote: “But if certain Acts of Paul, which are falsely so named, claim the example of Thecla for allowing women to teach and to baptize, let men know that in Asia the presbyter who compiled that document, thinking to add of his own to Paul’s reputation, was found out, and though he professed he had done it out of love for Paul, was deposed from his position. How could we believe that Paul should give a female power to teach and to baptize, when he did not allow a woman even to learn by her own right? Let them keep silence, he says, and ask their husbands at home (cf. 1 Cor 14.35).”2

What at first sight (and from our modern perspective) looks like an ancient Church father’s decisive rejection of an apocryphal text – in effect, its exclusion from (proto-)orthodox circles – may have simply been one (more or less unheard) voice with little influence on the reception of the text (and, even less, on its female protagonist).3 At least in certain regions, such as Tarragona with its very special

1 Regarding the complex history of the origins of Acts of Paul and their relation to Acts of Paul and Thecla, see G.E. Snyder, Acts of Paul. The Formation of a Pauline Corpus (WUNT II.352; Tübingen: Mohr, 2013). 2 Translation according to E. Evans (ed.), Tertullian’s Homily on Baptism (London: SPCK, 1964), 36–7. 3 Interestingly, the Acts of Thecla have been preserved on various miniature codices, which show that the text captured interest for a long time; in addition, the later Life and Miracles of Thecla expanded the impact of this extraordinary saint. For more information see S.F. Johnson, The Life and Miracles of Thekla: A Literary Study (Hellenic Studies 13; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006).

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local traditions about Paul,4 the figure of Thecla and the stories about her were too important to condemn or neglect. There are, of course, also written sources about the use of the Acts of Paul and Thecla in antiquity.5 For example, on her journeys to and from the Holy Land the pilgrim Egeria6 (ca. 400 CE) used to read the biblical passages about the events which (allegedly) happened at the very places she visited (see Itin. Eger. 4.3); very often these readings were connected to prayer and even liturgical contexts.7 When Egeria and her companions passed Tarsus they used the opportunity to visit the “martyrium of holy Thecla” in the Isaurian Seleucia (today’s Silifke).8 After a description of the place where she happily meets the deaconess Marthana, a previous acquaintance from Jerusalem, we read: “In God’s name I arrived at the martyrium, and we had a prayer there, and read the whole Acts of the holy Thecla; and I gave heartful thanks to God for his letting me fulfil all my desires so completely, despite all my unworthiness” (Itin. Eger. 23.5).9

The text does not specify whether Egeria (and her companions) received a copy of the Acts from the nuns of the monastery or if she already had a (miniature) codex of the text in her luggage.10 Be that as it may, the way that Egeria describes reading the “whole Acts of the holy Thecla” is certainly not an exception: because of the stories told about her in this writing (usually labelled “apocryphal”!), ­Thecla is called “holy”. Egeria describes her own act of reading the text in a simple manner, as if such a reading was unspectacular and perhaps even ordinary. In other words: in a context which can by no means be called “heretical”, a text (which was condemned by a person like Tertullian for telling lies about Paul)

  4 For more information see D. Eastman, Paul the Martyr: The Cult of the Apostle in the Latin West (SBL Writings of the Greco-Roman World Supplement Series 4; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 144–53. On the broader ancient and medieval reception and impact of the figure of Thecla and stories around her, see J.W. Barrier/J.N. Bremmer/T. Nicklas/A. Puig i Tarrèch (ed.s), Thecla: Paul’s Disciple and Saint in the East and West (Studies on Early Christian Apocrypha 12; Leuven: Peeters, 2017).   5 Additionally, the figure of Thecla remained highly important in “proto-orthodox” circles; see, for example, the witness of John Chrysostom, who authored two homilies on Thecla.   6 In some manuscripts her name is also transmitted as Aitheria/Etheria.   7 Regarding the impact of prayer at holy places as an integral part of ancient pilgrimage, see J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims before the Crusades (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1977), 33–43.   8 Seleucia is the most important pilgrimage place related to Thecla in the East. See, however, the witness of the monasteries of St. Thecla in Ma’alula and Menine (both in Syria). For more details see I. Peña, Lieux de Pèlerinage en Syrie (SBF.Mi 38; Milan: Francescan Printing Press, 2000), 244–5, 248–9.   9 Translations from the Itin. Eger. are taken from J. Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels to the Holy Land (­Jerusalem: Ariel; Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1981). 10 I am grateful to T.J. Kraus, who reminded me of the popularity of miniature codices of the Acts of Thecla in late antiquity.

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is read and valued both for the depiction of its protagonist, Thecla, and for the place of her “martyrium”. Is this case a mere exception or is it possible to find other comparable examples? If other examples are found, what do they tell us about the impact of supposedly “apocryphal” texts on places of pilgrimage in contexts we would label “orthodox” today? To answer this question I consider some of the most important early ancient accounts about pilgrimage to the Holy Land:11 ȤȤ the Itinerarium Burdigalense (itin. Burdig.) describes a pilgrimage between Bourdeaux and Jerusalem which took place in the years 333–334 CE. For parts of the journey, the text is mainly interested in the distances between different locations along the trip and in opportunities for overnight lodging or to change horses; when the journey comes to the borders of ancient Palestine, the text also describes places of pilgrimage.12 ȤȤ the Itinerarium Egeriae (itin. Eger.), already mentioned above, describes the pilgrimage of Egeria, a religious woman – probably a nun – from Aquitania or Galicia who at the end of the 4th century CE (381–384?) travelled from Constantinople to Jerusalem, visited Galilee, Samaria, Egypt (incl. Sinai) and went back to Constantinople. The text consists of two parts: while chapter 1–23 describe Egeria’s travels, chapters 24–49 are a highly important witness for the liturgies of Jerusalem.13 Because the important question about the use of “apocryphal”, or “non-canonical”, writings in ancient liturgies would introduce a completely new topic (and would require an analysis of many more sources), I must limit myself to the first part of the Itin., that is, to chapters 1–23.14 ȤȤ Jerome’s Epitaphium Sanctae Paulae (Epistula 108 ad Eustochium) is actually a vita of Paula, a member of a prominent Roman family (related to the Scipiones) who was a long time spiritual friend of Jerome. The text was written in 404 CE shortly after Paula’s death and is composed as an epistle to her daugh11 I follow the sources collected by H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt ins Heilige Land. Die ältesten Berichte christlicher Palästinapilger (4.–7. Jh.) (Stuttgart: Bibelwerk, ³2011 [according to ²2002]). This study could, of course, be broadened through the inclusion of several accounts about pilgrimage to Rome, for example, the Itinerary of John (ca. 590–604 CE), a priest who was interested in Holy Oils from the graves of martyrs, the Cymeteria totius Romanae urbis, the Notitia ecclesiarum ­urbis Romae (625–49 CE), De locis sanctis martyrum quae sunt foris civitatis Romae (635–45 CE), the Itine­ rarium of Malmesbury (648–82 CE) and the Itinerarium of Einsiedeln (8th century). For more information see G. Röwekamp, “Itinerarium”, LACL (1998), 323–4. 12 For a short introduction see G. Röwekamp, “Itinerarium Burdigalense”, LACL (1998), 324, and, more detailed, H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 35–42. 13 For a short introduction see G. Röwekamp, “Egeria”, LACL (1998), 185–6, and, in more detail, H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 68–81, and J. Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels, 3–88. 14 For more details on the Jerusalem liturgies see H. Buchinger, “Heilige Zeiten? Christliche Feste zwischen Mimesis und Anamnesis am Beispiel der Jerusalemer Liturgie der Spätantike”, in Heilige, Heiliges und Heiligkeit in spätantiken Religionskulturen, ed. P. Gemeinhardt & K. Heyden (RGVV 61; Berlin & New York: De Gruyter, 2012), 283–323.

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ter Eustochium. Chapters 6–14 describe Paula and Eustochium’s pilgrimage to the Holy Land, which must have taken place in the year 386, one year after Jerome had left Rome. Compared to the other texts mentioned, Jerome’s text stands out for its high literary quality and many reflections about biblical passages and interesting exegetical traditions.15 While the account of the journey by a certain Bishop Eucherius to the Holy Land (444 CE) does not contain material of great relevance to this study, the writing of the Archdeacon Theodosios (Theodosii de situ terrae sanctae; Theod.) – a mixture of an Itinerarium and a description of cities and holy sites, including stories reminiscent of a modern travel account – seems partly chaotic and contradictory but also offers a few fascinating insights. Theodosius’ journey must have taken place in the first half of the sixth century CE – a date between 518–530 CE is at least probable.16 the Breviarius de Hierosolyma (Brev. Hier.) offers a short description of Jerusalem; it was probably written between the middle and end of the 6th century CE.17 the Antonini Placentini Itinerarium (Plac. Itin.) describes a pilgrimage from Piacenza (Italy) to Jerusalem that took place around 570 CE. While the author seems less interested in quoting biblical passages, the number of fascinating (and partly fanciful) relics he mentions is highly interesting for our purpose.18 Occasionally, I will also look at Adomnani de locis sanctis libri tres (Adamn.), an account written around 680 CE by a certain Adomnanus, abbot of the monastery of Iona at the end of the 7th century CE. Adomnanus’ work was later abridged and re-edited by the Venerable Bede (ca. 703/4). Adomnanus did not travel to the Holy Land himself. His three books about the Holy Land are mainly based on the account of the otherwise unknown Gallic bishop Arkulf, who had visited Adomnanus’ monastery. Although this account does not offer very much for our inquiry because of its focus on architecture, it is nevertheless interesting since it is the first to describe Jerusalem in the early Islamic period.19

1. References to Apocryphal Books and their Reception Most important, and perhaps most fascinating, are passages depicting the existence of or even the reading of a book that is usually labelled “apocryphal” in the 15 For an introduction see H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 134–40, and (more extensively) A. Cain, Jerome’s Epitaph on Paula: A Commentary on the Epitaphum Sanctae Paulae (OECT; Oxford et al.: OUP, 2013), 1–39. 16 For more information see H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 181–8. I will not go into the details of source and redaction criticism for this text, which are detailed, e. g., by J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 63; he distinguishes six redactional levels in the text (spanning ca. 500–800 CE). 17 For more information see H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 214–8, who discusses different proposals for the date of the text. 18 For a more detailed introduction, see H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 226–42. 19 For a more detailed introduction, see H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 296–311.

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modern era. Egeria’s reading of the Acts of Paul and Thecla at the martyrium of Thecla in Seleucia (Itin. Eger. 23.5), which we have already mentioned, is not the only example of this in the Itin. Eg. According to 17.1 she decides to go to Edessa to visit the tomb where “the entire body” of the apostle Thomas is buried. In Edessa she also hopes to see a letter written by Jesus himself to king Aggarus (usually known as Abgar), which was sent by the messenger Ananias and still preserved in Edessa. This, of course, refers to a version of the Abgar legend, a tradition which formed the kernel of the Doctrina Addai, an apocryphal writing which in turn provided the key account about the founding of the Church of Edessa.20 According to Egeria, Jesus promised in his letter to send Thomas to Edessa. This contradicts an earlier account by Eusebius of Caesarea (H.E. 13.1–4), according to which, after Jesus’ ascension, Judas Thomas sends Thaddaeus (i. e., Addai in the Doctrines), who was one of the seventy disciples mentioned in Luke 10.1.21 This, however, is not the only reference to the Abgar legend. In 19.5 Egeria tells of her invitation from the bishop of Edessa, who shows her Abgar’s palace and the large marble statue of him and his son Macnu22 (19.6). When they see the source of water flowing inside the palace (19.7), the bishop uses this occasion to tell her a version of the Abgar Legend (19.8–14): when the city of Edessa had been besieged by the Persians in the time of Agbar, the city was miraculously preserved thanks to Jesus’ letter and became impregnable forever (19.13). The most interesting detail is found in 19.19: at the end of her visit, Egeria receives copies of Abgar’s letter to the Lord as well as Jesus’ response. She happily accepts both and closes the section with the following words: “I have copies of them at home, but even so it is much better to have been given them there by him. And it may be that what we have at home is not complete, because what is given here is certainly longer. So, dearest ladies, you yourselves must read them when I come home if such is the will of Jesus our God” (19.19).

In other words, the Abgar legend seems to have been a well-known text, since copies were even available in Egeria’s home monastery. It is not clear whether these copies (or perhaps only one copy) were part of Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History or whether the text circulated independently.23 In any case, as a collector of 20 For an introduction to the Doctrine of Addai, see A. Desreumaux, Histoire du roi Abgar et de Jésus (Apocryphes 3; Turnhout: Brepols, 1993). 21 For text and more details about the Abgar legend see J. Wasmuth, Die Abgarlegende, in Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung I: Evangelien und Verwandtes, ed. C. Markschies & J. Schröter (Tübingen: Mohr, 2012), 222–30. 22 Egeria misinterprets his name as Magnus, the “Great”. 23 H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 124 n.147 writes: “Hier wüßte man gerne mehr. War die Fassung der Abgar-­ Legende, über die man in der Heimat der Pilgerin verfügte, die in Eusebs Kirchengeschichte gebotene …? Oder war es die 403 durch Rufinus von Aquileia gefertigte lateinische Überset­zung derselben? In welcher Sprache war der Text abgefasst? War Egeria des Syrischen überhaupt mächtig?”

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holy books Egeria is eager to bring home a more complete version, which she obtained in the very place where the story took place. This, however, is not the only “apocryphal” writing which we encounter during Egeria’s journey to Edessa. As she had planned, she visits the Martyrium of St Thomas (19.2) and says: “We went straight to the church and martyrium of holy Thomas; there we had our usual prayers and everything which was our custom in holy places. And we read also from the writings of holy Thomas himself.” (19.2)

Unfortunately, Egeria does not mention which of Thomas’ alleged writings they read. The Acts of Thomas with their focus on Edessa (and its impact on the city’s relations with India), are certainly a possibility.24 Because Egeria speaks about Thomas’ writings in the plural, is it possible that she knew of the Gospel of Thomas? We can, of course, only speculate. Among accounts of ancient pilgrimages to Jerusalem, Egeria’s alone mentions the reading or copying of apocryphal writings. Nevertheless, her account might help us better grasp the function of certain texts that are commonly labelled “apocryphal”. Like the Abgar Legend and the later Doctrine of Addai, many writings serve to validate the claims of churches or dioceses to have been founded by an apostle (or another early disciple). For this reason, these texts are of great importance for the identities of these churches or regions. These texts, therefore, not only had to be preserved and copied but the stories contained in them told to anybody willing to hear them. This, for example, is the case for the different Armenian rewritings of the Doctrine of Addai, including the Armenian Martyrdom of Addai and the later History of Armenia (Moses of Khorene, 5th–8th century CE),25 for the 5th century Acts of Barnabas, which played an important role in the struggles of the Church of Cyprus for independence,26 for the 6th century Acts of Titus, which were read in the Cretan liturgies every year on August 25th (the commemoration day for the Cretan apostle Titus),27 and for the Ethiopian Even if his second solution (namely that Rufinus probably wrote shortly after Egeria) seems improbable, Donner is right: it would be highly interesting to know which version(s) of the Abgar legend circulated in Egeria’s home. 24 J. Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels, 115 n. 3 guesses that it could have been Acts of Thomas 170. On the one hand this is a good guess, since this text is interested in the miraculous healing power of ­Thomas’ bones; on the other hand, even for an ancient reader it must have been clear that this passage of the Acts could not go back to Thomas himself. 25 See V. Calzolari, “Reecriture des texts apocryphes en Armenien: L’exemple de la legende de l’apostolat de Thaddée en Armenie”, Apocrypha 8 (1997), 97–110. 26 For more details see E. Norelli, Actes de Barnabé, in Écrits apocryphes chrétiens II, ed. P. Geoltrain & J.-D. Kaestli (Bibliothèque de la Pléiade; Paris: Gallimard, 2005), 619–42: 621–5. 27 See also W. Rordorf, Actes de Tite, in Écrits apocryphes chrétiens II, ed. P. Geoltrain & J.-D. Kaestli (Bibliothèque de la Pléiade; Paris: Gallimard, 2005), 605–15: 605; for a detailed discussion of the text plus a German translation of its first recension see now T. Nicklas, Die Akten des Titus: Rezep-

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Kebra Nagast, the “Glory of the Kings”.28 Other texts are more closely related to holy places. In fact, what Egeria says about Seleucia would also have been possible in Hierapolis, which not only housed an impressive Martyrium of the apostle Philip, but where in Byzantine times the ancient spas and hospitals formerly run by pagans were taken over by Christians. New “foundation stories” were thus needed, showing that they did not lose their miraculous powers. While the apocryphal Translatio Philippi seems to have been related to the Martyrium, parts of the Acts of Philip seem to have served the second purpose.29 These are certainly not the only examples. In an important article Francois Bovon discusses apocryphal stories regarding the flight into Egypt and mentions the stories’ connection to holy places in Egypt.30 At the same time, Ps-Linus Acts of Peter (5th or 6th century) and the later Passio of Processus and Martianus offer a written account of Peter’s so-called “fountain miracle”: before his martyrdom Peter baptised two guardians with water that was miraculously coming out like a fountain from a rock in his dungeon (the parallel with Ex 17.1–6 is obvious). This scene – which is documented iconographically in pre-Constantinian times31 and can be easily linked to Peter’s dungeon in the Mamertinian Carcer in Rome – offered a tale about the unique nature of a place that came to be of growing interest for pious pilgrims.

2. Stories in Apocryphal Writings about Holy Places This leads us to a second group of references: although pilgrims rarely speak about reading books at the different holy places they visit, many stories are nevertheless connected to these places, and many of these stories can only be explained with the background of apocryphal writings.32 tion ‘apostolischer’ Schriften und Entwicklung antik-christlicher ‘Erinnerungslandschaften’, Early Christianity 6 (2016) [forthcoming]. 28 For more information see R. Beylot, La Gloire des Rois ou l’Histoire de Salomon et la reine de Saba (Apocryphes; Turnhout: Brepols, 2008). 29 See F. Amsler, “The Apostle Philip, the Viper, the Leopard, and the Kid: The Masked Actors of a Religious Conflict in Hierapolis of Phrygia (Acts of Philip VII–XV and Martyrdom)”, in Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers 35 (1996), 432–7. 30 See F. Bovon, L’enfant Jésus durant la fuite en Égypte: Les récits apocryphes de l’enfance comme légendes profitables à l’âme, in The Apocryphal Gospels within the Context of Early Christian Theology, ed. J. Schröter (BETL 260; Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 249–70. 31 For an exhaustive overview see J. Dresken-Weiland, Bild, Grab und Wort: Untersuchungen zu Jenseitsvorstellungen von Christen des 3. und 4. Jahrhunderts (Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2010), 119–35. 32 Cf. Egeria, Theodosius 3, and (more broadly) Adomamnus’ account of Arkulf ’s journey (XI). See also the Pilgrim of Piacenza’s account about miracles that occur when the Holy Cross is erected (chap. 20). In addition to these texts, one could point to the many passages in Jerome’s Epitaph 9 that refer to legends about the miraculous rediscovery of Jesus’ cross – these only refer to the existence of the cross and not to its divine power.

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2.1 In chapter 15 the pilgrim describes the pools of Bethsaida (also known as Bethesda or Bethzata,33 see John 5.2–9) and locates “the columns where Solomon tortured the demons” (ubi Salomon daemones torquebat) at this place. This corresponds to a short reference in the Brev. Hier. 1 (“twelve silver bowls where Solomon sealed the demons”34), which just a bit later mentions the amber signet ring used by Solomon to seal the demons (Brev. Hier. 2). The idea that Solomon was the greatest of exorcists finds its roots in 1 Kings 5.9–14, where we hear about Solomon’s fabulous wisdom, a motif that is expanded in early Jewish texts like the Wisdom of Solomon 7.17–21 or Josephus’ Ant. 8.44–46. Another important background was 1 Kings 6.7, which claims that the sound of a hammer, an axe, or another iron tool could not be heard when the Temple was built. According to later interpretations this would have only been possible if the Temple had been built by demons conjured by Solomon. The motif of Solomon binding the demons via his signet ring remained popular in later literature – including the famous Arabian Nights. The legend, however, is also connected to the Testament of Solomon, an ancient Christian apocryphon narrating how Solomon received his signet ring from God, subjugated the demons and forced them to relinquish their mysterious knowledge.35 According to Peter Busch, who a few years ago offered a new edition and translation of this fascinating text, the Testament was composed in post-Constantinian Jerusalem in the 4th century CE.36 The pilgrim of Bourdeaux’s reference to Solomon “torturing” the demons is only one important point in Busch’s argument (see Test.Sol. 5.11–12 and 6.9–10). Egeria also mentions that during the liturgy of Good Friday in the Holy Sepulchre, attendants not only kiss the Holy Cross but also pass a deacon holding the ring and the horn of Solomon (Itin.Eger. 37.3). Busch writes: “[Solomon’s] ring mentioned above does exist in the fourth century; it is kept as a relic in the treasure of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. It is the most striking argument to situate the Testament of Solomon in Jerusalem in the second half of the second century. … This complex, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, attracts lots of visitors and pilgrims. The ‘Pilgrim of Bordeaux’ and the Spanish nun Egeria/Aitheria are among the earliest witnesses. By and by, also encouraged and advanced by native tourist guides, a whole topography is constructed: ‘Here, the place of the origin of Adam, there, 33 Concerning the problematic nature of these pools’ names, see M. Küchler, Jerusalem: Ein Handbuch und Studienreiseführer zur Heiligen Stadt (Orte und Landschaften der Bibel IV, 2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 315–6. 34 Translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 59. 35 For a quick overview of the reception of Solomon in the Testament of Solomon, see P. Busch, “Solomon as a True Exorcist: The Testament of Solomon in its Cultural Setting”, in The Figure of Solomon in Jewish, Christian and Islamic Tradition: King, Sage and Architect (TBN 16; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2013), 183–95. 36 For the whole argument see P. Busch, Das Testament Salomos: Die älteste christliche Dämonologie, kommentiert und in deutscher Erstübersetzung (TU 153; Berlin & New York: De Gruyter, 2006), 17–30.

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the place of the sacrifice of Abraham; and look here, stains of the blood of Zacharias.’ In this process, traditions originally linked to the Temple of Solomon are transferred to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher: this Church is now the New Temple, erected by Jesus Christ, the second Temple builder, the second Solomon.”37

According to Busch, the Testament of Solomon can be understood as a “marketing document of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem”,38 demonstrating that the best place to get an effective exorcism was not by consulting some monk in the desert, but by seeking help from the professional exorcists working at the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and using Solomon’s most powerful ring. Another passage is also quite enigmatic: in Itin. Burd. 18 the Mount of Olives is described. According to the text, not far away from the Constantinian Eleonora-­ Basilica (which according to the pilgrim resembles a place on the Mount of Olives where Jesus taught his disciples) there is a small hill where Jesus prayed and Moses and Elijah appeared while Peter and John were present. This is certainly an allusion to Jesus’ transfiguration, which, according to Synoptic tradition (cf. Mark 9.2–8 pars), is located in Galilee. While Herbert Donner assumes that parts of the tradition falsely located the transfiguration on the Mount of Olives due to a misunderstanding of Acts 1.11,39 I would propose another solution. The whole tradition makes sense if it is not developed from Synoptic tradition but via the Apocalypse of Peter, which connects Jesus’ teaching about the end of time with the Mount of Olives (Apoc. Pet. 1–2) and the apparition of Moses and Elijah at the same place or at least at a mountain very close to the Mount of Olives (Apoc. Pet. 15–17). While the Apocalypse of Peter even mentions the motif of prayer (but mainly the prayers of the disciples) several times, the revelation of Moses and Elijah here is given to all disciples, among whom Peter is the protagonist. However, because our pilgrim’s reference to Peter and John does not match any other witness about the transfiguration, I do not think that this point is decisive. This connection makes even more sense if we remember that the Apocalypse of Peter was not only quoted as scripture by some Eastern Fathers, including C ­ lement of Alexandria, but, according to Sozomen’s Ecclesiastical History 7.19.9 (written between 443 and 450 CE), was also read by some Palestinian communities in the liturgies of Good Friday.40 The number and variety of traditions which find their basis in apocryphal writings, however, is much larger:

37 See P. Busch, Solomon, 193; for the whole argument see P. Busch, Testament, 20–30. 38 P. Busch, Solomon, 194. 39 H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 60 n. 99. 40 See also T.J. Kraus & T. Nicklas, Das Petrusevangelium und die Petrusapokalypse: Die griechi­ schen Fragments mit deutscher und englischer Übersetzung (GCS NF 11; Neutestamentliche Apokryphen I; Berlin & New York: De Gruyter, 2004), 97.

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2.2 Perhaps the richest material for our purpose can be found in Theodosius’ account: in chapter 6 he mentions an (otherwise unknown) village called Hermippo located one mile from the Mount of Olives, “where Abimelech” – a disciple of Jeremiah – “slept under a fig tree for 40 years”41. This reference is a clear allusion to the Paralipomenae Ieremiae (also known as 4 Baruch), which dates to the first or second century CE (certainly after the reign of Agrippa I). According to the text of Theodosius, although Abimelech follows Jeremiah’s command to pick up figs, he falls asleep for 66 years (a number that conflicts with the pilgrim’s witness), and only wakes up after the catastrophe.42 Quite enigmatic are the traditions around James the Just, mentioned in chapter 9: “Saint James, whom the Lord ordained bishop with his own hand, after the Ascension of the Lord was thrown down from the Pinnacle of the Temple, and it did him no harm, but he was killed by a fuller with the wedge in which he used to carry things. He is buried on the Mount of Olives. This Saint James, Saint Zacharias, and Saint Simeon are buried in a single tomb, which this Saint James himself constructed. He re-buried in it the bodies of the other two, and gave instructions that he himself should be buried there with them.”43

It is quite difficult to reconstruct the roots of the traditions collected here. The fact that some of the oldest texts interested in the fate of James the Just, like the Gospel of the Hebrews (see the fragment quoted in Jerome, vir. ill. 2.12–13 about James as witness of Jesus’ resurrection) or the second century Anabathmoi Iacobou (summarized by Epiphanius, Pan. 30.16.6–9),44 are only preserved in fragments does not simplify our search. There are, however, some clear parallels between the reports of Theodosius and Hegesippus on James the Just: the motif that James had been consecrated as a bishop by Jesus himself could find its (vague) parallel in Hegesippus’ reference (preserved in Eusebius, H.E. 2.23.4) that “James the Lord’s brother received the succession with the apostles in the church”. In a time where apostolic succession and succession of bishops were seen as connected, a statement like this could be interpreted in the way we find it in Theodosius’ itinerary. The idea that James fell down from the pinnacle of the Temple but did not die also finds its closest parallel in Hegesippus, where the scribes and Pharisees ask James “to restrain the people, since they are led astray to Jesus as if he were the Messiah. We urge you to persuade about Jesus all who come for the day of Passover, for we all trust you” 41 Translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 65. 42 This allusion is also seen by H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 196 n. 44. Regarding introductory questions on the Paralipomenae Ieremiae see S.E. Robinson, 4 Baruch, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha 2, ed. J.H. Charlesworth (ABRL; New York et al.: Doubleday, 1985), 413–25: 413–7, and A.-M. Denis et al., Introduction à la littérature religieuse judéo-hellénistique I (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000), 681–718. 43 Translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 66. 44 See R.E. Van Voorst, The Ascents of James: History and Theology of a Jewish-Christian Community (SBL.DS 112; Atlanta: Scholars, 1989).

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(Eusebius, H.E. 2.23.10).45 They set him on the pinnacle of the Temple, but after he testifies for Jesus they throw him down and stone him, “since when thrown down he did not die but turned and knelt and said, ‘I exhort thee, Lord God46 Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’” (Eusebius, H.E. 2.23.16). Finally, “one of them, a fuller, took a club which he used to beat clothes and smashed it against the head of the Just, and so he [James] bore witness” (Eusebius, H.E. 2.23.18). Of course, some details differ, including the description of the location of James’ grave,47 which according to Hegesippus was near the Temple but according to Theodosius was on the Mount of Olives. Hegesippus’ report on James the Just is not an apocryphal writing in the strict sense of the term; his story, however, is probably based on apocryphal writings such as the ones mentioned above. Perhaps the most fascinating parallel to an ancient apocryphal writing, however, can be found in Theodosius’ chapter 13 where he speaks about Sinope (in Pontus near the Black Sea), the place “where my Lord Andrew released my Lord Matthew, the Evangelist, from prison … Sinope in those days was known as Myrmidona, and all the people who lived there used to eat their fellows”.48 This reference clearly alludes to the Acts of Andrew and Matthias in the City of the Cannibals,49 and the reference to Matthew instead of Matthias does not create a major problem, as both names can be found in the transmission of this writing.50 2.3 The Pilgrim of Piacenza’s account, with its strong focus on relics and the stories behind them, also offers a few fascinating insights. In the synagogue of Nazareth (chapter 5) the pilgrim sees “the book in which the Lord wrote his ABC”.51 This reference is, at the very least, reminiscent of stories about the boy Jesus going to school, such as, for example, the long passage in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas about a dispute between Jesus and his teacher regarding the meaning of different letters.52 Other references are clearer: the pilgrim mentions the cross 45 English translation of Hegesippus following R.M. Grant, Second-Century Christianity (Louisville & London: Westminster John Knox, ²2003), 18–21. 46 Also recognized by H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 201–202 n. 61. 47 For a full discussion of this complicated issue see R. Bauckham, “Traditions about the Tomb of James the Brother of Jesus”, in Poussières de christianisme et de judaïsme antiques. Études réunies en l’honneur de Jean-Daniel Kaestli et Éric Junod, ed. A. Frey & R. Gounelle (PIRSB 5; Prahins, CH: Éditions du Zèbre, 2007), 61–77. 48 Translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 67. 49 Perhaps Theodosius’ account could even be an argument about the relation of the Acts of Andrew and Matthias in the City of the Cannibals and the old Acts of Andrew, showing that the first must have circulated independently from the second (at least for some time). 50 See A. De Santos Otero, “Jüngere Apostelakten”, in Neutestamentliche Apokryphen II: Apostoli­ sches, Apokalypsen und Verwandtes, ed. W. Schneemelcher (Mohr: Tübingen, 1997), 381–438: 401. 51 Translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 79. 52 Chapter 5 also mentions a bench with miraculous qualities – the text says that Jesus had been sitting here together with other children: “Christians can lift the bench and move it about, but the Jews are completely unable to move it, and cannot drag it outside” (translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 79).

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of Peter kept in the Basilica of St Zion (chapter 22) – Peter’s crucifixion, however, is first mentioned in the late second century Acts of Peter 30–41.53 The pilgrim visits the place where Isaiah “was sawn asunder” (chapter 32; cf. the Life of Isaiah according to the Vitae Prophetarum but also Ascension of Isaiah 5.11–14), and he speaks about Habakkuk who “took food to the harvesters”54 (chapter 32; see Bel and the Dragon). 2.4 Jerome is actually very focused on biblical places (and quoting biblical passages related to them),55 but he offers occasional glimpses of his education by quoting or alluding to Virgil56 or pagan mythology (see, for example, his description of the street of Messina as Scylla and Charybdis [7.2] or Andromeda in Joppe [8.2]57). His description of Paula’s journeys thus only rarely seems to be influenced by apocryphal material. In his description of Bethlehem (10.2) he not only harmonizes the different canonical stories of Jesus’ birth, but also mentions Isa 1.3 (“an ox knows his master, and a donkey his master’s manger”). As is wellknown, this quotation (together with Hab 3.2) was responsible for “ox and donkey” finding their way into apocryphal Infancy Stories, such as the early medieval Gospel of Ps-Matthew 14.1 (8th/9th century CE). Jerome’s quote, however, is probably not connected to an apocryphal gospel, but resembles a tradition of interpretation that can be traced back at least to Origen (comm. in Isa 1.2).58 Another passage is perhaps more promising. While at the graves of Elisha and Obadja, Paula has a strange vision (13.4–5): “[S]he witnessed demons shouting from many kinds of torment and, in front of saints’ tombs, men howling like wolves, barking like dogs, roaring like lions, hissing like serpents, and bellowing like bulls. Some twisted their heads and leaned backwards until they 53 Earlier possible references to Peter’s fate as a martyr (John 21.18–19; 1 Clem 5; Ign. Rom. 4.3; Ascen. Isa. 4.2–3, and Apoc. Pet. 14.4) do not speak about his crucifixion. Regarding the question whether Peter was crucified see the critical remarks by T.D. Barnes, Early Christian Hagiography and Roman History (Tria Corda 5; Tübingen: Mohr, 2010), 331–42. 54 Translations from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 85. 55 In chapter 8.1, for example, we read that he wants to “note only those stops mentioned in the sacred books” (Translation from A. Cain, Jerome’s Epitaph, 51). 56 See the many references to Virgil mentioned in A. Cain, Jerome’s Epitaph, 568–9. 57 The connection of the Andromeda story to Joppe goes back to Strabo, Geog. 16.2.28. 58 This is not the only passage of his Epitaph on Paula where Jerome’s descriptions presuppose familiarity with ancient traditions of biblical interpretation. In chapter 10, for example, he speaks about the place “where the Holy Spirit descended on the 120 souls to fulfil the prophecy of Joel”, which is clearly an allusion to Acts 2.1–4 (and to the Joel 3.1–5 quote in Acts 2.28–32). The question about why he mentions 120 souls, however, remains unanswered; as is quite usual in ancient interpretation of the passage, Jerome seems to connect Acts 1.15 and 2.1–4 (I am grateful to my colleague Martin Meiser, Saarbrücken, for his advice regarding this passage). In chapter 11, in turn, Jerome connects Acts 8.26–39 and Jer 13.23, and thus concludes that the Ethiopian Eunuch changed the colour of his skin from black to white after being baptized by Philip (see H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 153 n. 68).

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touched the ground with the crown of their head, and women were suspended upside down, yet their clothes did not fall down over their faces. She had compassion on all and shed tears over each and every one as she begged Christ to show mercy to them.”59

Of course, Jerome does not mention an apocryphal writing here, and perhaps this is a description of a place where mentally ill people are gathered because of Elisha’s miraculous powers.60 While the mention of different beasts finds strong parallels in other ascetic literature of the time,61 a specific motif – namely the description of women hanging from their feet in combination with Paula’s pity and prayer for them – might allude to ancient tours of hell. In fact, Jerome describes a kind of “hell on earth” (related to the Apocalypse of Peter?) where one can even hear the crying of demons. Because Jerome’s text, however, bears almost word-for-word parallels with several texts, including Hilary of Poitiers’ Against the Emperor Constantius 8, Paul of Nola’s Carm. 23.86–94 and Sulpicius Severus, Dial. 3.6.4, it is probable that Jerome borrowed his description from one of these writings (or an otherwise unknown common source)62.

3. Stories Connected to Holy “Biblical” Places or Persons Not Found in the Bible or in Apocryphal Writings In some passages, the pilgrims mention or allude to stories connected to biblical figures or places that are not clearly found in the Bible or in apocryphal writings (at least in apocryphal writings that I am aware of). Since this phenomenon, however, is related to the phenomena described above, I will mention at least a few examples: 3.1 In some cases, we are simply dealing with rather unimpressive local traditions. The pilgrim of Bordeaux, for example, tells about some sycamores planted by Jacob in Sychar (Itin. Burd. 4); Egeria sees such a tree in Ramses, Egypt, and according to the bishop of Arabia this tree is even called dendros alethiae, the tree of truth (Itin. Eger. 8.3–4; see Gen 2.9!). In chapter 21 Theodosius mentions a rock called Ancona on the Mount of Olives on which Jesus leaned his shoulders 59 Translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 52. 60 This is the suggestion of H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 160 n. 117. 61 A. Cain, Jerome’s Epitaph, 287 writes: “This kind of demonic bestiary is conventional in hagio­ graphic literature. For instance, Antony’s cell is infiltrated by evil spirits who assume the form of lions, bears, leopards, bulls, serpents (cf. Pall. hist. Laus. 22.13), asps, scorpions, and wolves (Athan. v. Ant. 9). The devil himself terrorized Sabas in the form of snakes, scorpions, crows, a lion, and other wild animals (Cyr. Scyth. v. Sab. 95–6, 110–11 Schwartz), while demons roaring like lions attempted to frighten Abba Aaron …” 62 See also J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 52 n. 101–102, and (quoting the Latin originals) A. Cain, Jerome’s Epitaph, 288.

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and “both shoulders sank into the rock as if it had been soft wax”63, while chapter 28 mentions a place near Jerusalem where Mary dismounted from her donkey on her way to Bethlehem. The pilgrim of Piacenza’s account is full of comparable (sometimes quite strange) traditions: we hear about John the Baptist’s many miracles near Skythopolis (chapter 8), the Lord’s footmarks on Pilate’s stone and their miraculous effects (chapter 23), a place where Mary rested on her flight to Egypt (chapter 28), the doors of a Temple in Memphis, Egypt, that can no longer be opened after being closed for the Holy Family, and a linen pallium with the imprint of the Lord’s face (and its miraculous characteristics) (both in chapter 44). Theodosius 7, Breviarius 4, and the Pilgrim of Piacenza 22, finally, mention that in the pillar of Jesus’ flagellation, imprints of Jesus’ hands and parts of the rest of his body can be seen. Not surprisingly, miraculous powers are attributed to the place. 3.2 In other contexts we encounter stories that are quite clearly based on the interpretive traditions of biblical writings: While Egeria mentions that Moses had been buried by angels (Itin. Eger. 12.2, a tradition probably going back to an interpretation of Deut 34.6 in the LXX),64 the itinerary of Archdeacon Theodosius (chap. 2) mentions Marosia as the name of the woman suffering from the issue of blood (Mark 5.24–35, now connected to a local tradition in Paneas), even though she is usually known as Berenice in later writings.65 The background, however, seems quite clear – the name likely stems from the Greek αἱμορροοῦσα.66 Jerome’s Epitaph on Paula, chapter 10, for example, refers to the place “where the Holy Spirit descended on the 120 souls to fulfil the prophecy of Joel”, which is clearly an allusion to Acts 2.1–4 (and to Joel 3.1–5, quoted in Acts 2.28–32). Why Jerome speaks about 120 souls, however, remains uncertain. As was quite normal in ancient interpretation of the passage, Jerome seems to link Acts 1.15 and 2.1–4.67 In chapter 11, Jerome then connects Acts 8.26–39 with Jer 13.23 and thus concludes that the Ethiopian Eunuch changed the colour of his skin from black to white after being baptized by Philip.68 3.3 In other cases we encounter more developed legends which seem as if they were part of apocryphal writings. Theodosius 2 briefly speaks about a place called “Seven Sources” where “the Lord Christ baptised the Apostles”. The idea has no 63 Translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 69. 64 See C. den Hertog, “Deuteronomium. Erläuterungen zu Kap. 21–34”, in Septuaginta deutsch. Erläuterungen und Kommentare zum griechischen Alten Testament I: Genesis bis Makkabäer, ed. M. Karrer & W. Kraus (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2011), 523–601: 601: “Nach dem MT hat Gott selbst Mose begraben, aber die LXX wollte den Anthropomorphismus vermeiden und Gott nicht mit der Berührung eines Toten belasten.” 65 For more details see T. Nicklas, “Gedanken zum Verhältnis zwischen christlichen Apokryphen und hagiographischer Literatur. Das Beispiel der Veronica-Traditionen”, NedThT 62 (2008), 45–63: 53–6. 66 See, for example, J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 63. 67 I am grateful to my colleague Martin Meiser, Saarbrücken, for his advice regarding this passage. 68 See H. Donner, Pilgerfahrt, 153 n. 68.

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parallels in the canonical New Testament or in any apocryphal writing (at least in any I am aware of). Could the notion be derived from John 3.22, which mentions Jesus remaining in Judea with his disciples for a certain time and baptising (cf. also John 4.2)?69 Or is this perhaps a free adaptation of Mark 10.39, stating that Jesus’ disciples have to undergo the baptism he has to bear?70 Although in my opinion these are the only possible sources in the canonical Gospels, the location of the tradition (miles from Capernaum according to Theodosius 2) makes this quite improbable – so we cannot but speculate. Much more interesting, however, is a legend found in Theodosius 1, 18 and the Pilgrim of Piacenza 13. To understand the legend’s overall structure, it makes sense to quote passages from both versions: Theodosius 1:71 “From Jericho it is one mile to Gilgal: the Lord’s Field is there, where the Lord Jesus Christ ploughed a furrow with his own hand.”72

The account in the Pilgrim of Piacenza is more detailed: “The stones which the children of Israel brought up from the Jordan are in a basilica not far from Jericho. They have been placed behind the altar, and they are huge. In front of the basilica is a plain, The Lord’s Field, in which the Lord sowed with his own hand. Its yield is three pecks, and it is reaped twice a year, but it grows naturally, and is never sown. They reap it in February, and then use the harvest for Communion at Easter. After this harvest, they plough, and the next reaping is at the time of other harvesting, after which it is ploughed and left fallow.”73

In other words, both witnesses discuss a legend about a “Lord’s Field” located in Jericho and connected to the Jordan river. According to Theodosius, Jesus “ploughed a furrow with his own hand” there; the Pilgrim’s focus, however, is on Jesus’ sowing and the miraculous growing of harvest (until his own days). As far as I know, no apocryphal gospel speaks about Jesus’ sowing in Jericho. There is, however, one very fragmentary account about Jesus (probably) sowing with his own hand at the banks of the Jordan river on fragment 2 verso of the “unknown

69 A suggestion made by Claire Clivaz in personal correspondence. 70 A suggestion made by Joseph Verheyden in personal correspondence. 71 Less interesting is Theodosius 18: “The Lord’s Field in Gilgal is watered by Elisha’s Spring, and bears about six bushels. Half the field is ploughed in August and is ripe by Easter, and it is used in Communion of the Day of my Lord’s Supper and on Easter Day: and when this has been mown the other half is ploughed and ripens for a second crop.” 72 Translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 63. 73 Translation from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 82.

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Gospel” of Papyrus Egerton 2.74 The few remaining words on the fragment, however, do not allow both accounts to be identified, at least for the moment.

4. Conclusion Quite clearly, the few accounts of late ancient pilgrimage to Jerusalem are highly important sources for the use of (at least some) apocryphal writings in contexts we would call “proto-orthodox” today. A few points should be noted: 4.1 We found a surprisingly high number of examples where apocryphal stories were connected to a holy place of pilgrimage. However, even if the story was important for confirming the location’s importance, the story was not necessarily bound to it. Egeria, for example, was interested to read the Abgar legend not just in Edessa but took copies of it to her home monastery. 4.2 While most of our authors – with the exception of Jerome, who does not show any clear references to apocryphal writings – were mainly concerned with stories told at holy places, Egeria was interested in reading actual books, or at least passages in them. Nevertheless, she does not seem to be an absolute exception: at least in some cases (e. g., the Translatio Philippi or the Testament of Solomon) we find examples of books that could serve purposes similar to those identified in our reading of Egeria’s Travels. 4.3 Perhaps the most important point, at least in my view, is that the apocryphal stories we mentioned (and the books related to them) not only survived in certain places, but also played important roles for these places. In other words, in the context of these places of pilgrimage, the impact of the apocryphal writings surpassed the impact of writings considered canonical by today’s standards. These apocryphal writings, however, did not exist in some kind of competitive relationship with canonical writings. Rather, their impact and authority were limited to certain places and certain contexts of ancient Christian practices and spiritualities.

74 See also, very concisely, J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims, 63; for an edition of this fragment (plus discussion of its possible reconstructions) see T. Nicklas, “The ‘Unknown Gospel’ on Papyrus Egerton 2”, in Gospel Fragments, ed. T.J. Kraus, M. Kruger & T. Nicklas (Oxford Early Christian ­Gospel texts; Oxford: OUP, 2009), 9–120: 66–75; a new and very plausible reconstruction of the fragment (not contradicting the idea mentioned above) has been recently given by L. Zelyck, “­Papyrus Egerton 2, 2v.6–14. Another New Transcription of the Miracle on the Jordan River”, NTS 62 (2016) [149–156].

Ismo Dunderberg (University of Helsinki)

Recognizing the Valentinians – now and then

The title of this essay is intended as a play on the different meanings of the verb “to recognize” on the one hand, and those of the expression “now and then” on the other. To begin with “to recognize,” the verb can both be used for identification, especially of someone whom one has seen or met before,1 and for denoting acceptance, either in terms of acknowledging a fact, a problem, etc., or in terms of approval. Used in the latter sense, recognition is often linked with institutions that can grant and deny official approval of something or express official appreciation of someone. Nevertheless, recognition can also take place between individuals. This occurs, for instance, when one is willing to admit that a discussion partner has a point, even though one does not agree on that point, or on some other issues. In such acts, there are obviously different levels, ranging from non-­ existent through weak to full forms of recognition. Taking into account the scale from non-recognition to recognition can provide us with a valuable new perspective on the study of ancient texts. It goes without saying that attempts to place individual authors on such a scale are unavoidably based on scholarly constructs of these authors’ overall views and intentions, and there is much variation in such constructs. Nevertheless, as will be demonstrated below, there are indeed clear differences in how much early Christian authors were willing to credit their opponents’ views. A scale from non-recognition to at least moderate forms of recognition can be constructed easily, even though there is and will be considerable variation as regards where exactly individual authors should be placed on that scale. The expression “now and then” in my title can also be understood in two ways. It can be used as referring to present and past, but it also means “from time to time, occasionally.” Those knowledgeable about Valentinian sources and scholarship are well aware that recognizing Valentinians, even in the “weaker” sense of identification, was then, and is now, a vexing problem. The Valentinians are now customarily placed in the group of “Gnostics,” and thus effectively removed 1 Understood in the former sense of identification, recognition was a popular feature in ancient literature: “The recognition type-scene belonged to the storyteller’s standard repertory in ancient Greco-Roman narrative and drama, especially in epic, novel, tragedy, and comedy, where motifs of hidden identities, veiling and revealing, Sein and Schein, deception and discovery often played a central role in the plot.” K.B. Larsen, Recognizing the Stranger: Recognition Scenes in the Gospel of John (Biblical Interpretation Series 93; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 1.

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from what is conceived to be “true” Christianity. There is, however, a marked move away from this essentializing identification of Valentinians as “Gnostics,” and towards other designations. One of the points I seek to make in this article is that the distinction between the Valentinians and (true) Christians was far less obviously “then,” that is, in the early Christian period, than it is “now,” that is, in scholarly imagination. The Valentinians conceived of themselves first and foremost as Christians, and sought to be acknowledged as such. Moreover, it was difficult for ordinary ­second-century Christians to differentiate between Valentinians and other kinds of Christians. Irenaeus wrote his five-volume anti-Valentinian work Against Heresies (c. 180) precisely to distinguish between the Valentinians and what he conceived to be orthodox Christianity. While Irenaeus was adamant about not finding any value in Valentinians and their theology, other early Christian teachers, such as Clement and Origen, were engaged in a much more constructive dialogue with Valentinian Christians. Problems with identifying Valentinians persist “now,” that is, in modern scholarship, where individual teachers and texts are constantly removed from, and added to, the Valentinian body of evidence. Doubts have been raised whether Valentinus himself or some of his alleged followers, like Heracleon, were Valentinians.2 Moreover, there is a recent trend in the study of the Nag Hammadi library to disassociate texts in this collection from the Christianity of the second and the third centuries and to place them into a considerably later context, that of fourth-century Egypt. This trend has also resulted in revisionist views about texts that have customarily been classified as Valentinian. By way of example, Hugo Lundhaug has argued that the Gospel of Philip can be best understood in the context of Egyptian monastic Christianity of the fourth and fifth centuries.3 At the same time, new candidates continue to be proposed for the Valentinian corpus, such as the Apocalypse of Paul from Nag Hammadi Codex V.4 Finally, it is no surprise that, after the deconstruction of “Gnosticism” as a scholarly category,5 similar efforts are now being made on “Valentinianism.” One recent study suggests that the whole concept of “the school of Valentinus” 2 Valentinus: C. Markschies, Valentinus Gnosticus?: Untersuchungen zur valentinianischen Gnosis; mit einem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten Valentins (WUNT 65; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992). Heracleon: M. Kaler & M.-P. Bussières, “Was Heracleon a Valentinian? A New Look at Old Sources,” HTR. 99 (2006): 275–89. 3 H. 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). For my brief rejoinder to some of Lundhaug’s arguments, see I. Dunderberg, Gnostic Morality Revisited (WUNT 347; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2015), 9 n. 20. 4 Cf. M. Kaler, Flora Tells a Story: The Apocalypse of Paul and Its Contexts (Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2008). 5 Cf. M.A. Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996); K.L. King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2003).

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is merely a heresiological construct.6 My view is that “the school of Valentinus” will probably stand the test of critical inquiry better than “Gnosticism.” While one of the most fundamental problems related to the latter is that this term does not appear in ancient texts, “the school of Valentinus” is mentioned in early sources, and a number of individual Christian teachers were linked with this group from the outset.7 While there is no denying the fact that heresiologists were eager to categorize their opponents for polemical purposes, they must have had some particular reasons why they linked some opponents with Valentinus and some other people with Basilides, Marcion, and other “heresiarchs.”

1. Talking about Recognition In what follows, I will leave aside the issues pertaining to the identification of Valentinians on the basis of ancient sources, and focus on issues related to “recognition” in the stronger sense, that is, in that of acknowledging, acceptance and approval. This viewpoint is linked with the “Reason and Religious Recognition” research project, for which I presently work at the University of Helsinki.8 One way to articulate the project’s aim is to say that it seeks to take the next step from tolerance to fuller approval of the “other.” One of the key issues in the project is to explore acts of recognition, and especially religious views about people that would make such acts possible. Risto Saarinen, the director of this project, outlines the core of an act of recognition in his forthcoming study as comprising two stages:9 1. B (a person or a group) seeks recognition from A, and 2. A grants recognition to B. This core act of recognition can be expanded in many ways; for instance, B can be specific about “as what” it wants to be recognized, and A can be specific about “as what” it recognizes B. One possible outcome of recognition acts like this is mutual recognition in which B also recognizes A. Such acts of mutual recognition, however, usually presuppose that the parties involved are official institutions and on an equal 6 G. Smith, Guilt by Association: Heresy Catalogues in Early Christianity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014). 7 For a summary of the arguments for the school hypothesis, see I. Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism: Myth, Lifestyle, and Society in the School of Valentinus (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), 2–5. 8 This project, directed my colleague Risto Saarinen, is one of the Finnish Centres of Excellence, funded by the Academy of Finland. I am the leader of a research team on antiquity and early Christianity; two other research teams in the project are focused on medieval and modern discussions related to recognition. 9 R. Saarinen, Recognition and Religion: A Historical and Systematic Study (Oxford University Press, 2016).

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footing. The best examples of acts of recognition of this type are official agreements between states or those between well-established churches. The relationship between A and B, however, is often asymmetric in the sense that A represents the official power, whereas B, the person or group seeking recognition from A, is subordinated to A’s rule. The asymmetric relationship is no doubt characteristic of the situation in which early Christians sought recognition from the outsiders in the Roman Empire. The most obvious cases to be studied in this connection are the stories about martyrs and other Christians seeking recognition from Roman authorities when summoned and interrogated by them. In such stories, the bar is sometimes set unrealistically high. The author of Luke-Acts describes the swift conversion of the Roman proconsul Sergius Paulus into full-blown Christian faith as the result of his brief meeting with Paul and Barnabas (Acts 13:6–12). If we dwell on the question of “as what” Christianity seeks to be recognized here, the answer is not (as one might expect) “as one of the tolerated religions in the empire.” Rather, what is claimed here is that Christianity should be recognized as the only true religion. The story of the conversion of Sergius in Luke-Acts also shows how recognition can be sought at the expense of a third party. It is the punishing miracle Paul performs on Sergius’ Jewish court magician Elymas that makes Sergius convert to Christianity so quickly. Luke thus uses the story of Sergius’ conversion to reaffirm a prevalent Greco-Roman stereotype of the Jews as open to magic, which in turn made them politically suspect and even dangerous in the empire. This is one way in Luke-Acts to bring home the opinion that the recognition of Christianity entails the non-recognition of Judaism.

2. Irenaeus, the Valentinians and Textual Community Turning from Luke-Acts to the Valentinian evidence, issues related to recognition are very complicated. It is much more difficult to identify the parties “A” (the one from whom recognition is sought) and “B” (the one who is seeking recognition) in the debates involving the Valentinians. Let me start with Irenaeus of Lyons. He vigorously argued for non-recognition of the Valentinians, but it cannot be inferred from his rebuttal of their views that there were Valentinians who sought recognition from him. We can also ponder “as what,” or in what role, Irenaeus writes against Valentinians. While he did not have any official power in the empire, he doubtless had, and could have claimed, institutional power as the bishop of Lyons. This, however, is not the position he adopts in the debate. He neither calls upon nor mentions his ecclesiastical position in his account of why he set out to write his anti-Valentinian work. He introduces his work against the Valentinians as “a concise and clear report on the doctrine of these people who are at present spreading false teaching,” and his intention is to supply the addressee with “suggestions … for refut-

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ing this doctrine, by showing how utterly absurd, inconsistent, and incongruous with the Truth their statements are.” In short, he seeks “not only to make clear to you their doctrines – which you have long sought to learn – but also to supply you with aids for proving it false.” There are glimpses of Irenaeus as an ecclesiastical authority later in his work but this is not how he positions himself as the author of his work against the Valentinians. Another noteworthy trait in Irenaeus’ introduction is the impression of close contacts between him and some Valentinians. Irenaeus relates that his account of Valentinian teaching is based upon discussions with some of “the disciples of Valentinus,” and on reading their “commentaries.”10 There is no need to assume that the Valentinians whom Irenaeus met had approached him in seeking recognition from him as an ecclesiastical authority. As Pheme Perkins points out, the picture emerging here is rather that of a textual community in which books were composed, copied, exchanged, read aloud, discussed and debated.11 Most “academic” texts in antiquity had little chance of success in the public book market, and so were distributed more privately in the smaller circles of the learned. William Johnson’s valuable recent studies on ancient textual communities detail how the circulation of books and especially granting someone else access to one’s own work (either completed or in progress) were regarded as special tokens of friendship in such groups, creating and reaffirming the sense of belonging to the same exclusive club.12 Although Irenaeus was fiercely opposed to the teaching of the Valentinians, his access to their texts and his discussions with them show that he was part of the same network of early Christian intellectuals as they were.13 Although Irenaeus’ full-scale attack on the Valentinians and their teachings cannot be explained in terms of (overblown) criticism that one might expect in textual communities like this,14 his aspiration to settle the issue by argumentative means rather than by calling upon his ecclesiastical status fits this context well. Irenaeus also delved into Valentinian teaching in order to offer a comprehensive description of it. He did not simply reproduce the sources available to him

10 Irenaeus, Her. 1, preface. 11 The relevance of this aspect for our understanding of the encounters of Irenaeus and Valentinians has been recently pointed out by Perkins. 12 For a comprehensive account of these aspects related to ancient textual communities, see W. A. Johnson, Readers and Reading Cultures among Greeks and Romans: A Study of Elite Reading Communities in the High Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012); cf. also idem, “Constructing Elite Reading Communities in the High Empire”, in Ancient Literacies: The Culture of Reading in Greece and Rome, ed. W.A. Johnson & H.N. Parker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 320–30. 13 Ph. Perkins, “Valentinians and the Christian Canon”, in Proceedings of Valentinian Conference (Rome, October 15–18, 2013), ed. E. Thomassen [forthcoming]. 14 For some examples, see W.A. Johnson, Readers and Reading Cultures, e. g., 42–62 (on Pliny’s literary community).

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but composed his own summary based on such sources.15 One notable difference between Irenaeus’ account and the parallel but independent account in Clement of Alexandria’s Excerpts from Theodotus (43–65, “Section C” in that work) is that myth and scriptural proof texts are constantly intertwined in the latter, whereas Irenaeus offers a sample of proof texts Valentinians used to support their views at the end of his summary. It could thus be suggested that Irenaeus, by separating myth from proof texts, gave a new outlook on and thus, in a way, “invented” the Valentinian myth. This interpretation, however, is not completely certain since no scriptural proof texts are adduced for the cosmogonic tales related in the Valentinian Tripartite Tractate either. The juxtaposition of myth and proof texts may, thus, be a feature peculiar to Clement’s source. Furthermore, the similarity in the basic structure of Irenaeus’ account and the first two sections of the Tripartite Tractate suggests that the narrative outline of Irenaeus’ report indeed goes back to Valentinian sources. In comparison to the lengthy cosmogonical account in the Tripartite Tractate, however, Irenaeus’ report seems to offer a greatly truncated version of the Valentinian myth. This supports the conclusion that Irenaeus did not reproduce any of his sources in full, as is sometimes assumed, but offered a summary based upon them. Though Irenaeus can be commended for his efforts to study Valentinian sources, his work betrays very weak tokens of the recognition of the other. These tokens include the fact that he found the school of Valentinus important enough to be disagreed with, and the fact that, all his sarcastic and malevolent remarks aside, he made the effort to paint a relatively careful picture of the Valentinian myth. This is how far recognition gets in Irenaeus. He finds little recommendable in the Valentinians and nothing in their teaching. Irenaeus does not shy away from any of the dirty tricks used in ancient polemics, including gossip, burlesque, libellous poems, claims about one’s opponent’s suspicious ancestry, and accusations of one’s adversary’s sexual misconduct and other manifestations of lewd morality.16 Irenaeus pays lip service to the rhetorical skill and persuasiveness of the Valentinians, but only as opposed to the simple truth he claims to profess in simple style.17 There is, as far as I can see, only one notable “crack” in Irenaeus’ energetic vituperation. He is willing to admit that, while most Valentinians were immoral people, some of them were committed to high moral standards. Yet Irenaeus heaps scorn on such persons as well. In Irenaeus’s unrelenting polemics, these “better” Valentinians were self-important because of their virtuous lifestyle and showed off their good morality, walking around “like Gallian roosters.”18

15 Cf. I. Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 9. 16 Gossiping: Irenaeus, Her. 1.13.4–7; burlesque: 1.4.4; 1.11.4–5; libellous poem: 1.15.6; claims about one’s opponent’s suspicious ancestry: 1.23–31: 1.31.3; lewd morality: 1.6.3–4; 1.13.5–6, etc. 17 Irenaeus, Her. 1, preface. 18 Irenaeus, Her. 3.15.2.

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Irenaeus also possibly mispresents the materials he got access to, or learned about, in the textual community to which both he and the Valentinians belonged. Irenaeus accuses the Valentinians of “producing their own compositions (conscriptiones),” and presents the text called the Gospel of Truth (veritatis euangelium) as the prime example of the audacity (audacie), which their production of new books expresses.19 Irenaeus claims, furthermore, that this particular text “does not at all conform to the gospels of the apostles” (apostolorum evangeliis). ­Irenaeus thus insinuates that this text belongs to the same category as, and competes with, the New Testament gospels. If the text Irenaeus referred to was the same as or similar to the Gospel of Truth included in the Nag Hammadi Library, nothing could be further off the mark. This text does not purport to be a story of the life of Jesus but offers an eloquent reflection on the nature of the Father of All and of the role of Jesus as the revealer. The word “gospel,” used in the opening line of this text, is used not as a genre designation but simply as meaning “good news”: “The good news (“gospel”) about truth is joy for those who have received grace from the Father of truth …” (NHC I, 16).20 The early reactions to Irenaeus’ account of Valentinians were split, which may indicate that he went too far in his polemics for some tastes. In his Against Valentinians, Tertullian almost slavishly followed Irenaeus, only adding new jokes and quips from time to time. Tertullian knew, or knew about, some firsthand Valentinian sources but paid little attention to them.21 There are also some glimpses of him being informed about some particularities of Valentinian theology that are not mentioned in Irenaeus.22 Epiphanius of Salamis, who wrote in the late fourth century, largely based his anti-Valentinian report on long direct quotations from Irenaeus, though he also knew – and (unlike Tertullian) also quoted – some first-hand Valentinian texts, such as Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora and the Valentinian Instructional Letter.23 A somewhat different reaction to Irenaeus is attested in the Refutation of All Heresies, customarily but not unanimously attributed to Hippolytus of Rome. The author of this work drew heavily on Irenaeus’ account, but he also recorded protests that some followers of the Valentinian Marcus had raised against that account. After mentioning Irenaeus’ report on Marcosian baptismal rituals, the 19 Irenaeus, Her. 3.11.9. 20 The manuscript of this text in NHC I does not have a separate title (either at the beginning or at the end). The present title modern scholars use for this text in scholarship is derived from its opening words. Nevertheless, this was not an unusual way of identifying texts in antiquity either. Hence the possibility that the text Irenaeus refers to is the same as, or similar to, the Gospel of Truth now available to us in the Nag Hammadi Library. 21 Tertullian (The Flesh of Christ, 17.1) mentions one Alexander, who in support of his teaching called upon “the psalms of Valentinus.” Clement of Alexandria could have been subjected to the same accusation (see below)! 22 Tertullian, Val. 4.2, suggests that the great number of eternal beings (aeons) should be understood as “names and positions”, rather than more literally as a household of divine beings. 23 Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora: Epiphanius, Pan. 33.3.1–7.10; Valentinian Instructional Letter: 31.5–6.

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author of the Refutation continues: “When they read (ἐντυχόντες)24 this, they, as is their wont, denied that this was their tradition.” One may be entitled to see here a minor act of recognition since the author finds the reason “to study more carefully and find out in detail what their tradition on the first baptism … and on the second, which they call ‘redemption,’ is in this protest.”25

3. Stronger Recognition: Clement of Alexandria Stronger signals of recognition can be found in the works of two Alexandrian teachers, Clement and Origen. Although their anti-Valentinian sentiments are unmistakable through and through, both authors also occasionally express approval of some views put forward by their Valentinian adversaries. In what follows, I take a brief look at two texts, first, the fragments of Valentinus in Clement’s Miscellanies (Stromateis) and, second, fragments of the Valentinian Heracleon in Origen’s Commentary on John. Two general comments deserve to be first made as regards Clement’s views about the Valentinians. First, he did not resort to the same “dirty tricks” as Irenaeus in describing the Valentinians. (Clement did not completely refrain from those tricks in other cases: he mentions someone who called himself a “Gnostic” and promoted licentious behavior by claiming “to conquer pleasure by practicing pleasure.”)26 Second, Clement’s response to the Valentinians varies from work to work. Judith Kovacs points out that, in his more elementary work Christ the Educator, Clement rejects the Valentinian ideas “in strongly polemical statements”, whereas in the Miscellanies he shows “how the insights of Valentinian exegetes can be incorporated into the true, ecclesiastical γνῶσις.”27 The latter work, the more theologically inclusive Miscellanies, is also our main source for the fragments of Valentinus’ own works. Altogether six – and thus a majority – of such passages come from this text. The more critical side of the dialogue comes to the fore in the way Clement quotes and discusses Valentinus’ view about the creation of Adam. Fragment 1 of Valentinus offers a glimpse of the story in which the creator angels recognized a superior divine essence in Adam, became afraid of him and sought to hide or destroy him.28 Clement quotes this passage and another one from the followers of Basilides in his discussion about right and wrong forms of fear.29 While Clement rejects fear as a passion, he finds 24 For this sense of the verb, see LSJ s.v. III. 25 Ref. 6.42.1; cf. N. Förster, Marcus Magus: Kult, Lehre und Gemeindeleben einer valentinianischen Gnostikergruppe: Sammlung der Quellen und Kommentar (WUNT 114; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 28–29. 26 Clement, Misc. 2.117.5–6. 27 J. L. Kovacs, “Concealment and Gnostic Exegesis: Clement of Alexandria’s Interpretation of the Tabernacle”, Studia Patristica 31 (1997), 414–37: 431. 28 Valentinus, Fragment 1 (Clement, Misc. 2.36.2–4). 29 Clement, Misc. 2.32–40.

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positive value in the fear of God and in the fear promulgated by the divine law. Building on the dictum “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” ­Clement finds educational value in God’s law since it teaches us the things we should avoid, including adultery, pederasty, injustice, and so on. In this connection, Clement is outspoken in his criticism of Basilides and Valentinus: “These men are fabricating meaningless nonsense.” The main obstacle in their view is that they presuppose the existence of lesser deities involved in creation. This can be seen in Clement’s response, which begins with the affirmation that “there is only one first principle.” Clement’s insistence that fear can be rational (as “the beginning of wisdom”) is especially targeted against Valentinus, in whose story of Adam’s creation fear appears completely irrational and is linked with the inferior creator angels.30 Clement is keen to interpret Valentinus’ teachings in the light of typical prejudices linked with those of the “wrong side.” In Fragment 4, Clement quotes Valentinus’ teaching about the primordial immortality of humankind, and takes this teaching as illustrating a “typical” disdain of martyrdom among the heretics.31 The alleged link of Valentinus’ teaching with avoidance of martyrdom is far from obvious here, and Clement immediately moves on to a critique of the doctrine of two Gods, for which he sees evidence in another quotation from Valentinus, which contains reflection on how the perfect God’s invisible nature becomes manifest in the imperfect world.32 The passage distinguishes between God and the world, but since the distinction between the true God and the creator-god is not present in it, Clement must “produce” it by bringing in what he obviously considered to be standard Valentinian theology. Clement amplifies the intended effect by placing Valentinus here in the dubious company of Basilides and the Montanists. Fragment 2 of Valentinus comprises a reflection on how the good Father and God alone can purify a heart afflicted by evil spirits.33 Clement also here links Valentinus with Basilides and, in this case, the latter’s son Isidor,34 but the link seems forced. There is no obvious link between Valentinus’ teaching on the impure heart and the Basilidean theory about the soul’s “attachments,” that is, the natures of animals clinging to the soul that drive humans into behaving like animals. It is more interesting to note how Clement steers the teaching of Valentinus in the 30 Clement’s view about the educational benefits of fear comes very close to the view he attributes to Basilides’ followers in this section. The latter also designated “fear” as “the beginning of a wisdom which classifies, distinguishes, perfects and restores human beings to their pristine state.” For the view of Basilides’ followers (Clement, Misc. 2.36.1), see W.A. Löhr, Basilides und seine Schule: Eine Studie zur Theologie- und Kirchengeschichte des zweiten Jahrhunderts (WUNT 83; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 61–78. 31 Clement, Misc. 4.89.1–3. 32 Valentinus, Fragment 5 = Clement, Misc. 4.89.6–90.1. 33 Clement, Misc. 2.114.3–6. 34 Basilides and Isidor: Clement, Misc. 2.112.1–2.114.2; for a comprehensive interpretation of this passage, see W.A. Löhr, Basilides und seine Schule, 78–101).

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direction of what he designates as “our truth.” This nod to Valentinus can be understood as a small token of recognition. Clement both puts Valentinus into bad company and extricates him from it. What happens in the relevant passage is that Clement finds a disagreement between Valentinus’ teaching about the soul, undergoing a change from worse to better, and the Valentinian theory of fixed natures, which does not admit of such a change: “For if he grants the soul the power of repentance and choosing the better course, he will be saying unwillingly what our truth says as dogma, that salvation comes not from nature but from a change in obedience.”35 The teaching that the soul is the place where the choice between evil and good is made is attested for Valentinians; Irenaeus mentions this view alongside their theory of three fixed natures.36 Clement, however, is inclined to see essence in difference; that is, he thinks that the theory of three fixed natures forms the core of Valentinian theology, while the more familiar theory that the soul can choose between good and evil is not part of that core. Hence Clement’s contention that Valentinus is saying something “unwillingly,” when the latter’s teaching comes close to Clement’s own views. Clement, however, takes even firmer steps towards a fuller recognition, as can be seen in his discussion on Fragment 3. This fragment provides us with a surprising illustration of Jesus’ great self-control. Valentinus taught about Jesus: “He was firm, enduring all things. Jesus practiced divinity. He ate and drank in his own manner, without excreting food. The power of his continence was so great that not even food was destroyed in him since he did not have that which is perishable.”37 Valentinus’s argument should not surprise us since similar stories were told of legendary sages, such as Pythagoras, in the Greco-Roman world.38 What is surprising is the way Clement uses this teaching of Valentinus. One might expect scorn, or at least refutation based on the lack of proof in the gospels for this view about Jesus. Quite the contrary, Clement uses Valentinus to support his own teaching about self-control. Before the quotation from Valentinus, Clement specifies what self-control is: “Self-control means indifference to money, comfort, and property, a mind above spectacles, control of the tongue, mastery of evil thoughts …” After quoting Valentinus, Clement formulates a conclusion: “So we embrace self-­ control out of love we bear the Lord and out of its honorable status, consecrating the temple of the Spirit.” In other words, Clement recognizes Valentinus here as a source of genuine Christian teaching and uses his teaching as one would use scriptural proof texts. In Fragment 6, Valentinus contends that “Many of the things written in common books can also be found written in the church of God.”39 Clement comments 35 Clement, Misc. 2.115.2. 36 Irenaeus, Her. 1.7.5. 37 Clement, Misc. 3.59.3. 38 Cf. I. Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism, 22. 39 Clement, Misc. 6.52.3–53.1.

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that Valentinus here “makes the truth a matter of common knowledge (κοινοποιεῖ τὴν ἀλήθειαν).” As Christoph Markschies points out, this should not be taken as a reproach.40 Clement runs this quotation at the end of a section in which he argues that it was the same God who gave the law to the Jews and philosophy to the Greeks, and that those who practiced this philosophy (as a way of life) were easily won over in Hades to the Christian message that Christ preached during his visit there. Clement had already bolstered his teaching in this passage with a spurious quotation, which he attributed to Paul: “Take also the Greek books, read the Sibyl, how it is shown that God is one, and how the future is indicated. And take and read Hystaspes and you will find much more luminously and distinctly the Son of God described …”41 It is impossible to trace the origin of the quotation, but it serves the same purpose as one from Valentinus talking about the positive value of the “the common books.”42

4. Between Rejection and Approval: Origen and Heracleon The examples discussed above illustrate that Clement “now and then” recognizes Valentinus’ teaching, although he is more often than not very critical of it. The same attitude towards proponents of Valentinian theology is apparent in Origen’s work. His interaction with Valentinians is best attested in his Commentary on John where he often quotes, discusses and interprets the Valentinian Heracleon’s views. Although Origen’s wealthy patron Ambrose was a former Valentinian, rebuttal of Heracleon’s views does not loom large in Origen’s commentary. Heracleon is not mentioned in the introduction to the entire work, and the intensity with which Origen is engaged in the discussion with his views varies from one book to another. Much ink has been spilt in debating Heracleon’s theology in recent years, above all on the issue of whether he was a proponent of the Valentinian doctrine of three fixed natures (spirit, soul, matter) or whether his views can be understood in more flexible terms, admitting change from one category to another. I leave this debate aside here, however, and focus on the way Origen conducts dialogue with Heracleon.43 While Irenaeus was an ecclesial authority but did not invoke that role, Origen poses as “the man of the church,” who is up to the challenge presented by 40 C. Markschies, Valentinus Gnosticus?, 189–90. 41 Clement, Misc. 6.5.1. “Hystaspes” refers to the Persian apocalypse Oracle of Hystaspes. For this text, see J.J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, ²1998), 32. The Sibyl and Hystaspes are also mentioned together in Justin, 1. Apol. 20.1; 44.12. 42 It should be added that Clement also supports this particular view with a quotation from Isidor, although he is even further off the mark than Valentinus from Clement’s perspective. 43 For a fuller account of Heracleon’s views and the variant modes of Origen’s responses to him, I refer to my essay, “Origen’s Dialogue with Heracleon and the School of Valentinus”, in The Oxford Handbook of Origen, ed. R.E. Heine & K.J. Torjesen (Oxford: Oxford University Press) [forthcoming].

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misguided allegorists like Heracleon. Origen portrays himself as being capable of stepping in to defend “the teaching of the Church” and putting the blame on “those who pursue the knowledge falsely so called.”44 Therefore, it is striking that Origen addresses his most biting remarks not to Heracleon and other allegorists but to the literalists, the “slaves of the letter.”45 In comparison to Origen’s outright rebuttal of the latter, his reactions to Heracleon are moderate and much more nuanced, ranging from full rejection to moderate or conditional approval. Here Origen’s approach to dialogue differs completely from that in Irenaeus, in whom one is hard-pressed to find any tokens of approval. To illustrate the range of Origen’s responses to Heracleon, I employ the model based upon modern questionnaires, which often operate with five variables: completely disagree – disagree – neither agree nor disagree – agree – completely agree.46 Instead offering a full survey here, I take up only a few examples to make my point. Completely disagree: The most prominent issue to which Origen returns time and again is the heterodox teaching about two gods. It is thus clear that whenever the inferior creator-god is referred to in Heracleon (e. g., the royal man in John 4),47 Origen disputes this interpretation, but in another context grants that in one way the heterodox distinction is not far off the mark: “Perhaps it is possible for someone to know God but not know the Father beyond knowing him as God … it is indeed possible to agree with the heterodox view that Moses and the prophets did not know the Father.”48

Origen also repeatedly rejects “those who introduce natures.” This refers to the theory that humans are divided into predetermined groups and that their salvation depends on the group they belong to. The way Origen interprets ­Heracleon’s teachings show that he was keen to place Heracleon among the proponents of this theory.49 Nevertheless, Origen did not want to push this point too far. He occasionally reports uncertainty over Heracleon’s intentions on this issue. For instance, Origen conditionally approves of Heracleon’s explanation that the Samaritan

44 Origen, Comm. John 5.8 (trans. Heine). 45 Origen, Comm. John 10.276; cf. 13.110, 146. 46 For a similar approach to the modes of Origen’s dialogue with Heracleon, see H.W. Attridge, Essays on John and Hebrews (WUNT 264; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 198–99; A. Wucherpfennig, Heracleon Philologus: Gnostische Johannesexegese im zweiten Jahrhundert (WUNT, 142; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2002), 25–26. 47 Origen, Comm. John 13.416. 48 Origen, Comm. John 19.26; cf. R.E. Heine, Origen: Commentary on the Gospel According to John (2 vols; FC 80 & 89; Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 1989–93), 2.25. 49 E.g., Origen, Comm. John 20.54.

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woman “demonstrated a faith that was unhesitating and appropriate to her nature,” the condition being that Heracleon did not refer to her being of divine nature.50 Disagree: One example of respectful disagreement is related to Heracleon’s interpretation that Christ’s shoe (the thongs of which the Baptist was unable to loosen) denotes the world. Origen applauds Heracleon for “taking the shoe as the world in a very powerful and ingenious manner” – but finally concludes: “I do not think we must agree.”51 Neither agree nor disagree: Origen sometimes mentions Heracleon’s teachings without commenting on them. Two examples: 1) “But consider also Heracleon’s assertion. He says that the Church received the Christ and was persuaded concerning him that he alone understands all things.”52 2) He says, “For men believe in the Savior first by being led by men, but whenever they read his words, they no longer believe because of human testimony alone, but because of the truth itself.”53 Agree: There are a few cases in which Origen voices conditional approval of Heracleon’s views. One example (Origen and Heracleon’s views about the Samaritan woman’s nature) was already mentioned above. Another intriguing example is Heracleon’s explanation of the words “For the Father also seeks such to worship him” (John 4.23). Heracleon explains: “What belongs to the Father has been lost in deep erroneous matter and is being sought so that the Father may be worshipped by his own.” Origen responds: “If he were referring to the story about the lost sheep and the son who fell away from his father’s ways, we too would accept his explanation.”54 Heracleon thus offers a good explanation but for the wrong text! Origen is sympathetic towards Heracleon’s view about the relationship between John and Elijah, saying that he has made a serious effort to understand Heracleon at this point. Heracleon explains that the identification of John and Elijah does not mean full identity but that John had Elijah’s attributes, like clothes on him. Origen responds: “I do not quite perceive how, in his view, being the Elijah who is to come is John’s clothes. Perhaps it accords with our view … perhaps it can be said that this spirit of Elijah is the clothing of John’s soul.” (6.114)

Completely agree: Origen commends Heracleon for his characterization of the Levites and Pharisees sent to John the Baptist:

50 Origen, Comm. John 13.64; for other similar cases, in which Origen hesitates concerning ­Heracleon’s take on this issue, see 2.137; 10.211. 51 Origen, Comm. John 6.199. 52 Origen, Comm. John 13.164. 53 Origen, Comm. John 13.363. 54 Origen, Comm. John 13.120–1.

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“When he wishes... to explain why those sent from the Jews to question him are priests and Levites, his answer is not bad: ‘Because it was fitting for these who are devoted to God to be curious about these matters and to inquire. … His statement is convincing that the Pharisees inquire out of malice and not out of a desire to learn.”55

Origen not only concurs but adopts Heracleon’s reading. As regards the priests and Levites, Origen points out that “things are said with gentleness and curiosity … There is nothing self-willed or rash in the inquiry of these men; everything is appropriate to scrupulous servants of God. But those sent by the Pharisees … address the Baptist in arrogant and rather senseless words …”56

5. Conclusion As those engaged in issues related to the philosophy of history point out, writing history is about making choices. Otherwise, it would be impossible to make any sense of the endless amount of the “raw data” available to us in historical records of all kinds. Taking this simple fact into account brings in the moral aspect inherent in all historiography, and leads to the self-reflective question of why, as scholars of the past, we make the choices we do in our research.57 One pertinent question that calls for a critical self-reflection is what kinds of issues dominate the narratives of the past we produce. I have outlined a broad range of early responses to the Valentinian Christians and their theology above. These responses bear witness to a conflict mode, but other modes of interaction with the “other” are attested as well. There is a long way from Irenaeus and Tertullian, who seek to defeat the Valentinians in every possible manner, to Clement, who sometimes built his own teaching on his opponent’s views, and to Origen, who occasionally paused to reflect on what his opponent truly meant. Different depictions of intra-Christian relations in the second and third centuries can be offered on the basis of different sets of evidence. This range in the available evidence leads to the critical question of what part of the evidence seems preferable to the narratives we concoct of the past, and why. Are conflicts more decisive in our conceptualization of the past than examples of less aggressive relationships among people, and if they are, why? I assume many 55 Origen, Comm. John 6.115, 126; Cf. H.W. Attridge, Essays on John and Hebrews, 198. 56 Origen, Comm. John 6.51–2; cf. 6.57: “John saw from the question the reverence of the priests and Levites.” 57 For one well-articulated analysis of such issues in modern historiography, see G.M. Spiegel, “Above, about and beyond the writing of history: A retrospective view of Hayden White’s Metahistory on the 40th anniversary of its publication”, Rethinking History: The Journal of Theory and Practice 17 (2013), 492–508. I wish to thank my wife, church historian and medievalist, Dr. Päivi Salmesvuori, for this reference.

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of us have been trained to focus on conflicts because they are thought to bring in change in the course of history. Another reason for a conflict-driven emphasis may be an implicit wish to produce a larger narrative of how the Christian church as it now stands evolved in the midst of early crises where its distinct identity markers differentiated it from Judaism and “heresies” developed.58 It may seem an easier way to explain the evolution of the church as having taken place through bitter struggles, and we may find instances of constructive dialogue to be of less importance in this “big picture.” If this is so, one obvious question that needs to be raised is whether the way we construct the conflict-driven past also reflects, or contributes to, how we conceive of the present and the future. The conflict theories of different sorts presuppose binary thinking since they require us to construct images of opposed parties that can be more or less securely identified in the historical evidence. One problem with such images is that they perpetuate the tendencies that are only promoted in the most biased of our sources, but this is not the only problem. Another question that can be raised is whether the results of our binary imagination of the past reinforce the binary thinking that is so characteristic of the way people reason, and yet easily leads not only to one-sided but also to destructive thinking about the past, present, and the future.59 If it is true that “the historian must choose a past that serves his or her desire for a more perfect future,”60 perhaps it is our moral responsibility to take a more serious look than previously at the instances of more constructive interactions between past people in our evidence and use that evidence as something to “think with” in our conceptions of what “a more perfect future” could be.

58 For one example of this mode of explaining Christian origins, see G. Theißen, A Theory of Primitive Christian Religion, trans. J. Bowden (London: SCM Press, 1999). 59 One example I have in mind of such destructive results in our world is the way the muslims are often portrayed in Western media in terms of a binary opposition, that is, as the dangerous “­other”, regardless of how diversified their communities in reality are. 60 G. Spiegel, “Above, about and beyond the writing of history”, 497 (in reference to Hayden White’s view about historiography). As Spiegel points out, this approach to the historian’s task does not mean that we should or could give up the more historical aspiration to “to get it right.”

Petri Luomanen (University of Helsinki)

The Nazarenes: Orthodox Heretics with an Apocryphal Canonical Gospel?

1. Introduction The title of this article summarizes the contradictory profile of the sect of Nazarenes as it appears in the polemical writings of the Church fathers. Epiphanius, who was the first one to explicitly discuss the Nazarenes, regarded the Nazarenes as one of the heresies which haunted orthodoxy and for which he sought to offer an antidote in his Panarion (Pan. 29). Epiphanius was not able to tell whether or not the Nazarenes he had in mind were heretical in regard to their doctrine about Christ, that is, whether or not they believed in the virginal conception. However, Jerome is able to link the idea of virginal conception to them in his letter to Augustine (Epist. 112.13). Despite Epiphanius’s ignorance and the very problematic character of Jerome’s reference – in this context Jerome seems to use the terms “Ebionites” and “Nazarenes” as synonymous general terms for Christians who remained fettered with the old ceremonies of the law – several modern scholars assume that the Nazarenes’ beliefs were close to formative Christianity and that they even had a “correct” understanding of the divine, virginal origin of Jesus.1 Thus, in the scholarly discussion, the Nazarenes have often been regarded as “orthodox heretics.” The Nazarenes’ gospel traditions have also deemed both “apocryphal” and “canonical.” According to Epiphanius, the Nazarenes had the entire Gospel of Matthew in its original Hebrew alphabet, although he was not sure if they had removed from it the genealogies from Abraham to Christ (Pan. 29.9.4). Jerome, too, boasted having copied Matthew’s original Hebrew text from some Nazarenes in the city of Beroia, in Syria. According to Jerome, the text was also preserved in the library of Caesarea (Vir. Ill. 3). Thus, for these two Church fathers the gospel used by the Nazarenes was canonical but “apocryphal” in the sense that only few 1 R. A. Pritz, Nazarene Jewish Christianity: From the End of the New Testament Period Until Its Disappearance in the Fourth Century (Studia Post-Biblica 37; Leiden: Brill, 1988). S.C. Mimouni, Le judéo-christianisme ancien: Essais historiques (Paris: Cerf, 1998). S.C. Mimouni, Early Judaeo-Christianity: Historical Essays (Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion 13; Leuven: Peeters, 2012). E. Broadhead, Jewish Ways of Following Jesus (WUNT 266; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). W. Kinzig also regards the Nazarenes largely orthodox, although he avoids saying anything sure about the Nazarenes’ stance on the virginal conception. See W. Kinzig, “The Nazo­ reans”, in Jewish Believers in Jesus: The Early Centuries, ed. O. Skarsaune & R. Hvalvik (Peabody, MA: ­Hendrickson, 2007), 463–87: 474.

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Latin and Greek speaking experts had had a chance to see it. Because Epiphanius does not know if the gospel included Jesus’ genealogy it is clear that he did not have an access to it. For good reason, modern scholars also doubt the historicity of Jerome’s information: The actual number of Jerome’s references to the Nazarenes’ gospel is strikingly small had he really had an entire Hebrew text of Matthew at his disposal. Furthermore, the information he shares from his apocryphal source often includes only variant readings to the Gospel of Matthew.2 Nevertheless, modern scholarly reconstructions of the contents of the “Gospel of the Nazarenes” have often emphasized the close connections between the Gospel of Matthew and the gospel that the Nazarenes were using. This kind of characterization has been popular especially among those who have assumed three early Jewish-Christian gospels (The Three Gospel Hypothesis = 3GH in the following).3 Those who have favored the theory of only two early Jewish-Christian Gospels (2GH in the following) have also referred to connections with the Gospel of Matthew although the reconstruction necessarily includes some fragments for which there is no apparent canonical parallel.4 Thus, modern scholars have regarded the “Gospel of the Nazarenes” having been close to the canonical tradition. However, it has been “apocryphal” in the sense that ancient authors were not sure about its contents and some modern scholars, especially the supporters of the 2GH, have also attributed “apocryphal sayings” to it. The hypothesis that assumes three early Jewish-Christian gospels (the 3GH) was still dominant in the 1990s, especially in English and German literature. However, from the beginning of the 21st century it has been increasingly challenged – by the present author and others – and also modified by its supporters. In my 2012 monograph Recovering Jewish-Christian Sects and Gospels. I presented an alternative New Two Gospel Hypothesis which differs from the earlier 2GH in one important respect. It assigns five of Jerome’s fragments to an anti-Rabbinic collection of sayings from a Syriac/East Aramaic translation of Matthew’s gospel that 2 For a detailed analysis of Jerome’s references, see P. Luomanen, Recovering Jewish-Christian Sects and Gospels (VigChr.S 110; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 103–19. 3 According to this theory, the three gospels are: the Gospel of the Ebionites, the Gospel of the Hebrews, and the Gospel of the Nazarenes. The theory became popular through Hennecke and ­Schneemelcher’s collection of Christian Apocrypha, which included an article on Jewish-Christian gospels by Vielhauer and Strecker. See Ph. Vielhauer & G. Strecker, “Jewish-Christian Gospels” in New Testament Apocrypha: Vol. 1, Gospels and Related Writings, English trans. and ed. R. McL. Wilson (Cambridge: James Clarke & Co., 1991). However, even among the present supporters of the 3GH, it is acknowledged that it is not justified to assume a very close connection to the Gospel of Matthew. See J. Frey, “Die Fragmente des Nazoräerevangeliums”, in Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung. I Band: Evangelien und Vervandtes. Teilband I, ed. C. Markschies & J. Schröter (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 621–48: 629. 4 According to this theory, the two gospels are the Gospel of the Ebionites and the Gospel of the Hebrews (or the Nazarenes). The theory has been popular especially among French scholars. R. P. ­Lagrange, “L’ Evangile selon les Hébreux”, Revue Biblique 31 (1922), 2:161–81, 3:321–49. S.C. ­Mimouni, Early Judaeo-Christianity, 177–8, 182–9.

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Jerome had received from the Nazarenes (Jerome, Comm. Matt. 2.5, 6.11, 23.35, 27.16, and 27.51). Thus, according to the New Two Gospel Hypothesis, there was not any separate “Gospel of the Nazarenes”, but only the Nazarenes’ translation of the Gospel of Matthew, where some passages were twisted against the Rabbis. Apart from this anti-Rabbinic collection, the New Two Gospel Hypothesis assigns all the other fragments generally consider to present early Jewish-Christian traditions (and taken into account in the reconstructions of the 3GH and the 2GH) either to the Gospel of the Hebrews or to the Gospel of the Ebionites. The latter one is reconstructed the same way as in the 3GH.5 Overall, the results of my 2012 monograph include three points that are significant for the present discussion about “orthodoxy” vs. “heresy” and “apocryphal” vs. “canonical”. First, the book argues for the artificial character of Epiphanius’ description of the Nazarenes in Panarion 29. Acts, Eusebius’s Church History and earlier heresiologists’ discussion of the Ebionites – when placed in the context of Epiphanius’ goals and the writing of Panarion – are enough to explain the contents of Panarion’s chapter on the Nazarenes (Pan. 29). In other words, Epiphanius did not have available any new sources or new first-hand knowledge of the history of the Nazarenes which would explain their appearance on the scene of heresiological discourse at the end of the fourth century. If correct, this conclusion calls forth for more scrupulous analyses of patristic heresiological descriptions and polemics. I do not mean to say that scholars have not realized the problematic character of ancient heresiologies. Clearly they have, but instead of careful source-critical analyses followed by grounded conclusions, the assumed unreliability of Epiphanius and other heresiologists has tended to inspire the proliferation of hypotheses that suite the scholars’ overall theories about the development of early Jewish-Christian movements. In the case of patristic sources, instead of rushing into fictive histories, we first need to carefully study the “histories of fiction”, the way how patristic writers developed their polemics by building on and borrowing from their predecessors. Second, the new reconstruction of Jewish-Christian gospels presented in the book attributes to the Gospel of Hebrews fragments that have synoptic character but also such sayings that the old 3GH regarded as non-canonical. Thus, the new reconstruction dismisses the categorical assumption about the two types of Jewish-Christian gospel traditions: the synoptic type and the non-canonical, apocryphal type. This distinction lies at the heart of the old 3GH, since it functioned as one of its basic criteria for attributing the fragments either to the “Gos-

5 However, The New Two Gospel Hypothesis excludes from the reconstruction the co-called Ioudaikon fragments, that is, “Jewish” readings in the margins of some manuscripts. In this regard I agree with Jörg Frey’s revised version of the 3GH. See J. Frey, “Die Fragmente judenchristli­ cher Evangelien” in Antike Christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung. I. Band: Evangelien und Verwandtes. Teilband 1, ed. C. Markschies & J. Schröter (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 560–92: 589.

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pel of the Nazarenes” (the synoptic type, close to Matthew) or to the Gospel of the Hebrews (non-canonical type).6 Third, when attributing to the historical fourth-century Nazarenes only a collection of anti-Rabbinic sayings based on a modified readings of Matthew’s gospel, the New Two Gospel Hypothesis links the gospel traditions of these Nazarenes even more tightly with the canonical gospel traditions. Because the main contents of the manuscript of the monograph was practically finished in 2010, it was not possible to discuss some contributions that appeared in 2010 and later. In the present article, my aim is to update the discussion as far as it concerns the Nazarenes and their “orthodox” character. The idea is to review how the arguments and reconstructions of colleagues relate to my work, and also to respond to some critical remarks. In 2010 came out James Carleton Paget’s Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians in Antiquity and Edwin K. Broadhead’s Jewish Ways of Following Jesus, both in Mohr Siebeck’s Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament series (Charleton Paget #251, Broadhead, #266). Broadhead’s volume includes chapters on the Nazarenes and on the Ebionites. Paget discusses only the Ebionites but the chapter has also bearing on the present topic, in particular when it deals with the possibility, often presented in the research, that there were two kinds of Ebionites: the ones whose Christology was orthodox – some scholars think these were actually the Nazarenes – and others whose Christology was heretical, because they did not accept the virginal conception. Carleton Paget also discusses some of my earlier contributions on the Ebionites and the Nazarenes,7 and his observations and arguments deserve a response. In 2012 appeared Simon Claude Mimouni’s Early Judaeo-Christianity: Historical Essays (Leuven: Peeters). The book is a revised edition and translation 6 See Vielhauer and Strecker, “Jewish-Christian Gospels”, 148. As a matter of fact, one of the most important reasons for developing a new reconstruction was the realization of the fact that this distinction between synoptic and non-synoptic gospel genres was used as a criterion for classification. Vielhauer and Strecker adopted the criterion from Hans Waitz, who wrote the chapters on Jewish-Christian gospels for the second edition of Edgar Hennecke’s Neutestamentliche Apo­ cryphen. See H. Waitz, “Die judenchristlichen Evangelien in der altkirchlichen Literatur”, in Neutestamentliche Apokryphen, ed. E. Hennecke (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1924), 10–17. H. Waitz, “Das Matthäusevangelium der Nazaräer (Nazaräerevangelium)”, in Neutestamentliche Apokryphen, ed. E. Hennecke (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1924), 17–32. H. Waitz, “Ebionäerevangelium oder Evangelium der Zwölf ”, in Neutestamentliche Apokryphen, ed. E. Hennecke (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1924), 39–48. H. Waitz, “Hebräerevangelium”, in Neutestamentliche Apokryphen, ed. E. Hennecke (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1924), 48–55. By Waitz’s time the criterion was perhaps understandable, though purely hypothetical. By Vielhauer’s time it had, however, become ungrounded, because the Gospel of Thomas was found and it provided an example of the mixture of these assumed genres. For other critical points and details see P. Luomanen, Recovering, 83–89. 7 P. Luomanen, “Nazarenes”, in A Companion to Second-Century Christian “Heretics”, ed. A. Marjanen & P. Luomanen (VigChr.S 76; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 279–314. P. Luomanen, “Ebionites and Nazarenes”, in Jewish Christianity Reconsidered: Rethinking Ancient Groups and Texts, ed. M. Jackson-McCabe (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2007), 81–118.

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from the French original Le judéo-christianisme ancien: Essais historiques (Paris: Cerf, 1998). I have shortly noticed Mimouni’s position in the footnotes of the monograph, but the publication of the revised English edition calls forth more detailed discussion. An important recent contribution to the study of early Jewish-Christian gospels is Jörg Frey’s chapters in Christoph Markschies and Jens Schröter’s (eds.) collection of Christian apocrypha.8 Frey still supports the 3GH although he has made some modifications to the reconstruction and has dropped the most vulnerable arguments that have been traditionally used to support the hypothesis. For instance, Frey has correctly excluded the Ioudaikon-readings from the reconstruction (cf. footnote 5 above), and he does not try to argue on the basis of the pre-determined distinction between canonical and non-canonical types of gospel traditions.9 However, as far as I can see, Frey has not provided any new arguments to support the 3GH. The net result of the modifications is that the reconstruction is mainly based on a linguistic criterion: Greek fragments are attributed to the Gospel of the Hebrews and Hebrew/Aramaic fragments to the Gospel of the Nazarenes. This is precarious since the argumentation does not adequately deal with the possibility of Greek gospel traditions having become translated into Semitic languages.10 Because Frey has not offered any new arguments to support the 3GH – or discussed my alternative reconstruction, which was published in its final form in the 2012 monograph, I am saving a detailed discussion of Frey’s contribution for other contexts. The following discussion focuses on the works of Broadhead, Mimouni and Carleton Paget.

  8 J. Frey, “Die Fragmente judenchristlicher Evangelien”, J. Frey, “Die Fragmente des Nazoräerevangeliums” and J. Frey, “Die Fragmente des Hebräerevangeliums”, in Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung. I. Band: Evangelien und Verwandtes. Teilband 1, ed. C. Markschies & J. Schröter (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 593–606. See also J. Frey, “Die Fragmente des Ebionäerevangeliums”, in Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung. I Band: Evangelien und Verwandtes. Teilband I, ed. C. Markschies & J. Schröter (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 607– 622, and also J. Frey, “Die Textvarianten nach dem ‘Jüdischen Evangelium’”, in Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung. I. Band: Evangelien und Verwandtes. Teilband 1, ed. C. Markschies & J. Schröter (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 655–660.   9 Frey is careful not to make the distinction between canonical and non-canonical gospel traditions as an explicit criterion for classification but he thinks, nonetheless, that the Greek fragments preserved by Clement of Alexandria, Origen and Didymus would hardly cohere with a gospel that resembles the canonical Matthew – an argument that does not much differ from the old one. See J. Frey, “Die Fragmente des Hebräerevangeliums”, 595–7: 597 (first full paragraph). 10 J. Frey, “Die Fragmente judenchristlicher Evangelien”, 590, agrees with the often presented argument that Hegesippus – as he is quoted by Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 4.22) – would have testified of the existence of Jewish-Christian gospel traditions both in Greek and Syriac languages. Eusebius’s reference is difficult to interpret. I agree that the “Gospel of the Hebrews” in Eusebius’s passage probably was in Greek but I think that the Syriac (gospel) mentioned may have been Tatian’s Diatessaron as well. In any case, we do not have any proof that the Syriac one must have been linked with the Nazarenes, or any other early Jewish-Christian movement. See P. Luomanen, Recovering, 126–7.

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2. The history of the Nazarenes as Epiphanius’s fiction Edwin Broadhead concludes his analysis of the Nazarenes as follows: In light of this analysis, the most plausible conclusion is that the core of the patristic representation of the Nazarenes is undergirded by a historical group who seek to continue God’s covenant with Israel by both following Jesus and maintaining Jewishness. Consequently the burden of proof may be placed upon those who deny the historical reality of this core representation of the Nazarenes.11 Although Broadhead does not explicitly discuss my work in this context he may have had in mind my thesis about the fictive character of Epiphanius’s Nazarenes when writing the conclusion of his chapter on the Nazarenes.12 Be that as it may, I am accepting the challenge by listing observations that I consider as proofs. In so doing I am partly repeating what I have already argued since 2005 when I first made the case for Epiphanius’s fictive Nazarenes because it seems that Broadhead has not taken these points into account in his analysis.13 Before starting the detailed discussion, Broadhead must be credited for his overall approach, which acknowledges the polemical character of heresiologies, through which he tries to work his way to the core of historical traits. In Broadhead’s view, the core traits of the Nazarenes are: “Jewish followers of Jesus with Hebraic textual tradition, a commitment to the Law, and location in the vicinity of Antioch.” As noted above, Broadhead also describes the Nazarenes as “a historical group.” For me it is easy to agree that, historically, there were Nazarenes who were of Jewish origin and who considered themselves as followers of Jesus. I also agree that these Nazarenes had Semitic (more accurately I would rather define Syriac/East Aramaic, not Hebrew) textual traditions. Obviously there were also some Nazarenes in the vicinity of Antioch where Jerome had met them. However, in my reconstruction, these Syriac Christians who were called Nazarenes were Jerome’s contemporaries. Jerome received from them the anti-Rabbinic collection of Matthean passages but we do not know anything about them before the fourth century. Thus, I am not arguing that there were not any historical Nazarenes at all. What I have argued to be completely fictional is Epiphanius’s description of Nazarenes in Panarion 29, which pictures the Nazarenes as a sect of their own with a long pre-history, dating back to Apostolic times. I also disagree with Broadhead on the issues of the Nazarenes’ commitment to the Law. 11 E.K. Broadhead, Jewish Ways of Following Jesus, 187. 12 The introduction of his volume shows that he has used at least one of the articles which argues for the fictive character of Epiphanius’ Nazarenes. See ibid., 24. Broadhead summarizes the contents of the volume that includes P. Luomanen, “Ebionites and Nazarenes”. 13 P. Luomanen, “Nazarenes.” As a matter of fact, the very first version was already published in 2002, in Finnish: P. Luomanen, “Nasaretilaisten historia”, Teologinen Aikakauskirja 107, 508–20.

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Although Broadhead is critical of the historicity of Epiphanius’s description of the Nazarenes, he finds it reliable in one important section. In his view, it is “more plausible that Epiphanius has better sources for the information presented in the key section of Panarion 29.7.”14 However, I have taken this section under the loop in my analysis of Epiphanius’s sources and shown its clear literary connections to Acts and Eusebius’s Church History. Thus, it is clear that Epiphanius’s description is a literary composition, not a historical report of the Nazarenes that were his contemporaries.15 I have also argued that Epiphanius constructed the profile of the Nazarenes because, by his time, the Ebionites had adopted various baptismal practices and beliefs from Elchasaites. They had therefore drifted away from their classic heretical profile that was attributed to them since Irenaeus. Because Epiphanius needed a refutation of Jewish-Christian heresy in its classic from, he invented a Nazarene pre-history for his Ebionites.16 My analysis of the literary character of Pan. 29 also shows that Ray Pritz’s hypothesis about the Nazarenes’ background in the early Jerusalem community, which Broadhead seems to follow,17 is not grounded. Broadhead has accepted Pritz’s theory according to which Nazarenes were not listed heretics before Epiphanius because their beliefs were generally considered as “orthodox.” I return to this question below in the discussion of Origen’s reference to two kinds of Ebionites. It is also questionable whether all of the historical Nazarenes were fully committed to the Jewish law as Broadhead argues. My analysis is based on the assumption that the large sections that Jerome quotes from the Nazarenes’ Isaiah exegesis correctly reflects the ideas of those Nazarenes that were Jerome’s contemporaries. These quotations are the best candidates for a source that gives access to ideas of Nazarenes that really existed. Jerome’s explanation on Isaiah 9:1 (Comm. Isa. 9.1) makes clear that – in contrast to what earlier heresiologists tell about the ­Ebionites – the Nazarenes accepted Paul and his mission.

14 E.K. Broadhead, Jewish Ways of Following Jesus, 178. 15 P. Luomanen, “Nazarenes”, 284–96. P. Luomanen, Recovering, 53–66. A summary of arguments also in P. Luomanen, “Ebionites and Nazarenes”, 102–7. Broadhead also argues (Jewish Ways of Following Jesus, 178), following Matthew Black, that if the presbyters for whom Epiphanius wrote the Panarion came from Beroea of Syria, where Epiphanius locates Nazarenes in Pan. 29.7.7, it is unlikely that Epiphanius would tell something untrue about their hometowns. Cf. M. Black, “The Patristic Accounts of Jewish Sectarianism”, Bulletin of John Ryland’s Library 41, 285–303: 299. As already noted, I have no intention of denying the existence of Nazarenes in Beroea. However, Epiphanius also lists other locations as the dwelling places of the Nazarenes. Moreover, source-critical analysis shows that Epiphanius’s description of the Nazarenes – which mainly concerns their pre-history, not their present hometowns – is a literary composition, not a historical report of what he had heard from some Nazarenes in ­Beroea. Furthermore, it is obvious that Epiphanius wrote his Panarion for a larger audience, and it is questionable how much the background of the presbyters slowed down his imagination. 16 P. Luomanen, “Nazarenes”, 307–9. P. Luomanen, Recovering, 79–81. 17 R. Pritz, Nazarene Jewish Christianity, 44. E.K. Broadhead, Jewish Ways of Following Jesus, 178–9.

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The Nazarenes whose opinion I have set forth above, try to explain this passage [Isaiah 9:1] in the following way: When Christ came and his preaching shone out, the land of Zebulon and the land of Naphtali first of all were freed from the errors of the Scribes and the Pharisees and he shook off their shoulders the very heavy yoke of the Jewish traditions. Later, however, the preaching became more dominant, that means the preaching was multiplied, through the Gospel of the apostle Paul who was the last of all the apostles. And the Gospel of Christ shone to the most distant tribes and the way of the whole sea. Finally the whole world which earlier walked or sat in darkness and was imprisoned in the bonds of idolatry and death, has seen the clear light of the gospel. (Comm. Isa. 9.1; trans. Klijn & Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 223, modified).18

The idea is that Paul’s preaching multiplied the preaching of Christ himself who already “shook off their shoulders the very heavy yoke of the Jewish traditions.” This clearly refers to the entirety of Jewish traditions not just the Scribes and Pharisees’ interpretation of it. I have also argued that the Nazarenes’ expositions which Jerome quotes in Comm. Isa. 8.19–20 and 31.6–9 are targeted to Israel as a whole, not just its leaders. Thus, in my view, on the basis of their Isaiah exegesis they did not see themselves as a faction within Israel. Instead, they seem to have adopted a Christian point of view and their relation to the Jewish Law and Rabbis agrees with what we can find in Didascalia Apostolorum: Only the ten commandments are binding for the Christians (DA XXI; Lagarde, 91–92).19 To be sure, this interpretation about the Nazarenes’s Law observance – or rather its absence – is in contrast with the way how Jerome introduces the Nazarene when he presents the first quotation from their commentary. Jerome characterizes the Nazarenes as the ones “who accept Christ in such a way that they do not cease to observe the old law” (Comm. Isa 8:11–15). When considering the reliability of Jerome’s reference, two things should be noticed. First, Jerome can use the terms “Nazarenes” and “Ebionites” interchangeably (Epist. 112.13). Thus, for Jerome the term Nazarenes was not a designation of group that would be distinguishable from another type of Jewish-Christianity, namely the Ebionites. Second, it seems clear that Jerome was not really concerned about the beliefs of the historical Nazarenes. For him it was important that he was able to claim to have received Hebraic traditions with a ring of authenticity and he used them for his own purposes when needed.20 In the case of quotations from the Nazarenes’ Isaiah commentary this means that Jerome was mostly interested in the anti-Rabbinic contents of the Nazarenes Isaiah exegesis. He did not much care about what these quotations possibly revealed about the Nazarenes’ own beliefs – this is only the 18 A. F. J. Klijn & G. J. Reinink, Patristic Evidence for Jewish-Christian Sects (NovT.S 36; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1973), 223. 19 P. Luomanen, “Nazarenes”, 304–7. P. Luomanen, Recovering, 73–77. 20 A clear example of such a use is his letter to Augustine (Epist. 112.13) where Jerome’s goal is to confute Augustine’s “heretical” Jewish position, not to give a historically reliable description of the doctrines of the Nazarenes. See P. Luomanen, Recovering, 68–71.

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concern of modern scholars. For these reasons I think that the Nazarenes own texts should be preferred as sources when considering their beliefs. On the other hand, since “Nazarenes” was a common name for Syriac Christians in general, I do not dare to claim that by Jerome’s and Epiphanius’s time there would not have been any “Nazarenes” who followed the Jewish law. However, if there were such Nazarenes, it seems clear that they were not the ones who had composed the Isaiah exegesis that Jerome quoted. It is clear that in the light of the Nazarenes’ Isaiah exegesis the simple idea about the Nazarenes as Jewish-Christian sectarians who still followed the Jewish law, taken for granted by Broadhead and others, is not grounded.

3. The Nazarenes’ orthodoxy? The distinction between “orthodox” and “heterodox” Jewish Christianity plays a significant structuring role in Simon Claude Mimouni’s description of the history of early Jewish-Christianity. Mimouni correctly emphasizes that in the first and second centuries Jewish Christianity did not appear as a separate phenomenon, still less as a heresy. Furthermore, he makes a critical note that although heavily biased, Epiphanius’ systematic distinction between “orthodox” Nazarenes and “heterodox” Ebionites has often been repeated in modern research.21 Despite these reservations, the categories of “orthodoxy” and “heterodoxy” provide the basic structure for Mimouni’s own presentation of the history of Jewish Christianity, which he summarizes as follows. Before 70 C.E. Christians of Jewish and “Pagan” (Mimouni’s term) origin were practically indistinguishable from Judaism. Between 70 and 100 Jewish Christians started to become marginalized, and around 100 C.E. Christians of Jewish origin had become a minority in relation to “Universal Church.” The marginalization also caused fractions among Jewish Christians: Those who were closer to the Church were Nazarenes (or Nazoreans in Mimouni’s terms) and those who remained closer to the Synagogue were Ebionites.22 Like Broadhead, Mimouni also regards Epiphanius’s description of the Nazarenes in Pan. 29 historically valuable source – in spite of its weaknesses. Mimouni bases his judgment especially on Aline Pourkier’s research on Epiphanius’s Panarion. However, although Pourkier recognizes Epiphanius’s dependence on earlier traditions in Pan. 29, including Eusebius’s Church History, she fails to see the net effect of all the parallels, which makes it unnecessary to assume any new historically valid information about the history of the Nazarenes.23

21 S.C. Mimouni, Early Judaeo-Christianity, 55–6. 22 Ibid., 8–10. 23 Ibid., 41.Cf. A. Pourkier, L’ Hérésiologie chez Épiphane de Salamine (Christianisme Antique 4; ­Paris: Beauchesne, 1992), 415–75.

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Mimouni is to be credited for providing a discussion of the context of Jerome’s letter to Augustine (Epist. 112), which is often quoted as a source providing information about the doctrines of the Nazarenes, especially their orthodox character.24 Mimouni’s discussion is a fine example of the kind of contextual exegesis which should always precede the use of patristic sources in the study of early Jewish Christianity. Quite often scholars only quote the passage of Jerome’s letter where Nazarenes are mentioned as if it would provide unbiased objective information about the Nazarenes. Mimouni offers a detailed description of the complicated and prolonged series of letters and accusations between Augustine and Jerome. The dispute was sparked by Jerome’s commentary on Galatians where he seemed to challenge the integrity of Paul and Peter by claiming that they had set up the dispute in Antioch only for didactical purposes, in order to teach Christians of both Jewish and Gentile origin. Jerome reasoned that Peter in Antioch and Paul on occasions where he “was Jewish for the Jews” (cf. 1 Cor. 9,20) could not truly have followed the Jewish law; they must have been only pretending, in order to win Jews. Mimouni also makes correct observations about the effects of Jerome’s anti-Jewish stance on the rhetoric of the letter. I largely agree with Mimouni concerning the context of Jerome’s letter, and I have also tried to show in my own analysis of the passage that Jerome has much at stake when he finally cannot avoid answering Augustine.25 However, in my view, Mimouni fails to acknowledge how the rhetorical situation and Jerome’s goals relate to the truth value of Jerome’s description of the Nazarenes. In a tense rhetorical situation it is unlikely to find an objective description of the doctrine of a group that is mentioned in passing, only to give further support for the author’s case. Jerome’s point is to show that it is totally impossible to combine Christianity with Judaism. If one tries to do that – like Augustine tries, in Jerome’s view, when he claims that Peter and Paul where not just occasionally pretending to follow the Jewish law – one falls into the heresy of “Cerinthus and Ebion”: Therefore, this is the main point of the question, anyway in your [i. e. Augustine’s] opinion, that the believing Jews after the coming of the Gospel of the Christ do well if they keep the instructions of the Law … If this is true, we shall fall into the heresy of Cerinthus and Hebion, who believe in Christ and for this only have been anathematized by the fathers, because they mixed the ceremonies of the law with the Gospel of Christ and in this way they confess new things while they did not cut loose from the old. What shall I say of the Ebionites who claim to be Christians? Until now a heresy is to be found in all parts of the East where Jews have their synagogues; it is called “of the Minaeans” and cursed by Pharisees up to now. Usually they are named Nazoreans. They believe in Christ, the Son of God born of Mary the virgin, and they say about him that he suffered and rose again under Pontius Pilate, in whom also we believe, but since they want to be

24 S.C. Mimouni, Early Judaeo-Christianity, 114–25. 25 P. Luomanen, “Nazarenes”, 296–8. P. Luomanen, Recovering, 68–71.

The Nazarenes: Orthodox Heretics with an Apocryphal Canonical Gospel? 65 both Jews and Christians, they are neither Jews nor Christians. (trans. Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 201, modified).

Notably, in this passage, Jerome starts with Cerinthus and Ebion that were known as Jewish-Christian “heretics” since Irenaus’s Adversus Haereses. Clearly he is exaggerating when he says that the Ebionites are everywhere in the East where Jews have their synagogues. Jerome’s second move is to claim that Ebionites are called “Minaeans.” No one before Jerome had claimed that the Ebionites were called “Minaeans” and that they were cursed in the synagogues. All this “historical information” is brought in only to support Jerome’s case against Augustine by showing that Augustine’s position is “cursed” both from Jewish and Christian point of view. Jerome is obviously inspired here by Epiphanius’s description of the Nazarenes in Pan. 29. At the end of the discussion Epiphanius notes that the Jews curse Nazarenes in their synagogues three times a day (Pan. 29.9.1–3). Historically it is true that there were some versions of the Jewish Eighteen Benedictions prayer where “Nazarenes” (notsrim) were “cursed,” along with (or instead of) minim.26 Thus there is a seed of social reality behind, but the idea to link this curse with the Ebionites derives from Jerome’s need to find support for his case against Augustine. That the Ebionites, the Minaeans and the Nazarenes are all lumped together in this context also reflects the heresiological discourse that Jerome shares with Epiphanius. Epiphanius tells about the Jewish curse against the Nazarenes at the end of Pan. 29 and he opens the next chapter, Pan. 30, by describing Ebion as a heretic that came from the school of the Nazarenes. Within this fictive world of heresies, created by Epiphanius, it is easy for Jerome to combine everything said about the Ebionites and the Nazarenes and use that against Augustine. The fact that Jerome’s argumentative goal dictates the way how he uses “Nazarenes” in his rhetoric is nicely illustrated also in his Commentary on Amos (Comm. Am. 1.11–12). This shows that in another rhetorical situation Jerome is perfectly able to use the same “facts” for another purpose. In Comm. Am. 1.11–12 Jerome also refers to the Jewish practice of blaspheming Nazarenes. However, in this context, Jerome is not targeting the Jewish-Christian middle ground where he places Augustine but the Jews. He claims that “in their synagogues they blaspheme the Christian people under the name Nazarenes”. Now “Nazarenes” are not any more a heretical sect but a name for all Christian people. Given that Jerome is so immersed in heretical discourse and rhetoric how much weight we can put on his testimony about the doctrines of the Nazarenes? There is obvious parallelism in the way Jerome opens his description of the Augustin26 For the different versions, see P. Schäfer, “Die sogenannte Synode von Jabne: Zur Trennung von Juden und Christen im ersten/zweiten Jh. n. Chr.”, Judaica 31, 54–64, 116–24. U. Ehrlich R. R. Lasayer, “The Earliest Texts of the Birlent Haminim”, HUCA [= Hebrew Union College Annual] 76, 63–112.

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ian position, first linking it with the names of Cerinthus and Ebion, and little later with the Nazarenes: … heresy of Cerinthus and Hebion, who believe in Christ [qui credentes in Christo] … … Usually they are named the Nazarenes, who believe in Christ [qui credunt in Christum] …

The difference is that in the latter case Jerome continues with words reflecting the early Christian creeds: … the Son of God born of Mary the virgin, and they say about him that he suffered and rose again under Pontius Pilate, in whom also we believe (… Filium Dei, natum de Maria uirgine, et eum dicunt esse, qui sub Pontio Pilato passus est, et resurrexit).

The crucial question is: Was Jerome, in the heat of the discussion, presenting an accurate quote from the liturgy of the Nazarenes or was he spicing his case against Augustine by making the Nazarenes look as orthodox as possible by an intertextual reference to Christian creeds? In my interpretation of the passage, I have opted for the latter case. In any case, it seems clear to me that, in this context, it is very hazardous to put any historical value on Jerome’s reference to the Nazarenes doctrine. In this regard, I differ from Mimouni’s position. Even more difficult is to agree with Mimouni’s claim that Jerome would never have mixed the Ebionites with the Nazarenes.27 The above summary of Jerome’s argumentation should suffice to show that this is not the case.

4. Origen and the two kinds of Ebionites Both Broadhead and Mimouni picture a pre-history for Epiphanius’ Nazarenes by assuming that the reason why they did not appear in heresiological discussions before Epiphanius was that they were considered orthodox from the viewpoint of the formative orthodoxy.28 However, in their view, some traces of them may be detected in Origen’s reference to two kinds of Ebionites: the ones who accepted the virginal conception of Jesus, and those who denied that. In Broadhead’s and Mimouni’s view the “orthodox ones” were in fact the Nazarenes. They support their conclusion by referring to Ray A. Pritz’s analysis – against which I have argued in detail in several connections.29 My main points against Pritz have been to show (1) the artificial character of Epiphanius’s description of the Nazarenes (Pan. 29), (2) the unreliability of the information in Jerome’s letter to 27 S.C. Mimouni, Early Judaeo-Christianity, 124: “As we have seen Jerome is familiar with the various aspects of Judaeo-Christianity, he does not confuse Ebionites with the Nazoreans.” 28 Ibid., 63–66. E.K. Broadhead, Jewish Ways of Following Jesus, 178–9, 195. 29 For instance in P. Luomanen, “Nazarenes” and P. Luomanen, Recovering.

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Augustine, and (3) the problems in attempts to find some traces of the “Nazarenes” in the texts of Church fathers that preceded Epiphanius. The above discussion has already touched the first two points – and for more details it is possible to consult my earlier contributions. In the present context, I am continuing the discussion about the third point, possible earlier traces of the Nazarenes in Origen’s and Eusebius’s writings. Origen is the first one to introduce a second group of Ebionites, who, in contrast to the information presented by Irenaeus, did accept the virginal conception (Comm. Matt. 16.12; Celsum 5.61). Later on Eusebius also refers to two kinds of Ebionites (Hist. eccl. 3.27.1–3). James Carleton Paget has taken a more critical stance than Broadhead and Mimouni on Pritz’s history of the Nazarenes. According to Carlton Paget, the view presented by Pritz “is probably wrong, or at least not obviously right.”30 He correctly notes problems involved with trying to link Eusebius’s information about the second type of Ebionites with the allegedly “orthodox” Nazarenes. Carlton Paget notes that in Cels. 5.65 Origen claims that the both types of the Ebionites reject Paul, which is incompatible with the picture of Nazarenes in Panarion 29. Furthermore, he points out that the second type of Eusebius’s Ebionites in Hist. eccl. 3.27.3 who seem to accept the virginal birth but are nevertheless denying the pre-existence of Jesus suits poorly the picture of wholly orthodox Nazarenes.31 Thus, Carleton Paget presents due reservations for making any sure conclusions about the actual doctrine of the Ebionites on the basis of these passages. My earlier analysis agrees with these critical points and I think that they prove the vulnerability of Broadhead’s and Mimouni’s arguments.32 However, Carleton Paget thinks that the reference to Ebionites who accepted the virginal conception but denied pre-existence may, nevertheless, be historical in the sense that there really may have been a group of Ebionites whose doctrine is targeted. Since Carlton Paget finds – with reservations – a possible historical seed of truth in Origen’s characterization he also challenges my arguments concerning the purely literary character of Origen’s description of the two kinds of Ebionites. I have argued that the two types of Ebionites could derive from two textual variants of Irenaeus’s description of the Ebionites. According to these, the Christology of the Ebionites – when compared with the Christology of the Cerinthians – was either “similar” (i. e. Jesus was born of Joseph and Mary; similiter in uncorrupted Irenaeus, Haer 1.26, followed by Hippolytus) or “not sim30 J. Carleton Paget, Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians in Antiquity (WUNT 251; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 355. 31 Ibid., 356. Carleton Paget follows G. Dorival, “Le regard d’Origène sur les Judéo-Chrétiens”, in Le Judéo-Christianisme dans tous ses états, ed. S.C. Mimouni & F.S. Jones (Paris: Cerf, 2001), 272, by arguing that there possibly is the same historical group of Ebionites (?) behind both Origen, Comm. Matt. 16.12 and Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.27.3. 32 Earlier, I have also emphasized the first discrepancy but the second one, difference in ideas about pre-existence, has escaped my notice.

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ilar” (virginal conception; non similiter in corrupted Irenaus).33 According to Carlton Paget my thesis too easily assumes that Origen was dependent upon Irenaeus for his opinions about the Ebionites; and secondly, fails to take sufficient account of the fact that in none of his notices about the Ebionites does Origen attribute to them a Cerinthean Christology.34

Although there are not many word for word connections between Origen and Irenaeus, there are clear points of contact. My main argument is that there were two textual traditions about the Ebionites, rooted in Irenaeus’s Adversus Haereses. Origen may have known these either through corrupted Irenaeus and Hippolytus, or through two variants in Hippolytus’s text. I have also shown, clearly enough in my view, that Origen does depend on Hippolytus (for parallels see below), who, in turn, is clearly following Irenaeus. Thus, in any case, Origen is writing in the Irenaean heresiological tradition, even when he is not explicitly quoting Irenaeus. Furthermore, it is also clear that Origen cannot have used only Hippolytus, since Origen refers to the anti-Paulinism of the Ebionites. According to Irenaeus, this is one of the key features of the Ebionites but Hippolytus has dropped this information from his parallel to the Irenaean passage – otherwise Hippolytus repeats Irenaeus word for word. The most natural conclusion is that Origen also consulted Irenaeus. As regards the second point, I agree that when referring to the Ebionites Origen does not explicitly describe Christ entering the man Jesus in his baptism, which is perhaps the most notorious feature of the Cerinthian doctrine. However, as I have shown, Hippolytus had already supplemented his description of the Ebionites by picking up some expressions that Irenaeus originally used in his description of Cerinthus’s doctrine (see below, Greek underlined). For instance, Irenaeus does not talk about Jesus being justified in the context of the Ebionites, but describes this as a Cerinthian doctrine. Hippolytus however, has added the information about justification to his description of the Ebionites. For Hippolytus this was a natural thing to do because in his textual tradition the doctrines of the ­Ebionites and the Cerinthians were “similar.” This may have inspired Origen to further enrich the description of the second type of the Ebionites’s doctrine with exactly the same Greek expressions that we can find in Hippolytus’s description of Ebion and Cerinthus (see below, Greek bold).

33 P. Luomanen, Recovering, 19–20, 28: 28, n.8. The hypothesis is not totally new. Klijn & Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 26 present the idea as an explanation for Eusebius’s two types of Ebionites. However, there are clear indications that the textual confusion already explains Origen’s two types of Ebionites. Unfortunately it seems that a reference to Klijn and Reinink’s theory became dropped in my 2012 book, at the point when I added cross-references in order to avoid overlap. However, a reference to Klijn and Reinink appears in P. Luomanen, “Nazarenes”, 293–4, n. 29. 34 J. Carleton Paget, Jews, Christians, 356, n. 137.

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Origen These are the two kinds of Ebionites, some confessing (ὁμολογοῦντες) that Jesus was born of a virgin (ἐκ παρθένου), as (ὁμοίως) we do, and others who deny this but say that he was born like the other people (γεγεννῆσθαι … ὡς τοὺς λοιποὺς ἀνθρώπους). (Origen, Cels. 5.61).

Hippolytus on Cerinthus And he [Cerinthus] supposed that Jesus was not born of a virgin (ἐκ παρθένου γεγενῆσθαι) but that he was born son of Joseph and Mary, similarly as all other men (ὁμοίως τοῖς λοιποῖς … ἀνθρώποις), and that he was more just (δικαιότερον) and wiser (Hippolytus, Haer. 7.33.1b).

Hippolytus on the Ebionites The Ebionites acknowledge (ὁμολογοῦσι) that the world was made by the true God, but they fabulate concerning the Christ like (ὁμοίως) Cerinthus and Carpocrates. They live conformably to Jewish customs saying that they are justified according to the Law, and saying that Jesus was justified (δικαιοῦσθαι) by practicing the Law. (Hippolytus, Haer. 7.34.1).

It seems clear to me that Origen is describing the Ebionites’s Christology in clearly “Cerinthian” terms: Jesus was born like all other people (ὁμοίως τοῖς λοιποῖς … ἀνθρώποις), and this is because he is following Hippolytus’s description of the Ebionites and the Cerinthians. Carleton Paget’s claim that Origen is not attributing the Ebionites the most characteristic features of the Cerinthian doctrine – if that is what he means – is off the mark. In my view, the above observations prove that Origen is not dropping us pieces of historical data about the ­Ebionites. Instead, he his mostly writing and making conclusions about the doctrines of the Ebionites within the mainstream heresiological discourse. Carleton Paget’s critical remarks against my earlier arguments for the literary character of Origen’s information do not hold. However, could there, nonetheless, be some historical information behind the reference to Ebionites who did not accept Jesus’s pre-existence? I have not dealt with these issues earlier, but a closer look at key passages shows that the idea about the Ebionites who seem to have accepted virginal conception but denied Jesus’s pre-existence can also be explained within the mainstream heresiological discourse, without having to assume any bits of information from some real-life Ebionites. The reference to the Ebionites who “did not accept pre-existence” does not explicitly appear by Origen. Eusebius presents it the context where he presents his version of the two types of Ebionites. Has Eusebius got some additional historical information about the Ebionites? Carleton Paget, following Dorival’s suggestion, seems to think so. In Dorival’s view, Origen may already have had the same group in mind in two earlier passages. The three pertinent passages run as follows:

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Origen And if you see the faith as regards the Savior of the Jews who believe in Jesus when they think that he is born of Mary and Joseph as well as that he is from Mary only and the divine Spirit – certainly not in agreement with the doctrine about him – you will see why that man, who was reprimanded by the “many”, says: “Son of David, have mercy on me” … “In order that he silences” the Ebionite and the one who makes poor with regard to the belief in Jesus …” (Origen, Comm. Matt. 16.12; trans. Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 131). But now one and the same must be believed also with regard to him who thinks something wrong about our Lord Jesus Christ, or according to those who say that he was born of Joseph and Mary, like the Ebionites and Valentinians, or according to those who deny that he is the first born, God of all creation, Word, Wisdom, which is the beginning of the ways of God, before anything came into being, founded before the worlds and generated before the hills, but say that he was only man … (Origen, Comm. Tit. 3.11; trans. Klijn and Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 133).

Eusebius There were others, however, besides them [i. e. the first type of the Ebionites], that were of the same name but avoided the strange absurdity of the former, and did not deny that the Lord was born of a virgin and the Holy Spirit. But nevertheless in as much as they also refused to confess that he was God, Word and Wisdom, they turned aside into the impiety of the former, especially when, like them, they did their best to observe strictly the bodily worship of the Law. (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.27.3, trans. Klijn and ­Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 141).

It is clear that in the first passage (Comm. Matt. 16.12) Origen has the idea about the twofold sect of the Ebionites in mind. However, it seems important for him to note that even the ones who attribute Jesus’s birth to the divine spirit fall short in agreeing with the correct doctrine, although he does not explicitly describe how they differed from the correct position.35 In the second passage, Origen gives a detailed description of an error of some heretics that do not accept Johannine Christology, but he does not explicitly link this with the Ebionites, whom he lists together with the Valentinians as those who think that Jesus was born of Joseph and Mary. However, the contents of what those persons deny seem to agree with the doctrinal shortcomings of the second type of Ebionites in Eusebius’s later description. Is it justified to conclude on the basis of this seeming doctrinal similarity, as Dorival and Carleton 35 In Contra Celsum, Origen is not making any point of this error; he simply notes that the second group believes in a virgin birth “as we do” (see above, Cels. 5.61). This suggests that Origen may not have had a very consistent view of the doctrine of the Ebionites.

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Paget suggest, that we have here bits and pieces of historical information about the beliefs of a second group of Ebionites. In my view, this is ungrounded speculation, for two reasons. First, we should realize that the idea about pre-existent Word coming flesh, expressed in terms of the Johannine prologue – which Eusebius’s Ebionites and the unnamed group of “those who” in Origen’s Comm. Tit. fail to acknowledge – became the backbone of the mainstream heresiological discourse already in Irenaeus’s Against Heresies. According to Irenaeus, none of the heretics agreed with this doctrine. Irenaeus But others allege him to be the Son of the Demiurge, upon whom the dispensational Jesus descended; while others, again, say that Jesus was born from Joseph and Mary, and that the Christ from above descended upon him, being without flesh, and impassible. But according to the opinion of no one of the heretics was the Word of God made flesh. For if anyone carefully examines the systems of them all, he will find that the Word of God is brought in by all of them as not having become incarnate (sine carne) and impassible, as is also the Christ from above. Others consider Him to have been manifested as a transfigured man; but they maintain Him to have been neither born nor to have become incarnate; while others [hold] that He did not assume a human form at all, but that, as a dove, He did descend upon that Jesus who was born from Mary. Therefore the Lord’s disciple, pointing them all out as false witnesses, says, And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us. (Irenaeus, Haer. 3.11.3; trans. ANF 1).

Since Irenaeus is mainly targeting “Gnostics” it is natural that he repeats this same line of argument over and over again in Against Heresies. However, for us it is important to see that he often – as in the above example – also targets the Cerinthian “Christ from above” doctrine in these contexts. Especially if one reads the text from the view point of corrupted Irenaeus/Hippolytus where everything said about Cerinthus’s Christology can also be applied to the Ebionites, it should become clear that along with all the heretics, the Ebionites must also have failed to realize Jesus’ pre-existence as the Word. This is an obvious conclusion for everyone studying the Irenaean heresiological discourse in its original – and later Hippolytian – form, just like Origen did. Thus, when Origen noted in Comm. Matt. 16.12 that the Christology of the more “orthodox” Ebionites, was, after all, “certainly not in agreement with the doctrine about him” he may have had the Johannine prologue in his mind, but this was not because he would have carefully examined the doctrines of some contemporary Ebionites. Rather, Origen is only presenting standard mainstream criticism of heretics in the spirit of Irenaeus’s Against Heresies. Second, the fact that Irenaeus pictured John as an opponent of Cerinthus becomes clear also in a story about John and Cerinthus in a bath house. In this

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story, which Irenaeus attributes to Polycarp, John, “the disciple of the Lord,” is going to bathe in Ephesus. However, when he sees Cerinthus in the bath house he rushes out shouting “Let us fly, lest the bath fall down because Cerinthus, the enemy of the truth is within” (Irenaeus, Haer 3.3.4). The story is repeated twice by Eusebius who clearly has received it from Irenaeus (Hist. eccl. 3.38.6 and 4.14.6). In Epiphanius’s more elaborated version, the enemy of John in the bath house has become Ebion (Pan. 30.24.1–7). This development exemplifies the overlapp­ ing of the images of Cerinthus and Ebion in the mainstream heresiological discourse and shows how natural it was for Irenaeus and his followers to use John and Johannine Christology in their fight against heresies. All in all, everything said above about Origen picturing Ebionites in the light of preceding heresiological discourse also applies to Eusebius. Eusebius knew the tradition about two kinds of Ebionites from Origen and he, too – even more clearly than Origen – describes the Ebionites in terms of Cerinthus.36 Eusebius is using the same mainstream Irenaean logic that Origen already seems to have had in mind. Eusebius only states explicitly the conclusion that is implicitly present by Origen: The Ebionites who Eusebius imagined to believe in the virginal conception, could not by no means have been wholly orthodox since, like all heretics in the Irenaean tradition, “they also refused to confess that he was God, Word and Wisdom.”37

5. Conclusion It is difficult to draw a historically reliable picture about the Nazarenes and the Ebionites and their gospel traditions because practically all the information has to be gleaned from the polemical writings of the Church fathers. This has not prevented scholars from trying to create such descriptions. The position of these early Jewish-Christian groups on the borderline between orthodoxy and heresy is intriguing, and their close connection to Jewish traditions has kept alive the hope of finding some genuine Jesus traditions among them. However, in my view, the discussion has been especially marred with three kinds of problems that have also surfaced in the above discussion. First, although scholars have been aware of the problematic character of the information provided by the Church fathers this has seldom resulted in thorough 36 According to Eusebius (quoted in the opening of this section), the Ebionites “considered him [Christ] a plain and common man, who was justified only because of his superior virtue”. In earlier descriptions this characteristic is linked only to Cerinthus. See Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.27.2; cf. above Hippolytus, Haer. 7.34.1. 37 That Eusebius probably reached this conclusion on the basis of Origen was already suggested by Alfred Schmidtke, Neue Fragmente und Untersuchungen zu den judenchristlichen Evangelien: Ein Beitrag zur Literatur und Geschichte der Judenchristen (TU 37.1; Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1911), 144– 5, followed by Klijn & Reinink, Patristic Evidence, 25.

The Nazarenes: Orthodox Heretics with an Apocryphal Canonical Gospel? 73

analysis of the sources. Rather, the sources have often been used in piecemeal fashion: bits and pieces of information about the doctrines and practices of the Nazarenes and the Ebionites have been collected from various sources without a proper discussion of the rhetorical and social-historical context of the information. Mimouni’s analysis of the dispute between Jerome and Augustine is a positive exception in this regard, an example of the kind of analysis we should aim at – although, in my view, even that falls short in paying due attention to the rhetorical function of the information that Jerome presents about the Nazarenes in the heat of the discussion. Second, the Church fathers had carefully studied the works of their predecessors and used them as their starting point, and often even as their only sources. Because of this, before making any historical conclusions the interdependence of the sources should be carefully studied. Both Broadhead and Mimouni still rely on Ray A. Pritz’s work which tries to reconstruct a pre-history for the Nazarenes that Epiphanius describes in Panarion 29. However, as I have showed in my earlier work, the information in Panarion 29 is clearly composed on the basis of Acts and Eusebius’s Church History, which proves the fictional character of Panarion 29. In the present article, I continued the discussion, responding to Carleton Paget who has challenged my earlier arguments about Origen inventing the idea of two kinds of Ebionites on the basis of the two variants of the Irenaean tradition available to him. The clarification of my earlier arguments and new analysis in the present article not only confirm my earlier results but also provides further examples of the way how Origen and Eusebius develop their critique of the Ebionites by elaborating Irenaeus’s ideas. Third, the mainstream heresiological discourse employed several means of simplification which help to create and maintain borders. The most obvious ones include: the dichotomy between “orthodoxy” and “heresy”, naming and simplified descriptions of “heretical” groups, and personification of alternative movements by attributing them to named heretical teachers. Although scholars are well aware of these strategies the simplistic categorizations have managed to keep their appeal in scholarly discourse. One example of this is the way how the distinction between “orthodoxy” and “heresy” function in Mimouni’s analysis. Likewise, scholars are inclined to picture the Nazarenes as one distinct group – excluding too easily the option that their history might be partly fictional or that there may have been several different groups and persons that were, in different times, called as Nazarenes. The same also applies to the Ebionites who are also too easily seen as one faction or movement, although historically there may have been different kinds of Ebionites, living in different times.38 The above three points concerning the study of early Jewish-Christian sects are equally important in the study of the early Jewish-Christian gospel fragments. The New Two Gospel Hypothesis is one result of my attempt to avoid the above listed 38 I have suggested that there were, from the very beginning, two factions among Ebionites: the Hellenistic-Samaritan faction and the Hebrew faction. See P. Luomanen, Recovering, 45–9, 241–3.

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pitfalls. If the hypothesis is on the right track it also, for its part, challenges the artificial distinction between “orthodox” canonical type of gospels and “heretical” non-canonical type of gospels. Being well aware of the hypothetical character of all attempts to say something about the factual history of the Nazarenes and their gospel traditions, I do not expect other scholars to agree with all the arguments and conclusions offered in this article. Because the evidence is fragmentary every attempt to create an overall picture necessarily includes hypothetical parts and is therefore bound to remain partly fictive. However, I hope the examples I have provided would be clear enough to justify the claim that in the study of early Jewish Christianity these “fictive histories” must be preceded by “histories of fiction,” careful studies of the context and sources from which the Church fathers span their heresiological descriptions.

Reidar Aasgaard (University of Oslo)

The Protevangelium of James and the Infancy Gospel of Thomas: Orthodoxy from Above or Heterodoxy from Below?

1. The twin stories of Jesus’ and his mother Mary’s childhood1 The two early Christian apocryphal stories, the Protevangelium of James and the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, have several features in common. First is the fact that both deal with the early life, the childhood, of Jesus and his mother Mary, two central – or even the two most central – figures in the history of Christianity. The Protevangelium of James (here abbreviated PJ) narrates the story about Mary’s parents, birth and childhood, and her relationship with Joseph, and ends with Mary giving birth to Jesus in a miraculous way. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas (here abbreviated IGT) tells the story of Jesus’ childhood deeds between the ages of five and twelve, and presents him as a child playing with others, but also as a child full of wisdom.2 Second, both stories are – erroneously – ascribed to famous biblical figures, James and Thomas, and thus claim some sort of authority from tradition. Third, both stories presuppose and expand on the infancy stories of the now-canonical gospels Matthew and Luke. Clearly, an impetus for these expansions was a general human curiosity about the early years of Mary and Jesus, reflecting a wish to fill in blank spots in the New Testament biographies of the two.3 Furthermore, both stories are of no use in the quest for the Jesus and Mary of history. Instead, their value primarily lies in how they reflect the later reception of these figures, and how they mirror the historical settings in which the stories came into being. Moreover, both have their origin in the second century and in 1 Drafts of this chapter have been presented on three occasions: The Other Side conference, University of Notre Dame, London (July 5, 2014), Neutestamentliche Sozietät, Johannes Gutenberg-Universität, Mainz (June 12, 2015), and the research seminar, History of Ideas, IFIKK, University of Oslo (September 18, 2015). I am grateful for the comments received on these occasions: they contributed much to improving the chapter. 2 Here, I abbreviate with PJ and IGT for sake of simplicity. The standard abbreviations are Prot. Jas. and Inf. Gos. Thom. 3 For a presentation of the relationship of the Apocryphal Gospels to the NT, see J. Schröter, “Die apokryphen Evangelien und die Entstehung des neutestamentlichen Kanons”, in Jesus in apokryphen Evangelienüberlieferungen: Beiträge zu außerkanonischen Jesusüberlieferungen aus verschiedenen Sprach- und Kulturtraditionen, ed. J. Frey and J. Schröter (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 31–60, particularly the discussions on “Ergänzung”, “Konkurrenz” and “Unabhängigkeit”.

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Greek, but were also further elaborated in the later tradition, and were at some point in the early Middle Ages even combined to form a continuous narrative, in the very popular Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew. In addition, both stories are surrounded in the tradition by a cluster of related material – stories or fragments of stories or single episodes on the early life of the two – a material that reflects their long-term popularity. Finally, and importantly, both works have a somewhat ambiguous and untidy position within early Christian “mainstream” theology. In the case of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, we may also speak of a problematic position – and not only within early Christian theology, but also within modern scholarship. These are matters which I shall return to below. I am also acutely aware of the problems inherent in using the term “mainstream”. The same goes with other terms, such as “orthodoxy”, “heterodoxy”, and “heresy”.4 In the early centuries of Christianity, these terms and the ideas associated with them formed part of an intense struggle for theological, rhetorical, and socio-cultural leadership or even hegemony – a struggle that has been going on in various shapes down to the present day, and that is also reflected within the history of research. The terms and concepts, which are also discussed elsewhere in this volume, are notoriously difficult to define, but also impossible to dispense with.5 I myself find the terms “orthodoxy” and “heterodoxy” heuristically helpful, at least if the former is used to signify some relatively broad consensus, and the latter a degree of conceded diversity. Whereas these terms can be used in a fairly neutral manner, “heresy” is far more problematic, since it implies a much stronger value judgment.6 As we shall see, the Protevangelium of James and the Infancy Gospel have both been associated with these kinds of labels. Their common features and fate mean that the two infancy gospels are often dealt with together, both in scholarship and on the popular front.7At the same time, they are also in a number of respects quite different. We shall return later 4 For a concise and balanced discussion of scholarly debates from W. Bauer’s Rechtgläubigkeit und Ketzerei im ältesten Christentum (1934; English ed., Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity, 1971) to present times, see J. Kaufman, “Diverging Trajectories or Emerging Mainstream? Unity and Diversity in Second Century Christianity”, in Among Jews, Gentiles and Christians in Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Studies in Honour of Professor Oskar Skarsaune on his 65th Birthday, ed. R. Hvalvik & J. Kaufman (Trondheim: Tapir Akademisk, 2011), 113–28. See D.E. Wilhite, The Gospel according to Heretics: Discovering Orthodoxy through Early Christological Conflicts (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2015), 1–19 (with references) for a useful and nuanced, but inconclusive discussion of these terms and concepts. His classification of ten different “heresies” (chap. 1–10) offers a valuable historical survey. 5 D.E. Wilhite, The Gospel according to Heretics, 6–9. 6 See also the discussions in D.E. Wilhite, The Gospel according to Heretics, 11–16; H.O. Maier, “­Heresy, Households, and the Disciplining of Diversity” in Late Ancient Christianity. A People’s History of Christianity vol. 2, ed. V. Burrus (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 213–33; T. Burke, Secret Scriptures Revealed: A new introduction to the Christian Apocrypha (London: SPCK, 2013), chapters 1 and 6, with references. 7 E.g. R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels of James and Thomas (Santa Rosa: Polebridge, 1995); T. Burke, Secret Scriptures Revealed, 45–54.

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to several of these differences, since they are highly relevant to what I shall be dealing with here: the question about where each of the gospels is to be located in the historical landscape of early Christianity, whether – theologically or otherwise – they belong to some “main field” or some “other side”. Indeed, the differences between the two may also be seen as so great that pairing them can be regarded as quite artificial. Nonetheless, as I intend to show, I think that combining the two makes sense in our context. In what follows, I shall give a brief survey of ancient and modern perceptions of the respective theological profiles of the two infancy gospels, highlighting in particular the discussion about their “orthodox” or “heterodox” nature.8 This will serve as my point of departure for presenting some features that are characteristic of the works, by means of analyses of two text passages, one from each gospel. I shall argue that the stories – each in their way – can throw light on the modern discussion of early Christian “orthodoxy” and “heterodoxy” more generally. The aspect that I shall bring into special focus here is the social setting, namely the importance of social context, and social level in particular, for the interpretation of these stories and their place within the history of early Christianity. In my view, this can add much overlooked and needed nuances to this discussion.

2. The Protevangelium of James: reception and research history The Protevangelium of James may have come into existence a little later than the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, in the latter half of the second century or the early third century.9 Nonetheless, I start with this gospel since, from a narrative point of view, it is prior to IGT: it describes the background and early life of Jesus’ mother Mary. PJ can be divided in three main parts. The first deals with Mary’s parents, her conception, birth and childhood until the age of twelve (1:1–8:2). The second describes the establishment of her relationship with Joseph, her pregnancy, and her and Joseph’s acquittal from the accusation of adultery (8:3–16:8). The last part largely expands on the infancy stories in Matthew 1–2 and Luke 1–2, describing – with a number of deviations from the canonical stories – Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem, the visit of the magi, the slaughter of the infants, and the death of the high priest Zechariah (17:1–24:14). Jesus’ birth is described in mysterious ways. He appears to be teleported out of Mary’s womb behind a cloud: “Suddenly the cloud withdrew from the cave and an intense light appeared inside the cave, so that their eyes could not bear to look. And a little later that light receded until an infant 8 For a discussion of attitudes to apocryphal gospels in early Christianity, see J. Verheyden, “The Early Church and ‘the Other Gospels’”, in The Apocryphal Gospels within the Context of Early Christian Theology, ed. J. Schröter (Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 477–506, who distinguishes three approaches: “studying”, “fighting”, and “condemning the documents”. 9 See particularly the discussions in R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 11–2 and L.C. Vuong, Gender and Purity in the Protevangelium of James (WUNT II. 358; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 32–9.

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became visible; he took the breast of his mother Mary” (19:15–16).10 Beyond this, next to nothing is said in PJ about Jesus’ life, whether as an infant or an adult. These deviations, and many other elements too, clearly signal a main theological concern for the author of PJ: it is to underscore the purity of Mary, her ritual, menstrual, and sexual purity.11 A central element in this is Mary’s continued virginity: she is and remains a virgin before, while, and after giving birth to Jesus (11:5; 12–19; 20:1–4). Thus a basic rationale of the story is to be an apology for the perpetual virginity of Mary, and at the same time praise, an encomium, presenting her in her purity as an ideal – to be sure, an unattainable ideal – to other women, or to Christians more generally.12 The Protevangelium of James early became very popular, and although it never was a candidate for the New Testament, the story spread quickly both in the West and in the East, making it very important for the development of Christian piety, with a large number of manuscripts preserved. In the West, however, it has had a mixed reception. On the one hand, it was strongly criticized by Jerome (late fourth century) for presenting “Jesus’ brothers and sisters” as the children of Joseph from a previous marriage. According to Jerome, “brothers and sisters” meant “cousins”, a claim that led his contemporary popes Damasus I and Innocent I to condemn PJ. It was later also rejected as apocryphal in the inventory of the Decretum Gelasianum (sixth century, with fourth-century roots).13 On the other hand, however, episodes from the gospel came to serve as motifs for ecclesiastical art, and it was also translated into Latin at an early date and integrated in the much-read Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew.14 In the East, its popularity was even greater and more unreserved. From early on, it functioned as an inspiration for Marian piety and also as a support for the declaration of Mary as Theotokos, the mother of God (Ephesus 431).15 The gospel was translated at a very early date into Syriac; the oldest surviving manuscript is from the fifth century. Until quite recently, the Protevangelium of James has received little attention in modern research, particularly with regard to its contents.16 This has changed 10 Translation by R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 67. 11 L.C. Vuong, Gender and Purity, 240–44. 12 R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 14–20; L.C. Vuong, Gender and Purity, 5–6. 13 J. Verheyden, “The Early Church and ‘the Other Gospels’”, 498–506, esp. 502–04, who demonstrates that it is not clear whether it is IGT that the decree refers to, and that the decree also seems to have had little knowledge of its contents. 14 See D.R. Cartlidge & J.K. Elliott, Art and the Christian Apocrypha (London & New York: Routledge, 2001); also G. Van Oyen, “The Protevangelium Jacobi: An Apocryphal Gospel?” in The Apocryphal Gospels within the Context of Early Christian Theology, ed. J. Schröter (Leuven: Peeters, 2013), 298– 302, with references. 15 See A.-J. Levine (ed.), A Feminist Companion to Mariology (London & New York: T&T Clark & Continuum, 2005), especially the articles by Gaventa and Abrahamsen. 16 See L.C. Vuong, Gender and Purity, 13–19. Important exceptions are H. Reinder Smid, Protevangelium Jacobi: A Commentary (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1965) and R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels.

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somewhat during the last two decades, in which discussions about genre, gender, purity, Mariology, perceptions of childbearing and the gospel’s relation to Judaism have been central.17 We should note here that modern research has scarcely focused at all on the matter of the orthodoxy/heterodoxy of PJ. Interestingly, and somewhat disquieting, it seems that the work has been virtually above suspicion in this regard in modern theological analyses.18 I do not think that we have sufficiently good reasons to refrain from examining PJ on this point; I will return to this below.

3. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas: reception and research history When we turn to the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, which has, at least in core, its origin in the mid-second century, it immediately becomes clear that this gospel has a more turbulent and controversial history than the Protevangelium of James.19 Whereas PJ deals with the whole of Mary’s childhood from her birth to her becoming a mother, IGT covers only seven years in Jesus’ life, between the ages of five and twelve. And while PJ is brief and summary on Mary’s childhood, IGT presents Jesus’ early years in considerable detail. When we survey the contents of this story, it is easy to understand the turbulence it has created, given its depiction of Jesus. The story, which is about half the length of PJ, consists primarily of two types of texts, viz., miracle stories and episodes about Jesus’ visits to school to learn reading.20 After a brief introduction (1), it describes four miracles performed by Jesus as a five-year-old (2–5). Then we hear of Jesus being taken to school by his father and of Jesus’ great wisdom (6–8), followed by four more miracles (9–12). Again, Jesus is taken to school, now eight years old (13–14). Two final miracles follow (15–16). The gospel ends with a retelling of the story Jesus in the temple at the age of twelve (17), in a version very close to that of Luke 2:41–52. What primarily makes the Infancy Gospel of Thomas controversial – at least to a modern mind – is Jesus’ behaviour on a number of occasions. Some of his miracles consist of cursing people who have offended him, mostly children but also a teacher, with the result that they wither away or die. And although, from 17 The most important recent discussions of PJ are M.F. Foskett, A Virgin Conceived: Mary and Classical Representations of Virginity (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2002); J.A. Glancy, Corporal Knowledge: Early Christian Bodies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); L.C. Vuong, Gender and Purity; also A.-J. Levine, A Feminist Companion (the articles by van der Horst and Foskett). 18 See, for example, the references in T. Hägg, The Art of Biography in Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 172–73. 19 I have dealt with parts of this history in R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus: Decoding the Apocryphal Infancy Gospel of Thomas (Eugene: Cascade, 2009), 1–11, 174–87. T. Burke, De Infantia Iesu Evangelium Thomae, Graece (CCSA 17; Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 173–222 has by far the most detailed treatment. 20 In the following, I make use of the 17-chapter variant (Gs; codex Sabaiticus), see R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 34 and appendixes 1–2 (Greek text and English translation).

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the middle of the gospel onwards, Jesus appears to change strategy from cursing and killing to blessing and healing, and even to raising from the dead, the impression is left of a rather strange Jesus, who seems to deviate markedly from the depiction of him in the New Testament. In spite of what we see as strange, or even problematic, features in IGT’s portrait of Jesus, the gospel enjoyed broad popularity in late antiquity and the early Middle Ages. It is referred to in sources from various parts of the Greco-Roman world already in the second to fourth centuries, and was translated into Latin already in the second or third century, into Syriac in the third to fourth century, and not much later into other languages. Some of the early mentions are neutral, matter-of-fact references to the gospel, whereas others are of a more critical nature. The earliest critical comment is by Irenaeus of Lyon. In his Against ­Heresies (ca. 180 CE), he associates the gospel with his gnostic adversaries, in casu the Marcosians, but without developing on his claim. The next critical ancient source is John Chrysostom in his Homilies on John (386–398). His reason for criticism, however, is that the miracles Jesus did as a child contradict what is said in John in the passage on the wedding in Cana, namely that this was Jesus’ first miracle (John 2:11). The next sources, and the latest to be mentioned here, that reject IGT as being non-canonical are the above-mentioned Decretum Gelasianum and a passage in Timothy of Constantinople’s De receptione haereticorum (late sixth century), both of which list writings that should be regarded unacceptable.21 Interestingly, the sources that speak negatively of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas are few, and – importantly – none of them justifies this by speaking of its depiction of Jesus. It is, in fact, primarily with modern research that we come upon more specific assessments – and also negative value judgments – of the gospel’s Christology, for example of Jesus as “an enfant terrible who seldom acts in a Christian way”.22 It is quite a paradox that the ones most critical towards IGT are not the early Christian sources with their church leaders and decrees, but twentieth-­century scholars. Until recently, scholarly attempts at categorizing IGT theologically, have worked with labels such as gnostic, docetic, Manichean, Jewish-Christian, and Ebionite, some of which are mutually exclusive.23 The Gnosti21 T. Burke, De Infantia Iesu, 7–8, 10–11; J. Verheyden, “The Early Church and ‘the Other Gospels’”, 498–506. 22 J.K. Elliott (ed.), The Apocryphal Jesus: Legends of the Early Church (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 106; also F. Lapham, An Introduction to the New Testament Apocrypha (London: T&T Clark International, 2003), 130. 23 See T. Burke, De Infantia Iesu, 173–222; R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 5–12. For fairly recent examples of some of these views, see F. Lapham, An Introduction to the New Testament Apocrypha, 129–32; F. Amsler, “Les Paidika Iesou, un nouveau témoin de la rencontre entre judaïsme et christianisme à Antioche au IVe siècle?” in Infancy Gospels: Stories and Identities, ed. C. Clivaz/A. Dett­ wiler/L. Devillers & E. Norelli (WUNT 281; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 433–58; A. Van Aarde, “The Ebionite Perspective in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas”, in J. Schröter (ed.), The Apocryphal Gospels, 616–17.

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cism theory has been the most persistent, but has been contested by many and has now – I would maintain – proven obsolete. Apart from occasional discussions of IGT’s Christology, book-length studies of its contents have been published only during the last decade, focusing on the establishment of a critical text, on narrative, theological, and social aspects, and on reception history.24

4. Status quo of research, and a fresh approach: the importance of social level This brief survey has made it clear that both infancy gospels enjoyed broad popularity in late antiquity, and also during the Middle Ages. At the same time, the stories were criticized and on some occasions met with rejection, particularly on a theological basis. Both have been held (in quite different ways) to reflect non-orthodox views, especially the Infancy Gospel of Thomas. Similar attitudes to both works can be recognized in modern research. Yet there are also differences: very little has been done on the question of orthodoxy and heterodoxy in the Protevangelium of James, whereas this has been central in discussions of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas. Thus, the present status is that PJ has escaped scholarly scrutiny on this matter, whereas IGT has not, but with recent scholarship ending up in a limbo: the gospel does not fit into any of the traditional molds of deviation or “heresy”. Rather, it may be that it too is to be located in some variant of an early Christian main “stream” – or “mainstream” – tradition. Thus, both gospels seem to be in need of a scholarly reinterpretation on this matter. In what follows, I propose a way in which this need can be met. One problem in research on this kind of material has been its neglect of one important aspect, namely social level, or “class”.25 Up to now, research – even recent research – has focused too narrowly on other (admittedly important) aspects, such as theology, gender, and provenance. It is now, however, necessary to pay attention to social context, and social level in particular, as a factor in the interpretation of these stories.26 This means that scholars must pay much more heed than hitherto to aspects such as social hierarchy, economy, demography, educational level, and the urban/rural axis.

24 See T. Burke, De Infantia Iesu; R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus; St.J. Davis, Christ Child: Cultural Memories of a Young Jesus (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2014), respectively. 25 “Class” is a problematic term, however; although it may be viable, I shall use it only occasionally and in an open, imprecise manner in what follows. 26 I have also argued this in R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus (especially ch. 11).

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5. A social level approach: Ramsay MacMullen’s “second church” When we turn to general research literature on late antiquity and early Christianity on these matters, it comes as a surprise that little seems to have been done on this in recent years, particularly with regard to social level. For example, in the otherwise impressive Oxford Handbook of Social Relations in the Roman World (2011), edited by Michael Peachin, very few of the more than seven hundred pages elaborate and discuss major issues related to social context.27 There are some exceptions to this state of the matter, however.28 Here, I shall give an important example of such an approach, Ramsay MacMullen’s The Second Church: Popular Christianity A. D. 200–400 (2009).29 MacMullen bases his study and conclusions mainly on archaeology, and particularly on excavations of churches in various parts of the Greco-Roman world. He holds that the churches were able to accommodate only a very small number of people in comparison to the population as a whole, and also in comparison to the assumed percentage of Christians in the population. In his view, church buildings were primarily the resort of the 5 per cent Christian elite, the ecclesiastical establishment, the “first” church. The rest, the 95 per cent “silent majority” belonging to the lower social levels, practiced their Christian beliefs elsewhere – very many of them lived in rural areas, where most of the population resided. MacMullen singles out burial places and martyr graves as the main locations for the majority’s public worship.30 Importantly, he also underscores that the shape of their religious practice was ritual and cult, such as the commemoration of the dead – especially family members and martyrs – rather than dogma and 27 M. Peachin (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Social Relations in the Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); the same is very much the case with M. Gagarin (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece and Rome, 7 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). 28 For an important exception, see V. Burrus, Late Ancient Christianity 2005 (particularly the chapters by Burrus/Lyman, Clark, Perkins, and Maier). For a very recent example, see J.R. Harrison & L.L. Welborn (eds.), The First Urban Churches 1: Methodological Foundations (Atlanta: SBL, 2015), which has a special focus on the first century CE, but also material relevant for the following centuries. Although its focus is on the urban world (the large cities), the book sometimes deals with the rural world (villages/farmland). J.R. Harrison, “The First Urban Churches: Introduction”, in J.R. Harrison & L.L. Welborn, The First Urban Churches 1, 3–6, presents concepts of, and research on, the city, with numerous references to earlier scholarship. L.L. Welborn, “The Polis and the Poor: Reconstructing Social Relations from Different Genres of Evidence”, in J.R. Harrison & L.L. Welborn, The First Urban Churches 1, 189–243, discusses methodological matters, perceptions of poverty, and relevant types of sources, again with numerous references to research literature. J.M. Ogereau, “Methodological Considerations in Using Epigraphic Evidence to Determine the Socioeconomic Context of the Early Christians”, in J.R. Harrison & L.L. Welborn, The First Urban Churches 1, 245–56, also contains useful methodological reflections and references to scholarship. 29 R. MacMullen, The Second Church: Popular Christianity A. D. 200–400 (Atlanta: SBL, 2009). 30 In a similar way, H.O. Maier, “Heresy, Households, and the Disciplining of Diversity”, focuses on the household as the main locus for such gatherings.

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catechism, with early Christian literature, such as sermons and exegetical works, mainly being the domain of the elite.31 Thus, we may say that the belief pattern of this segment of early Christianity was configured differently from that of the elite, with the former – to employ the language of ancient rhetoric – being more closely related to the pathos aspect and the latter to the logos aspect.32 This segment is what MacMullen calls the “second church”, a segment which has left very few traces compared to the Christian elite, who had by far most of the material resources. In his view, this “second church” needs to be uncovered and rehabilitated in order to get a more adequate understanding of early Christianity. In spite of some one-sidedness, MacMullen makes a strong case for his view.33 In my opinion, it is both fruitful and necessary to pay considerably more attention to social level also in research on the NT Apocrypha in general and – in the present case – on the infancy gospels, and in ways similar to MacMullen, who does not himself, however, make any use of this material.34 Such an approach is, of course, not entirely new: modern scholarship has occasionally dealt with these matters. However, several of those studies are now very old, even a century old, and largely outdated; in addition, they deal only to a very limited degree with apocryphal material.35 Thus, this should be taken up in more breadth again, both since we now have far more sources, textual as well as material that we can use, and since we have more developed tools from the social sciences than previous generations of scholars. This has, for example, led to more refined models and

31 See R. MacMullen, The Second Church, 95–114. In this concluding chapter, he summarizes and discusses his findings. 32 The beliefs of the second church may be seen as more shaped by “orthopraxy” (cult and ritual) than by the more intellectualistic “orthodoxy” of the establishment church (which had an emphasis on dogma and texts). Ninian Smart’s model of the seven dimensions of religion may prove useful in future analyses of the early Christian sources, see N. Smart, Dimensions of the Sacred: An Anatomy of the World’s Beliefs (London: HarperCollins, 1996). For some recent contributions on early Christian popular Christianity, see V. Burrus, Late Ancient Christianity; of special relevance are the chapters by Burrus and Lyman (social class, status, orthodoxy and heterodoxy), Clark (asceticism, class and gender), Perkins (social critique, especially in the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles), and Frankfurter (especially local religion). 33 There are, e. g., several relevant epigraphic and literary sources that MacMullen has not taken into consideration. 34 The very recent A. Gregory & C. Tuckett (in coll. with T. Nicklas & J. Verheyden) (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Apocrypha (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) scarcely deals with the matter of social level, and only in passing (mostly in the contributions by Hurtado, Moss, and Burke). 35 For a central example, see W. Bauer, Das Leben Jesu im Zeitalter der neutestamentlichen Apokryphen (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1909); also references in R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 3–5; J.R. Harrison, “The First Urban Churches: Introduction”, 1–3. St.J. Davis, Christ Child, 11–12, 26–35, pays some attention to social level, but does not really follow this up.

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nuanced results with regard to social and economic stratification in the Greco-­ Roman world and also within the early Christian movement.36 This approach can enable us to handle some characteristics of the apocryphal material in more adequate ways. This, of course, does not mean that other approaches such as ideology, gender etc. should be toned down. Rather, it means that they must be supplemented and nuanced through an approach that consciously and systematically focuses on the factor of social level. Consequently, when we operate with contrasts such as “orthodox”/“heterodox”, “canonical”/“apocryphal”, and “the mainstream”/“the other side”, it should also make sense to speak of perspectives “from above” and “from below”. Variety in theological views is not only a matter of philosophical thinking or ideas about gender, but also of social setting and level. In the very hierarchic and stratified Roman society, belonging to the Christian movement would have looked very different from below than from above. It is highly likely that social differences can throw light on, and even account for, differences in ideology, and in theology.37 There is no reason why it should be otherwise in the case of the infancy gospels or the New Testament Apocrypha in general.

6. Circumstantial evidence of social level: approaches and text samples How, then, are we to investigate the social setting of our stories? What can help us gain insight into the contexts in which they have their origin? One main path must be to make close readings of the texts themselves to see what they can reveal about social conditions, levels, and relations.38 In doing this, we should, of course, take care not to confuse the world within the texts with the world they relate to: these may very well differ considerably.39 Nevertheless, it is unlikely that these worlds should be fundamentally different: they will relate to each

36 See the survey in L.L. Welborn, “The Polis and the Poor”, 189–99; also J.R. Harrison, “The First Urban Churches: Introduction”, 2–7; W. Scheidel & S.J. Friesen, “The Size of the Economy and the Distribution of Income in the Roman Empire”, JRS 99 (2009), 61–91. 37 This has long been a central insight in liberation theology and postcolonial theology. For a related example in an interpretation of 1–2 Corinthians, see D.B. Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995). 38 Another important way is to study aspects of the infancy gospels’ reception history, e. g. by means of New Philology (esp. manuscript studies) or art history, see G. van Oyen, “The Protevangelium Jacobi: An Apocryphal Gospel?” 298–301. 39 There is clearly a risk of circular reasoning here: see the discussions in G. van Oyen, “The ­Protevangelium Jacobi: An Apocryphal Gospel?” 279–80; R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 53–55.

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other in varying degrees of similarity, and even of contrast.40 For example, it is very probable that central cultural values that are accentuated in the stories were also values that were recognized and accepted by their audiences.41 Thus, I shall – at least in the case of the infancy gospels – hold that there are fairly close links between the two, so that the works can be considered as windows opening up onto worlds that were familiar to their addressees.42 What we need to make this visible, however, are some tools or questions that are adapted to the texts and that can serve as indicators of their social settings. Together, such indicators may – like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle – even add up to more than when only looked at individually. For this purpose, I have chosen two episodes that are representative of each gospel and that mirror a fairly similar situation, namely a setting in which social relations, and not least social hierarchies, very much come into play. By comparing the two, we can also more clearly observe their distinctive character: it will become apparent that the contrast is very marked with regard to the cultural and social settings that the episodes – and each work as a whole – reflect. I shall focus here primarily on differences between them. The texts are PJ 8:6– 9:12 (Mary at the age of twelve in the temple) and IGT 6:8–7:2 (Jesus and his first teacher). The PJ passage deals with a central point of transition in Mary’s life, when she turns twelve and has to leave her home in the temple because she will at her first, imminent menstruation become impure. In a meeting, the priests urge the high priest to ask the Lord God to disclose a solution to the problem: 8 6 And so the high priest took the vestment with the twelve bells, entered the Holy of Holies, and began to pray about her. 7 And suddenly a messenger of the Lord appeared: “Zechariah, Zechariah, go out and assemble the widowers of the people and have them each bring a staff. 8 She will become the wife of the one to whom the Lord God shows a sign.” 9 And so heralds covered the surrounding territory of Judea. The trumpet of the Lord sounded and all the widowers came running.   91 And Joseph, too, threw down his carpenter’s axe and left for the meeting. 2 When they had all gathered, they went to the high priest with their staffs. 3 After the high priest had collected everyone’s staff, he entered the temple and began to pray. 4 When he had 40 Here, I presuppose a relative similarity, or at least familiarity, between the world depicted and the world of the author, although the former can be conventionalized and idealized (which may especially be the case with PJ). 41 See R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus (ch. 5) for an analysis of such values. 42 For a discussion and argument in favour of this, see R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 53–55; also R. Aasgaard, “How Close Can We Get to Ancient Childhood? Methodological Achievements and New Advances”, in Children and Everyday Life in the Roman and Late Antique World, ed. C. Laes & V. Vuolanto (Farnham: Ashgate, 2017). It is of course not possible to prove this claim. It is, rather, a matter of plausibility, and of gathering cumulative evidence. Much of the study of early Christian sources (biblical or other) is in fact built on such premises.

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finished his prayer, he took the staffs and went out and began to give them back to each man. 5 But there was no sign on any of them. Joseph got the last staff. 6 Suddenly a dove came out of this staff and perched on Joseph’s head. 7 “Joseph, Joseph,” the high priest said, “you’ve been chosen by lot to take the virgin of the Lord into your care and protection.” 8 But Joseph objected: “I already have sons and I’m an old man; she’s only a young woman. I’m afraid that I’ll become the butt of jokes among the people of Israel.”   9 And the high priest responded, “Joseph, fear the Lord your God and remember what God did to Dathan, Abiron, and Kore: the earth was split open and they were all swallowed up because of their objection. 10 So now, Joseph, you ought to take heed so that the same thing won’t happen to your family.”   11 And so out of fear Joseph took her into his care and protection. 12 He said to her, “Mary, I’ve gotten you from the temple of the Lord, but now I’m leaving you at home. I’m going away to build houses, but I’ll come back to you. The Lord will protect you.”43

The episode from the Infancy Gospel of Thomas narrates the story about Jesus being taken to school to learn to read, and the encounter – and conflict – with his first teacher: 6 8 Thus, as they seemed to be soothed by the child’s exhortation, the teacher said to his father: “Come, bring him to school and I shall teach him the letters.” And Joseph took him by the hand and led him to school. And the master flattered him and brought him into the classroom. Then Zacchaeus wrote the alphabet for him and began to instruct him, repeating a letter to him many times. But the child didn’t answer him. The teacher became irritated and hit him in the head. And the child became angry and said to him: “I want to teach you rather than be taught by you. For I know the letters that you are teaching much more accurately than you. To me this is like a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal which can’t provide the sound or glory or power of insight.”   9 When his anger had ceased, the child said by himself with much care and clarity all the letters from the alpha to the omega. He looked at the teacher and said to him: “When you do not know the nature of the alpha, how can you teach another the beta? Hypocrite! If you know, teach me first the alpha and then I will trust you to talk about the beta.” Then he began to examine the master about the letter A. But he couldn’t answer him.   10 With many listening he said to the teacher: “Listen, master, and be mindful of the order of the first letter, and pay close attention how it has sharp lines and a middle stroke, which you see sharpening, intersecting, joining, creeping out, drawing back, elevated, dancing, missile-bearing, three-marked, double-edged, same-formed, sameplaced, same-kinded, raised, balanced, equally-measured, equally-proportioned – such lines does the alpha have.”

43 Translation by R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 47 and 49.

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71 When the teacher heard Jesus make this exposition on these principles of the first letter, he was baffled by such teaching and his defence. And the teacher said:   “Dear me! Dear me! I am totally baffled and miserable. I have caused and brought down shame upon myself. 2 Take this child away from me, brother! For I can’t bear his severe look or clear speech. The child is simply not of this earth – he is even able to tame fire. Perhaps this child existed before the creation of the world? What kind of womb bore him? What kind of mother raised him? I really don’t know. Dear me, brother, he outdoes me! My mind can’t comprehend this. I have deceived myself, thrice unhappy as I am. I thought to have a student but ended up having a master.44

My focus will be on six points, which range from literary via ideological to social factors: language and style, intertextuality, educational level and cultural background, role of theology, social world, and social hierarchy and authority. These six can also very likely be supplemented with other points. The treatment must necessarily be sketchy and exploratory, but will nevertheless serve to demonstrate the distinctive, and very different, profiles of the two gospels.

7. Language and style Even a superficial look at our samples reveals notable differences. The first concerns language. The Protevangelium of James appears more advanced than the Infancy Gospel of Thomas in both vocabulary and syntax. Here and elsewhere, PJ has a relatively varied vocabulary, with several technical terms, and more complicated period structures, with frequent hypotaxis. IGT, on its part, is more repetitive and – except for the explanation of the Alpha – simpler in vocabulary, and also generally has shorter clauses and more parataxis.45 As for style, PJ is considerably more literary and polished than IGT, obviously in imitation of the Bible.46 IGT, on the other hand, appears more orally coloured.47 A likely inference from this is that the two works reflect different levels of literary training, and possibly also differences in strategies of mediation: whereas PJ emerges as a written piece, IGT has a more oral character. This is reflected in the later transmission of these stories: in PJ, there is very little textual variation in the manuscript tradition; in IGT, there are in Greek at least four significantly different variants of the story.48 44 Translation by R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 236–37. 45 As far as I know, there has not been any thorough comparative study of the language and style of these two works. The presentation here must therefore be tentative. 46 See R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 21–25, and below. 47 See R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 14–34, esp. 19–22. 48 A comparison of the size and content of the sample texts’ critical apparatus in R F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 46–48 and 114–20 makes this obvious. See also R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 19–22; T. Burke, De Infantia Iesu, ad loc.

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The differences in language and style do not mean, however, that PJ has more command of language than IGT. Rather, they communicate on different wavelengths: IGT’s play on words and sounds in the explanation of the alpha is also advanced, with quite a lot of humour involved. IGT demonstrates considerable skills in storytelling and dramatizing: the lament of the teacher in 7:2–4 is a scene that would be a gift to any actor.49 If we are to compare the language and style of PJ and IGT with other early Christian works, the gospels of Luke and John respectively would be fairly fitting partners. Although the two works have much in common in terms of genre, they differ greatly in other linguistic respects. It is possible that they belong to different echelons within society and reflect different sociolects. Clearly, however, this needs further investigation.

8. Intertextuality Another difference relates to intertextuality; here, the focus will be on biblical references. On this point, the Protevangelium of James is very rich, and this clearly reflects an intellectual milieu where the Bible had a central role. In our sample, PJ displays broad familiarity with the Septuagint Old Testament (LXX), as well as with the New Testament.50 The high priest has a central position (­8:6–7). His robe with the twelve bells is briefly described (Exod 28:31–35; 39:22– 26; also Sir 45:7–13). A divine messenger, an angel, addresses him as Zechariah, the name of the priest and father of John the Baptist (Luke 1), but also of various Old Testament figures (e. g. 1 Chr 24:17–22; Neh 11–12). Knowledge of the Holy of Holies is taken for granted, as is the story about Dathan, Abiron, and Kore (Num 16:1–35). In addition to these explicit references, there are several allusions. For example, the staff which the widowers are to bring recalls staffs such as those of Moses and Aaron (8:7; 9:4–6; cf. Exod 4:1–4; Num 17:1–9; also Hos 4:12; Matt 10:10 parr.). The expression “trumpet of the Lord” (8:9, salpinx) does not occur in the Bible, but the instrument is frequently associated with divinely inspired events (e. g. 1 Cor 14:8; Rev 1:10). The dove which comes out of Joseph’s staff and perches on his head (9:6) recalls the dove at Jesus’ baptism (Matt 3:16–17 parr.; also Gen 8:8–12).51 In contrast, the Infancy Gospel of Thomas has very few biblical references, and also uses them with far less finesse.52 In our sample, there are but a few. Jesus’ words in 6:8, “like a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal” (one of IGT’s only 49 See R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 140–47. 50 For overviews, see R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 21–25, with references; T. Smid, Protevangelium Jacobi, 9–12. 51 For other references/allusions, see e. g. Matt 1:18–19, 24; 13:55–56; Mark 6:3. 52 For a detailed presentation, see T. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, chapter 8. An exception to this is IGT 17’s retelling of Luke 2:41–52 (Jesus in the temple).

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two explicit NT quotations), echo 1 Corinthians 13:1, but are partly out of sync with its context in Paul’s letter. In 7:2, there are elements of Johannine thinking (“existed before the creation of the world”, cf. John 17:5, 24). The name of the teacher, Zacchaeus, is probably a borrowing from Luke 19:2; and the reference to the alpha and omega may be a play on Revelation 21:6 and 22:13. Apart from these instances, however, there are scarcely any other biblical references in the passage. In sum, it is obvious that the differences within this area reflect differences in cultural and social contexts: whereas the author of PJ is obviously very well versed in the Bible, knowledge of its texts appears more remote and indirect in IGT.

9. Educational level and cultural background This factor is related to the former, but is of a more general nature. The two works differ markedly in the level of formal education and general cultural competence. The author of the Protevangelium of James shows considerable knowledge of Judaism and Jewish rituals, as is evident in our sample, with the role played by the temple, the priests, and rituals of prayer.53 Although it is not mentioned explicitly in our excerpt, the ideal of ritual purity is also a central concern (e. g. 8:3). Nothing similar can be seen in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas: the issue of purity plays no role whatsoever in the work. Except for the traditional episode of Jesus in the temple at twelve, the story reflects merely superficial familiarity with Jewish or other religious customs: the only one mentioned is the Sabbath and its regulations (2:2). Furthermore, PJ is more detailed when it comes to historical (e. g. 9:8, the people of Israel) and geographical information (e. g. 8:9, Judea), whereas IGT has nothing of this in our sample, and close to nothing in the text as a whole.54 Only in chapter 1, the non-original introduction, are Bethlehem and Nazareth mentioned, but the description is very vague. In addition, PJ – our sample included – clearly mirrors elements from Greco-Roman literature, in particular the Hellenistic novels, both in its rhetoric, its narrative technique, and its values.55 Little of this is visible in IGT; however, it seems to have some relationship with the NT gospels as a genre, and perhaps also with ancient biography, particularly that of holy men.56 53 See L.C. Vuong, “‘Let Us Bring Her Up to the Temple of the Lord’: Exploring the Boundaries of Jewish and Christian Relations through the Presentation of Mary in the Protevangelium of James”, in Clivaz et al., Infancy Gospels, 418–32; L.C. Vuong, Gender and Purity, 44–51, 193–212. 54 However, PJ displays in several chapters a lack of precise knowledge of Palestinian geography, For example, Bethlehem is depicted as being outside of Judea; see e. g. R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 12. 55 R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 25–27. 56 See particularly T. Hägg, The Art of Biography in Antiquity, 173–76, and Sh. Betsworth, Children in Early Christian Narratives (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2015), 148–50, 159, 172–76; also R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 49–52; T. Burke, De Infantia Iesu.

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Finally, PJ generally appears to be much more at home than IGT in an intellectually and philosophically oriented milieu. This is at least implicitly mirrored in our sample, in the dealings among the priests and with the laity, the widowers. It is much more evident elsewhere, however, especially in the depiction of the adult Mary, where she appears as a model of virtue and self-control (13–16) and in the description of the Stoic way in which Zechariah meets his death at the murderers’ hand (23).57 Again, little of such thinking is reflected in IGT, beyond the speculations on the meaning of the alpha. Although such speculations probably were common across the social spectrum, the presentation here mirrors a level of literacy on which the understanding and use of letters appear limited.58 We should, however, note the occasional mention of a person’s “ruling power”, hēgemōn, which may be a Stoic concept, but probably of a broadly popular rather than an exclusively elite nature. And as for Jesus’ behaviour in our sample, although he is in control of the situation, he seems to be anything but in control of himself (6:8b–9a). These indicators suggest that the two infancy gospels spring from quite different contexts: the Protevangelium of James from a learned elite milieu and the Infancy Gospel of Thomas from a considerably less philosophically trained, “common people” oriented setting.

10. The role of theology A fourth difference is the place of theology in the passages. In the Protevangelium of James, the theological agenda is more than visible: the virginity and purity of Mary are underscored repeatedly in the course of the work. This can be seen in our sample too: only widowers are invited to be guardians for Mary (8:7). Implicitly, the widowers are presupposed already to have children – and consequently heirs – from their previous marriage. This is indeed the case with Joseph, who is also old, and thus assumed not to be interested in sex (9:8). Mary is spoken of as “virgin of the Lord” (9:7), and Joseph is said to take care of her out of fear for God, not for his own pleasure (9:11). He also has to leave her immediately and go away to build houses (9:12). In addition to this special agenda, prayer and obedience to God, who is here portrayed as determined and stern (9:9–10), are also emphasized as theologically important. Since the setting of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas passage is a school, and not an explicitly religious setting such as the temple, the place of theology is less evident than in PJ. Nonetheless, a couple of elements that are characteristic of IGT’s theology surface here too. One is the demonstration of Jesus’ superior knowledge and insight, manifested in his interpretation of the alpha (6:10) and in his learning (6:8, he is the one to teach rather than to be taught). Another is his super57 See R.F. Hock, The Infancy Gospels, 18–19. 58 See the analysis in R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 143–46.

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natural origin, his divine nature, which is implied in the teacher’s deliberations: “Perhaps this child existed before the creation of the world?” (7:2). These features also correspond to a central theological topic in IGT as a whole: to show that Jesus is sent from God and is divine already as a child – in short, that he behaves as a “true child and true God”.59 Although both works are doing theology, and much of it in a narrative form, they differ significantly in how they do it. Whereas PJ insistently drives its theological points through, whether in dialogues, comments, or narrative details, IGT’s theological concerns are more oblique: they are often embedded in the storytelling without being stated expressly, and only pop up more occasionally. In a sense – without this being a valuation of their respective theological quality – PJ’s theological profile is more systematically argued and articulated, whereas IGT’s theology develops gradually during the narrative, by fits and starts, and only surfaces at some points. The impression given is that PJ’s theology is of a more educated, intellectual kind, and that IGT’s is of a more lay, popular kind. At the risk of over-simplifying, we may say that the Protevangelium of James reflects an elite theology, whereas the Infancy Gospel of Thomas has its theological origin among people from lower social levels.60 As for the (non-)orthodoxy of the two works, one may ask whether PJ’s strong, nearly extreme, focus on the virginity of Mary – not only before but also after giving birth – was at the time more mainstream than IGT’s idea about Jesus’ divinity as a child. And if we compare their concepts of God in the two stories, PJ does not fare “better” than IGT, for example with regard to God as punishing or taking revenge (cf. PJ 9:9–10).61 Nevertheless, scholars have questioned the orthodoxy of IGT, not of PJ. Both writings have their distinctive theology, but it is not obvious – at least not within a second-century setting – whether the one belongs more to “the mainstream” or to “the other side” than the other.

11. Social world The social worlds depicted in the Protevangelium of James and the Infancy Gospel of Thomas are very different, and this should – as I have indicated above – be taken as also mirroring differences between the socio-cultural milieus to which the works belonged. First, the geographical settings differ. As the PJ sample reflects, Judea, Jerusalem, and the temple are central locations for its events, and Nazareth and Galilee are in fact not mentioned at all. In IGT, the whole story (except for the final episode in the temple) takes place in Jesus’ hometown, which is depicted 59 See my argumentation on this point in R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 152–57. 60 E. g. L.C. Vuong, Gender and Purity (ch. 5) situates PJ within a West Syrian theological struggle between proponents of asceticism and other, more marriage- and procreation-friendly groups. 61 See G. van Oyen, “The Protevangelium Jacobi: An Apocryphal Gospel?” 281–89; R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 162–65.

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as a small farmland village in the middle of nowhere, or rather, of everywhere: it is described in such general terms that it would fit in almost anywhere in the late antique world, and be recognizable to almost anyone. To a large extent, the story of PJ takes place in an urban context, where elites lived, whereas IGT is laid in a rural context, where the majority – about 80 per cent – of the population, of the common people, belonged.62 Second, there are marked differences in the social institutions and arrangements that play a role in the stories. In PJ, the focus is on the temple with its clergy, and on the Roman Empire and politics (e. g. 17:1; 25:1), whereas the only public institution mentioned in the small-town world of IGT is the school. In PJ, attention is paid to genealogy and nobility of birth (1–4), with Mary’s family being very well off (4:5–9), whereas core family relations (parents and children) and a barter economy are characteristic features in IGT.63 Finally, the social level and occupational status of the main characters differ considerably. Joseph is a telling example of this. In both stories he is a carpenter, as in the New Testament (Matt 13:55). In PJ, however, he is portrayed as some kind of entrepreneur, one who goes “away to build houses” (9:12): he is high up on the social ladder among men of his profession. In IGT, on the other hand, Joseph’s situation is far less comfortable. To be sure, he is in charge of taking Jesus to school (6:8), but except for this, his tasks are lowlier: he makes ploughs and yokes, and nearly fails to repair a bed for a rich man (12:1). In addition to carpentry, Joseph has to do a farmer’s work (11). And he turns out to be socially vulnerable, since he is close to being ostracized from the village because of his unruly son (4:2). Thus, the very distinct profiles of Joseph in the gospels demonstrate their different socio-cultural orientations: Whereas the Protevangelium of James generally reflects an urban, elite setting, the world of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas appears to be that of the rural, lower strata of society.

12. Social hierarchy and authority A very striking difference between the samples is how they depict social hierarchies and authority figures. In the Protevangelium of James, social hierarchies are very pronounced, and also very much complied with. Joseph is depicted here in every way possible, whether due to a carrot or a stick, as obedient towards the authorities, with the high priest in our passage representing the establishment. When summoned by the authorities, he “came running”, together with the other widowers, and like them, he hands in his staff (8:9–9:2). When he is chosen, he obeys in taking Mary into his care (9:7). And although he initially objects, he complies after being rebuked by the high priest (9:8–11). Joseph always does what he is told, and as a consequence of this, his mission in the scheme of salvation is 62 R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 166–68, 171–73, 187–91, with references. 63 R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 53–72, especially 68–72.

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fulfilled (9:7). Thus, there is no kind of tension or protest against authorities here or elsewhere in PJ. Social hierarchy is taken for granted throughout, and being rich and of an honourable family are virtues that are highly prized. The situation is different in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, and particularly so with its Jesus figure. In our sample, the child Jesus challenges and competes with a teacher, who is a social superior, an authority figure, and also an older person (see esp. 6:9). He also vanquishes and defeats him, to such a degree that the teacher loses his honour: in his lament, he humiliates himself in the face of his audience, which here is both the audience in the narrative and the implied audience of this story: “Dear me! … I have caused and brought down shame upon myself ” (7:1). The episode may echo Jesus’ criticism of authority figures, the scribes and the Pharisees, in Matthew 23. The conflict situation at school is clearly representative of IGT as a whole: there are a number of situations in which Jesus challenges authorities, such as in his conflicts with another teacher (13), the son of the high priest Annas (3), and also with his own father (5). The only apparent exception is the traditional peri­ cope of Jesus in the temple (17). In his behaviour at school and elsewhere, Jesus not only displays his wisdom and divinity, but also serves as a role model for the addressees of the story, giving them a reason for, and a wish or dream of, confronting and overturning the powerful.64 Read in this way, our text sample and other passages indicate that IGT reflects ideas and attitudes, and also a theology, which differ from that of PJ – and instead resemble ways of thinking which may be representative of some kind of “second church”. Whereas Joseph – and Mary – in the Protevangelium of James are ideals of obedience towards superiors, the Jesus of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas has the potential to become the secret liberator of believers who long for a world in which the tables have been turned.

13. Reflections and conclusions In spite of the many common features of the two infancy gospels, the presentation above has shown that they are in central respects also very dissimilar. This is seen inter alia in the differences in language, style, narrative worlds, and attitudes to authorities. Taken together, these differences bear witness to the distinct diversity in origin – social, cultural, and theological – of the two stories. Although the amount of material I have dealt with is limited, the passages are representative of the stories as a whole, and I will thus venture to make some inferences from my analyses of them. First, both the stories themselves and their early reception history give us good reasons for holding that the gospels reflect the settings within which they were produced. Although there is of course a risk of over-interpretation, 64 See R. Aasgaard, The Childhood of Jesus, 79–85 for a discussion of these matters.

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they seem to a considerable extent to reproduce the world of their respective authors, and probably also of their audiences – with “world” here referring both to milieu and to perceptions and values. This is more evident in the Infancy Gospel of Thomas than in the Protevangelium of James, however: in IGT, there is little to indicate that the world portrayed is in any way imaginary, whereas PJ is more fictional as concerns geography, but appears very much to bear witness to its own setting in matters such as attitudes and ideals. Thus, both IGT and PJ can in general be viewed as being “translucent”, as reflecting their own, very diverse, contexts. Furthermore, and following from this, the gospels seem to mirror different social spheres, and even different social levels: whereas PJ with its biblical erudition, clergy, and sanctuaries is likely to reflect the “establishment”, the elite church, IGT with its slim and uneven evidence of the same displays an affinity to a more popular setting, to what we have termed the “second” church. This does not mean, however, that IGT is in any way inferior to PJ, but rather that it is different from it culturally speaking: it has its own kind of narrative strategy, with less appeal to logos and more to pathos, and with less attention to literary rhetoric and more to oral forms of mediation. In addition, the socio-cultural orientation of IGT is generally rural, whereas that of PJ is clearly more urban. Moreover, it is evident that the two infancy gospels are driven by different theological concerns: whereas the purity of Mary, and her virginity in particular, are asserted in a variety of ways in the Protevangelium of James, the divine nature of Jesus – even as a child – is at the centre of interest throughout the Infancy Gospel of Thomas. Thus, while PJ is occupied with a quite specialized theological topic, IGT deals with a far more commonplace matter: to show that Jesus is both God and human. The theological stamp of IGT is consequently broader and more conventional, more popular, than that of PJ, which here too appears elitist in its profile. Although it cannot be proven, it is highly plausible that there is a correspondence between the special theological concerns of the gospels and the socio-cultural milieus of each of them, and that the thinking and attitudes in them have been significantly shaped by the respective contexts in which they originated. Indeed, it would be far more surprising if there should not be a close relationship between their ideological superstructure and their societal settings. Thus, social context should be taken far more into consideration in the interpretation of the infancy gospels than has been done up to now. The subtitle of this chapter raises the question whether the infancy gospels can somehow be related to a “from above”/“from below” perspective. As has become evident, my answer to this is yes, with the Protevangelium of James representing the former and the Infancy Gospel of Thomas the latter. My aim in arguing this has been to demonstrate the relevance that social setting and level have for the overall interpretation of these stories. Accordingly, PJ and IGT can be regarded as representing an “overside” and an “underside” perspective respectively. Indeed, we should probably even speak, in more general terms, of “oversides” and “undersides” in the plural, since neither “side” can in any way be seen as monolithic.

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In any case, this kind of perspective can serve as a model, a paradigm, that can further our understanding of these stories. The fact that PJ has had a successful reception history, not least in ecclesiastical art, whereas IGT in this respect has lived much more in the shadows, can in itself be evidence of the different ancient biotopes to which they belonged. There are no good reasons why we should not approach other kinds of apocryphal material too in the same way (not to speak of other ancient sources). Future research on the Apocrypha may clearly profit from being more alert to what can be linked up with non-elite Christianity. Instead of considering such material inferior, unsophisticated, or even crude, the texts and beliefs of commoners, of “the second church” – with the Infancy Gospel of Thomas as one representative of this – should not be disparaged, but be given due attention.65 But what about the other element in the subtitle: the question of “orthodoxy” versus “heterodoxy”? In what category or – more cautiously – where on the axis between these positions can the two gospels be placed? In view of the much debated and complicated nature of this question, a broad discussion or a simple allocation of the one or the other to a “mainstream” or to an “other side” is not possible here. A few reflections and assumptions are nonetheless in place. First, it is hard to say what ideas the creators of these stories might have had about theological “orthodoxy” and “heterodoxy” in their time. This problematic may in fact have been quite foreign to them. In any case, neither of the gospels seems to intend to compete with or to correct the biblical and early Christian traditions that they build on. Rather, they seem eager to fill in and supplement them. In the way that they do this, both appear to have been very “orthodox” in their theological intent: they wanted to underscore the divine nature of Mary’s giving birth to Jesus, and of the human Jesus even as a child. Second, we see that the early reception of these stories is somewhat mixed, but – with a couple of exceptions – generally positive. On the one hand, both gospels enjoyed a broad dissemination from an early date. On the other hand, both encountered occasional disapproval; though this was notably more the case with the Infancy Gospel of Thomas than with the Protevangelium of James. The criticism that has been preserved, however, is only that of persons from the elite, such as Irenaeus and Jerome, and is motivated by concerns that mirror very specific theological interests. A characteristic example of this is Chrysostom’s dismissal of IGT, in defence of the Gospel of John’s statement that the event in Cana was Jesus’ first miracle. Thus, the fact that these few cases of criticism are verdicts of persons in an elite position generates a methodological problem, since we do not know how representative they were. Indeed, they may not have been representative at all, not even from an elite point of view. This alerts us to a further matter related to the question of orthodoxy/hete­ rodoxy: to what degree can elite theologians’ negative assessment of such works 65 As noted above, the dimensions of religion presented in N. Smart, Dimensions of the Sacred may be particularly suited to such an approach.

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have been shaped by social prejudice? Was, for example, material from the lower strata deemed inferior, since it did not meet elite expectations with regard to rhetorical form or modes of theological reflection? This may indeed be the case, if we take the early reception of the infancy gospels into account, looking, for example, at the quality and number of surviving manuscripts. As indicated above, the number of manuscripts is much higher for PJ than for IGT, in spite of IGT’s very early and broad geographical dissemination, which is clearly equal to PJ. However, the comparatively more limited number of IGT manuscripts can in fact be only the tip of an iceberg of oral transmission, which may have gone largely unnoticed by the theological and socio-cultural elite.66 As I have argued above, there is little to indicate that IGT is theologically deviant, whether we term it heterodox, heretic, or use some other label. Thus, at least as far as the infancy gospels are concerned, the dividing line between the orthodox and the non-orthodox does not necessarily follow societal divisions. If so, it may that we can speak of both elite and popular “mainstreams” and “other sides”; this is likely to be true of other apocryphal sources too. There is no reason why elite theological thinking should be more adequate or valid than theological expressions that reflect non-elite beliefs. Finally, turning now to modern research and its attitudes to the orthodoxy or non-orthodoxy of the infancy gospels: current scholarship has, as I have noted, resembled early reception history in its somewhat mixed attitude to these stories. In one respect, however, it has clearly differed. Scholars have been far more on their guard against the Infancy Gospel of Thomas than against the Protevangelium of James; the latter has by and large not been suspected of any kind of non-orthodoxy. But to what degree is this warranted? For example, when we consider PJ’s strong emphasis on purity and its otherworldly, gnostic-like depiction of the birth of Jesus, the orthodoxy of PJ is more likely to be questioned than that of IGT, with its portrait of the human-divine child Jesus. But this has scarcely happened. Why is that? Can it be that modern research too has had biases akin to those of the early Christian theological establishment? There are several parallels. Modern scholarship is part of a markedly intellectual tradition; it is situated in the urban context of universities; and it is mostly the concern of scholars from a middle/upper class background, who are thoroughly shaped by their background. This may – admittedly among other factors – be why questions of social class and level have received little attention in research on early Christianity. And this may be why a number of scholars – when such questions have been taken into consideration – have linked a popular story such as the Infancy Gospel of Thomas with heterodoxy and heresy, whereas the Protevangelium of James has not been met with similar assumptions.

66 This, of course, cannot be proved but must remain an assumption. Yet it may have a value on the level of analogy when related to other kinds of comparable material.

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As with the early elite reception of the infancy gospels, modern research too may have failed to distinguish clearly enough between theological and socio-cultural concerns, and, as a consequence of this, confused matters related to socio-cultural origins with those related to orthodoxy and non-orthodoxy. This is neither to throw suspicion on the Protevangelium of James for being non-orthodox, nor to salvage the Infancy Gospel of Thomas from such accusations – that is not my point here. Rather, my aim has been to direct attention to the importance of social context and social level in the interpretation of such material, and with this to contribute to an open and nuanced discussion of ideas of orthodoxy and heterodoxy, of “mainstream” and “other side”, in research on the early Christian Apocrypha.

Meghan Henning (University of Dayton, Ohio)

Lacerated Lips and Lush Landscapes:  Constructing This-Worldly Theological Identities in the Otherworld

1. Introduction When Irenaeus juxtaposed “tradition” and heresy,1 he moved the image of Early Christian αἵρεσις away from the Pauline usage, which centered primarily upon incorrect behavior (See 1Cor 11:19, Gal 5:20).2 Irenaeus’ definition of heresy, however, does not indicate that all early Christians prioritized belief over behavior, or even maintained orthodoxy and orthopraxis as separate categories. In the otherworldly spaces of the apocryphal apocalypses doxa and praxis seem to be intertwined, and little or no distinction is made between belief and behavior. Instead, in the Otherworld the categories of primary importance are righteous/ unrighteous, good/evil, Christian/Other. The Otherworld is a place in which sins can be “sorted” and the identity3 markers which might have been overlooked or are difficult to see in this world can be seen more clearly.4 And yet, we are left to wonder how that otherworldly clarity maps onto the lived experience of the ancient audiences of these apocalypses. Thus, we will begin by reflecting upon the ability of these apocalyptic texts to create (and recreate) Christian identity by either describing real categories of people, or by creating the categories themselves, and so prescribing reality. In each of the apocalypses that we will discuss the reader learns that his or her identity is determined for all of eternity by the choices that are made in this 1 I am extremely grateful for the critical feedback of Ismo Dunderberg, C.R. Moss, T. Nicklas, and the participants of the “The O ­ ther Side: Apocryphal Perspectives on Ancient Christian Orthodoxies” conference, held in London on July 3–5, 2014. Any remaining mistakes are my own. 2 Irenaeus Haer. 3.3.1. Here Irenaeus argues that bishops have been chosen who stand in the tradition of the apostles, a tradition that is characterized by bearing no resemblance to the teachings of the heretics. Thus, he concludes, these heretical teachings cannot have apostolic authority. 3 When I use the term “identity” I am not operating under the assumption that Christian identity was a tangible or singular entity in antiquity. Instead, I have in mind the host of socially constructed boundary markers that an ancient person might use (both beliefs and practices) to indicate to themselves and others that they are part of the group “Christian”. 4 John Chrysostom, Paenit. 7, argues that the clear division between what awaits in heaven and hell is motivational: “My master, your promises are good as is your kingdom, which is expected, because it urges on; the Gehenna (γέεννα) with which you threaten is evil because it frightens. In other words, the kingdom incites towards the good, and hell frightens usefully.”

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world. In this regard, each depiction of the otherworld establishes its own identity markers, isolating certain beliefs and behaviors as distinctively “Christian.” What is startling about the definitions of Christian belief and practice that emerge from each text is that they are rather expansive, covering far more territory than any creed or council.5 Our discussion will demonstrate that while creedal definitions of orthodoxy (as well as the apocalyptic definitions of correct belief that mirror them) were often aimed at labeling specific groups as “other”, the apocalyptic depictions of the otherworld were attempting to be either exhaustive or open-ended, imagining a host of practices that could be used to frame Christian identity.6 In these imaginary spaces, the theological identities that were crafted could not simply be summarized by simple binaries like orthodoxy/heterodoxy, oppressed/oppressor, or even sinner/sinless. Instead, the apocalyptic visions, which on the surface seem to deal in dichotomies, paradoxically proliferate a range of Christian practices.7

2. Hermeneutics and the Otherworld: The History of Interpretation of Hell and the “Truth Games” of Proto-Orthodoxy and Canonicity Due to the plethora of scholarship on ancient Christianity, paideia and rhetoric, the claim that Christians were using their depictions of hell to construct identity seems a rather obvious one. Nevertheless, scholarship on the texts that describe the otherworld has not always leaned in that direction. Instead, of conceiving of hell’s torments as a mechanism for naming, and thus constructing Christian norms, we imagine that the sinners that we find in hell must point to some real life “outsider” in the author’s world. In the case of the Apocalypse of Peter, ­Richard Bauckham has argued that the “false messiah” is Bar Kokhbah, and others have 5 Additionally, in some places there is overlap between Christian Orthopraxis and Non-Christian Orthopraxis, since many of these texts expect that all human beings will be judged according to these behavioral standards, not merely Christians (though Christians have the advantage of knowing these parameters for judgment via the apocalypses). I am grateful to Tobias Nicklas for this insight. 6 I have argued elsewhere that these otherworldly visions are primarily intended to educate early Christians. See M. Henning, Educating Early Christians through the Rhetoric of Hell: “Weeping and Gnashing of Teeth” as Paideia in Matthew and the Early Church (WUNT II; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014). As catechetical texts these apocalyptic visions were an important tool for developing early Christian identity, helping to define what it meant to bear the name “Christian”. 7 As D. Brakke, The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2010), 133–34, notes the same paradoxical diversity was promulgated by other early Christian efforts to define “proto-orthodoxy”: “Although Irenaeus and others hoped to eliminate diversity and establish a single Church with a single truth, their efforts in fact contributed to the rich multiplicity of the imperial Christian culture that emerged in late antiquity.”

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imagined that the torments of hell are designed to make persecuted Christians feel vindicated.8 In many ways these interpretations are natural extensions of the anonymous figures in the text, who do seem to invite readers to map their character traits onto known individuals in the real world. Yet, each of these interpretations of the Apocalypse of Peter requires that the reader imagine a real life conflict that lies behind the apocalyptic rhetoric. These interpretive strategies are dependent upon the assumptions that apocalyptic literature is “conflict literature,” and that early Christians in the second century C.E. were a codified and homogenous (orthodox) group that was in conflict with some other “outside” group or groups. This tendency to see a one for one connection between the apocalyptic world and the lives of early Christians is at odds with the idea that the apocrypha are by definition “not real”. If the apocrypha are “false” then they do not have a substantive relationship with the realia of early Christianity (or at least less so than the “canonical” and “true” texts). Although some scholars have offered correctives for this perception,9 the dominance of the canon coupled with our enlightenment consciousness still leads scholars to assume that the “fantastical” ancient depictions of heaven and hell were extraneous to the practical lives of early Christians.10 As François Bovon has demonstrated, however, early Christians did not categorize their texts according to a simple binary distinction between canonical and apocryphal, but rather many of the texts that we classify as apocrypha were a regular part of daily life.11 The genius of Bovon’s work is not simply the new information about early Christian reading practices that shatters our dichotomous thinking, but the insight that our previous scholarly reading practices were   8 R. Bauckham, “The Apocalypse of Peter: A Jewish Christian Apocalypse from the Time of Bar Kokhba”, in The Fate of the Dead: Studies in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (Leiden Brill, 1998), 160–258. M.J. Gilmour, “Delighting in the Suffering of Others: Early Christian Schadenfreude and the Function of the Apocalypse of Peter”, BBR 16 (2006), 129–39, has suggested that this is intended to make the readers of the text feel “vindicated” because those who commit crimes against them will be punished. E. Tigchelaar, “Is the Liar Bar Kokhba? Considering the Date and Provenance of the Greek (Ethiopic) Apocalypse of Peter”, in The Apocalypse of Peter, ed. J.N. Bremmer & I. Czachesz (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 63–77, has called into question the specific identification with Bar Kokhba, arguing that the description of the false messiah in Apoc. Pet. 2 is more generally a function of the genre of apocalyptic literature.   9 See T. Nicklas, Semiotik – Intertextualität – Apokryphität: Eine Annäherung an den Begriff “christlicher Apokryphen”, Apocrypha 17 (2006), 55–78; T. Nicklas, “Christian Apocrypha and the Development of the Christian Canon”, Early Christianity 5 (2014), 220–40. 10 For example, Bockmuehl’s depiction of the “lived memory” of Peter reveals his tendency to think that the apocryphal texts are “false” and distinguished from the canon on the basis of their “fanciful” elements. For specific evidence of this distinction within his approach see M. Bockmuehl, The Remembered Peter in Ancient Reception and Modern Debate (WUNT 262; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 23. See also Bockmuehl, Simon Peter in Scripture and Memory: The New Testament Apostle in the Early Church (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Academic, 2012), 90, 103, 133, 140, 145, and especially 160–61 in which he characterizes the Acts of Peter as “largely legendary and apocryphal.” 11 F. Bovon, “Besides the Canonical and the Apocryphal Books, the Presence of a Third Category: The Books Useful for the Soul”, HTR 105 (2012), 125–37.

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unduly influenced by late antique categories. Where the otherworld is concerned, the dichotomies of orthodoxy/heterodoxy, apocryphal/canonical are bound up in a specific late antique hermeneutic, in which hell and heaven reflect an effort to circumscribe Christian identity in certain terms. 2.1. The Otherworld as Reflexive: Finding the Heterodox in Hell and the Orthodox in Heaven While many of the depictions of heaven and hell contain unnamed righteous persons and sinners, the late antique depictions of the afterlife more frequently name names. Although we find a few named persons in some of the early Christian apocalypses, they are usually isolated historical figures like King Herod or the patriarchs, persons whose identity as unrighteous or righteous is well established, but not representative of any kind of conflict in the historical present of the apocalyptic author or readers.12 For other authors like Tertullian, however, name dropping in relation to the afterlife is reflexive of a conflict that is very real, at least to the author himself.13 Tertullian imagines the Pleroma filled with “the spirit like swarm of Valentinus,” an inferior heaven in which the followers of Valentinus are sexual slaves to the angels. Playfully ridiculing his opponents, Tertullian’s bifurcated heaven is simultaneously a product of his imagination and reflexive of a real world tension that he perceives to exist between his own world and the followers of Valentinus. Similarly, when Gregory the Great wishes to decry the followers of Origen, he is working from a similar binary way of thinking to that of Tertullian, in which the so-called heterodox are consigned to lesser eternal fates.14 In this hermeneutic, the otherworld is a mirror to the present world, and simply reports Divine judgment that mimics the categories that the authors and their communities have already established on earth. This binary rhetoric of the otherworld has a certain allure, which makes it easy to read all of the depictions of heaven and hell through the lenses of orthodox “truth games,” assuming 12 In the Apocalypse of Paul heaven contains a host of named patriarchs, and as we shall see below, its hell is filled with church leaders who have not fulfilled their specifically named role. Likewise, the Apocalypse of Ezra identifies King Herod by name, indicating that some of the persons tortured in hell are representative of real life individuals. 13 Tertullian Val. 32. I am extremely grateful to Ismo Dunderberg for this reference. 14 Gregory the Great, Moral. 34.15.38. See also, Gregory the Great, Dialogues 4.40–49, in which the deathbed visions of hell that Gregory describes do not confirm the heterodoxy of the persons that the monks see there, but assure the monks and their of divine enforcement of the boundaries that the community had already established. The translation of Dialogues is available in Z.O. John, trans., Fathers of the Church, a New Translation (New York: Fathers of the Church, 1959), 39:244–60. Although some scholars have questioned the authenticity of this material, Francis Clark has argued that most of the material is Gregorian, but was compiled by a slightly later author who had access to Gregory’s notes and sermons. See F. Clark, The “Gregorian” Dialogues and the Origins of Benedictine Monasticism (Boston: Brill, 2003), 7–59, 397–407.

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that every single negatively characterized individual is someone who would be readily recognizable as “heterodox” to the readers of the text.15 2.2. The Otherworld as Constructive: The Use of the “Apocrypha” in Christian Praxis If we are to avoid being seduced by the reading practices of late antique heresiology, we have to consider not just the texts themselves, but the use of the otherworld in early Christian practice. The Muratorian fragment mentions the Apocalypse of Peter, saying “We receive only the apocalypses of John and Peter, though some of us are not willing that the latter be read in church.”16 Here the admission that some people protest the reading of the Apocalypse of Peter in church tells us that there were others who did use the text in worship. We find a more specific description of liturgical practice in Sozomen, who recounts the practice of Palestinean churches that read the Apocalypse of Peter annually on Good Friday while fasting in memory of the passion.17 In addition to regular liturgical use, the Apocalypse of Peter was also used in a variety of teaching contexts. For Clement of Alexandria its vision of hell was the perfect teaching tool to correct the practice of child exposure.18 As Tobias Nicklas has demonstrated in this volume, the Itinerarium Burdigalense likely relies upon the narrative details of the Apocalypse of Peter to describe the Mount of Olives, inviting pilgrims to see this site as the place where Jesus taught his disciples and Moses and Elijah appeared.19 These data points are by no means meant to indicate that the early Christian apocalypses were universally embraced in worship and teaching settings. But they do demonstrate that in antiquity and in late antiquity these so-called apocrypha were not viewed by all Christians as false, heterodox, or fanciful. Much to Augustine’s chagrin, these texts were employed in worship and teaching by 15 As M. Foucault, “Polemics, Politics, and Problematizations: An Interview”, in The Foucault Reader, ed. P. Rabinow (New York: Random House, 1984), 387, articulated in an interview, the historian who tries to problematize history by looking to “experience” has to consider three main axes or fundamental elements of that experience: 1) a game of truth, 2) relations of power and 3) the forms of relation to oneself and others. Here we are attempting to problematize the “game of truth” that is established by second century heresiology, and the impact of these “truth games” upon the history of interpretation of the “otherworlds.” 16 Muratorian Fragment 71–72 in “The Muratorian Canon”, in Lost Scriptures:Books That Did Not Make It into the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 331–33. As A. Jakab, “The Reception of the Apocalypse of Peter in Ancient Christianity”, in The Apocalypse of Peter, ed. J.N. Bremmer & I. Czachesz (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 175, notes “We do not know if they rejected the text because of its content, its authenticity, or for some other reason.” 17 Sozomen, Hist. eccl. 7.19.9 (mid fifth century C.E.), also notes that at this point some were also beginning to hold the text in suspicion. 18 See Clement of Alexandria, Ecl. 41; 48; 49. 19 Itin. Burd. 18.

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groups that he would have included in the group “Christian”.20 Within these worship settings the implied purpose is not to shore up the religio-political identity of some group that self-identifies as “orthodox”. The teachings of Clement and the liturgical setting of Good Friday suggest that these texts were employed for the edification of early Christian communities, to establish ethical norms and to lead to penitence and corporate reflection. Although early Christian praxis calls into question the hermeneutics of heresiology, we take to heart the cautions of Christoph Markschies regarding our scholarly tendencies to categorize. The following analysis will not attempt to argue that early Christian depictions of heaven and hell either reflect or construct early Christian reality. Instead, we will consider the depictions of the otherworld as spaces that likely performed both of these roles, or fell somewhere along a continuum between the two, within the ongoing process of early Christian identity formation.21

3. The Otherworld as a Place to Keep them Separated: “Sorting” in Pre-Christian Depictions of the Otherworld With adamantine bars (Virgil Aen. 6.550–560; Matt 16:18; Apoc. Pet. 4; Apoc. Paul 18) and locked golden gates (Matt 16:19; Apoc. Paul 19), hell and heaven seem to lend themselves nicely to being conceived as spaces to cordon off the heterodox from the orthodox. However, the otherworld was not always such a convenient containment system for the wayward soul. In many pre-Christian understandings of the Otherworld the dead all traveled to a common place, and the dead were not “sorted” in the same way that they are in Christian configurations of heaven and hell. For example many of the references to Sheol within 20 Augustine, Civ. 21.17–27, takes issue with the Apocalypse of Peter because it is not stringent enough, allowing a day of respite for the damned. In this same passage Augustine also differentiates himself from other Christians who have different opinions about eternal judgment, but does not treat them as “outsiders” to Christianity on the basis of these differences. 21 As Michel Foucault noted early in his career, “other spaces” are rarely performing just one function in relation to “real space.” See the English translation of Foucault’s March 1967 lecture “Of Other Spaces”, trans. Jay Miskowiec, Diacritics 16/1 (1986), 22–27. Foucault experiments with a possible theoretical framework for understanding spaces that are set apart from the social norm, or “des espaces autres.” In his description of the various ways in which these “heterotopias” function he explains how they relate to other spaces leaving the possibility of movement between the two poles he establishes: “The last trait of heterotopias is that they have a function in relation to all the space that remains. This function unfolds between two extreme poles. Either their role is to create a space of illusion that exposes every real space, all the sites inside of which human life is partitioned, as still more illusory (perhaps that is the role that was played by those famous brothels of which we are now deprived). Or else, on the contrary, their role is to create a space that is other, another real space, as perfect, as meticulous, as well arranged as ours is messy, ill constructed and jumbled.”

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the Hebrew Bible imagine that all of the dead dwell in the same damp, dusty, dark place.22 In Job 17:13–16 for instance, Sheol is used poetically as a metonym for death, as Job asks rhetorically if he and his hope should “descend together into the dust”, into Sheol. Likewise, many of the earliest Greek and Latin texts imagine that everyone goes to Hades upon death, regardless of his or her status, theological identity or character. In the descent to Hades of Odyssey 11, Odysseus encounters his mother (Od. 11.223–244) and Agamemnon (Od. 11.410–44) as well as the famously punished dead (Orion, Tantalus, Sisyphus and Tityos of Od. 11.568–600). Virgil’s Hades is also the common destination for all of the dead, allowing Aeneas to be reunited with his father (Virgil, Aeneid 6.688–689), and observe the punishment of the evil souls who are being purified prior to their reincarnation (Virgil, Aeneid 6.735–751). 3.1. “Works” and the Reign of Christ in the New Testament In contrast to these descriptions of the abode of the dead simply as a “container”, for later Christians the otherworld became a “label-maker”, a means of naming, and thus crafting theological identity in this world. On the surface, sorting in the otherworld is not explicitly about describing or prescribing doxa except in a few cases (for instance when the Apoc. Paul specifically condemns those who deny the incarnation). In many instances the otherworld separates “insiders” and “outsiders”, but often along lines that are drawn according to specific behaviors and not beliefs. These lines demarcate theological boundaries, in so much as they are used to delineate who can claim the title “Christian” in this world and the next. The idea that earthly behaviors determine whether one can identify themselves with Christ in the afterlife is rooted in New Testament texts. In Revelation 20 those who were “beheaded because of their testimony (τὴν μαρτυρίαν)” and those who resisted worship of the beast enjoy the first resurrection and a thousand year reign with Christ (Rev 20:4). After that reign the dead will all be judged according to their works (κατὰ τὰ ἔργα αὐτῶν), and anyone whose name is not written in the book of life will be thrown into the lake of fire (Rev 20:12– 15). Likewise, in Matthew 25 the bridegroom does not recognize the bridesmaids who are unprepared for his arrival, and the Son of Man determines the 22 The majority of scholars argue that in the Hebrew Bible “Sheol” was understood primarily as the abode of all dead people. J. Pedersen, Israel: Its Life and Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1926); R.L. Harris, “she’ôl”, TWOT (1980), 892–93; R. Bauckham, “Hades, Hell”, ABD (1992), 3: 14–16; Th.J. Lewis, “Dead, Abode of the”, ABD (1992), 2:101–05; A.E. Bernstein, The Formation of Hell: Death and Retribution in the Ancient and Early Christian Worlds (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1993), 140–46; D.J. Powys, “Hell”: A Hard Look at a Hard Question: The Fate of the Unrighteous in New Testament Thought (Carlisle, Cumbria: Paternoster, 1998), 83; J.N. Bremmer, The Rise and Fall of the Afterlife: The 1995 Read-Tuckwell Lectures at the University of Bristol (New York: Routledge, 2002), 8–9.

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eternal fate of the righteous and the cursed based upon their treatment of the “least of these.”23 3.2. Otherworldly Categories that Demarcate Theological Identity in this World Since the otherworld is often the space of final judgment the theological identities that are assigned there are determinative, impinging upon the self- understanding of this worldly readers, and carrying a distinctive level of authority. In the Apocalypse of Peter the audience is warned to avoid false Christs because the final judgment is imminent, in which each man will be judged “according to his work” (Apoc. Pet. 1).24 In this text the description of the final judgment introduces the visions of hell and heaven with a vivid retelling of the gospel story of Christ riding on a cloud (Matt 25 and parallels) consigning sinners to fiery punishments and “the elect who have done good” to eternal life (Apoc. Pet. 5). In the visions of hell and heaven that follow, the dichotomy that is established at the text’s outset is reinforced: identification with the false Christ leads to wicked deeds and fiery torment, while those who follow the true Christ “do good” and will ascend to heaven. Here, the visions of hell and heaven are used to bolster the theological identity of “true Christians” who follow Christ by delineating the theological identity and fate of the “false Christians” who follow an imposter.25 The Apocalypse of Peter connects Christ’s reign and final judgment with human deeds (“recompense every man according to his work,” Apoc. Pet. 1; Apoc. Pet. 6, cf. Matt 16:27), so that Christian identity is equated with a particular lifestyle on earth. In a world that is plagued by charlatans who claim to be “the Christ” 23 Likewise, Paul refers to the eternal judgment of “sinners” or the “wicked”, but does so in general terms; see 1 Thess 1:10; 5:3; 1 Cor 15:5; Rom 2:5–11. Paul’s references to God’s wrath upon the “wicked” share the rhetorical orientation of the “two ways” motif within the Hebrew Bible, emphasizing the choice one has between “wickedness” and life “in Christ”. For a fuller discussion of afterlife imagery in Paul’s letters, see A.Y. Collins, “The Otherworld and the New Age in the Letters of Paul”, in Other Worlds and Their Relation to This World: Early Jewish and Ancient Christian Traditions, ed. T. Nicklas et al. (JSJ.S 143; Boston: Brill, 2010), 189–207. 24 Unless otherwise noted, all citations of the Apocalypse of Peter are from the Ethiopic version of the text and English translations are from C.D.G. Müller, “Apocalypse of Peter”, in New Testament Apocrypha, ed. W. Schneemelcher & E. Hennecke, trans. R. Wilson (Louisville, Ky: Westminster John Knox, 1991), 625–38. 25 As discussed above, we reject the interpretation of these terms as references to Bar Kokhba and the Judean revolt. For an excellent discussion of the problems with assigning a highly specific historical context to the Apocalypse of Peter see T. Nicklas, “‘Insider’ und ‘Outsider’: Überlegungen zum historischen Kontext der Darstellung ‘jenseitiger Orte’ in der Offenbarung des Petrus”, in Topo­ graphie des Jenseits: Studien zur Geschichte des Todes in Kaiserzeit und Spätantike, ed. W. Ameling (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2011), 35–48. Although the term martys is used, the emphasis in the context of the Apocalypse of Peter is on the lives of these “witnesses”. See M. Henning, Educating Early Christians, 185.

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(Apoc. Pet. 1), the Apocalypse of Peter uses the clear categorization of the wicked and righteous in the otherworlds to awaken the reader to the need to adjudicate authentic Christianity on earth. Likewise, in the Acts of Thomas 51–60 the encratite ideal that is promoted in the vision of hell is explicitly interpreted by the apostle, who explains that belief in Christ Jesus will result in cleansing of one’s “bodily desires” (and when Thomas’ hearers believe, their behavior seems to change automatically; Acts Thom. 58–59). In other visions of the otherworld the bar is set much higher; identification with Christ does not naturally lead to righteousness and good deeds, and identification of a “Christian” on earth is even more precarious. For instance, the Ascension of Isaiah reminds readers that righteousness and holding the correct beliefs are not enough on their own to earn one the “robes and thrones and crowns of glory, which are placed in the seventh heaven” – a person must also “be in the Holy Spirit” (Ascen. Isa. 11:40).26 The Apocalypse of Zephaniah demonstrates that one’s Christian education must be complete, otherwise she will be like the catechumens wandering around Hades blind until they repent (Apoc. Zeph. 10).27 Further complicating any attempt to carve out neat categories in the otherworld, the Apocalypse of Paul’s vision of hell includes a wide range of practitioners, who would likely have been identified as Christian on earth. The Christians punished here include churchgoers who misbehave outside of church, a wayward presbyter, a bishop who was not compassionate towards widows and orphans, a deacon who ate the offerings, a lector who did not keep the commandments, and churchgoers who did not pay attention to the Word of God in

26 English translations of the Ascension of Isaiah are from C.D.G. Müller, “Ascension of Isaiah”, in New Testament Apocrypha, ed. W. Schneemelcher & E. Hennecke, trans. R. Wilson (Louisville, Ky: Westminster John Knox, 1991), 603–19. 27 Despite its likely origin as a Jewish text, the citation of this text by Clement (Strom. 5.11.77), its preservation in the White monastery of Shenoute, and its use of the term “catechumen” all suggest that it had a later Christian readership, and is thus relevant to our conversation here (although in many cases the categories “Jewish” and “Christian” are transcended in the pseudepigrapha). The Apocalypse of Zephaniah is dated between 100 B.C.E. and 70 C.E. The text is extant in Coptic fragments, which are thought to be translations of the Greek original (no longer extant). See O.S. Wintermute, “Apocalypse of Zephaniah”, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, ed. J.H. Charlesworth (Garden City, N.Y: Doubleday, 1983), 1: 500–501. While O.S. Wintermute, “Apocalypse of Zephaniah”, 501, notes that despite the text’s preservation in a Christian monastery, there are no signs that the text was modified, later scholarship has argued that the extant fragments do reflect distinctively Christian concerns. For summary and discussion of these Christian elements, and the justification of a “Jewish-Christian milieu” as the original context for the Coptic fragments see B.J. Diebner, Zephanjas Apokalypsen (Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 2003), 1141–1246; J.N. Bremmer, “Tours of Hell: Greek, Roman, Jewish and Early Christian”, in Topographie des Jenseits: Studien zur Geschichte des Todes in Kaiserzeit und Spätantike, ed. W. Ameling (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2011), 13–34: 29–30.

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church (Apoc. Paul 31–37).28 In the Greek Apocalypse of Mary it is revealed that one’s eternal fate is in jeopardy if “on the morning of the Lord’s day” he “sleeps like the dead” – so ostensibly a person could self identify as a Christian but wreck it all by sleeping in on Sundays if it were not for the crystal clear boundary set by Mary’s vision of men and women burning in a cloud of fire (Gk. Apoc. Mary 12).29 This stringent differentiation of categories of misled and misleading Christians in the afterlife enables the reader to refine his or her understanding of the label “Christian”, and perhaps even to call into question the stability of his or her own Christian identity. Each of these visions of the otherworld focuses on behaviors that are incongruous with the person’s earthly moniker but that likely went unnoticed, begging the reader to take notice of human behavior rather than the categories assigned in the present world. As such, visions of the otherworld use strictly defined behavioral categories in order to redraw theological boundary lines, demonstrating that identification with Christ in the otherworld is more demanding than simply claiming the title “Christian”, holding a church office, or even attending church. While the categories in the text become more demanding, they also call into question the fixity of the categories like “Christian,” using the flexibility of hell as “heterotopia” to rethink these titles in the present world.

4. Lacerated Lips: Defining Christian Identity through Heteropraxis in the Netherworld In the Apocalypse of Paul 36 we read about the lector who did not keep the commandments, who is in a river of fire up to his knees as a punishing angel lacerates his lips and tongue with “a great blazing razor”. This lector with the lacerated lips is just one of the group of “unexpected” sinners who are identified in the “river of boiling fire” in the Apocalypse of Paul 31–37. Like so many of the others we find in the netherworld of the early Christian apocalypses, he is unnamed and is identified primarily by his deeds (and in this case also by his social role and ina28 When compared with the Apoc. Pet., the Apoc. Paul is much more interested in the inner differentiation of the community, likely because it is written in a post-Theodosian era. English translations of the Apocalypse of Paul are from H. Duensing & A. de Santos Otero, “Apocalypse of Paul”, in New Testament Apocrypha, ed. W. Schneemelcher & E. Hennecke, trans. R. Wilson (Louisville, Ky: Westminster John Knox, 1991).The Latin is available in Th. Silverstein & A. Hilhorst (ed.), Apocalypse of Paul: A New Critical Edition of Three Long Latin Versions (Geneve: P.Cramer, 1997). 29 The Greek Apocalypse of Mary is most commonly titled “The Apocalypse of the All-holy Mother of God Concerning the Punishments” in the manuscripts. Unless otherwise noted, the English translations of Greek Apocalypse of Mary that are cited are from A. Rutherford, “The Apocalypse of the Virgin”, in Ante-Nicene Fathers: The Writings of the Fathers down to A. D. 325, ed. A. Roberts & J. Donaldson (Peabody, Mass: Hendrickson, 1994), 10: 167–74. The Greek text is available in M.R. James, Apocrypha Anecdota: A Collection of Thirteen Apocryphal Books and Fragments (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1893), 115–26.

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bility to perform it). For example there are those who are punished because of their sexual sins (Apoc. Pet.7, 10–11; Acts Thom. 55–57; Apoc. Paul 38; Gk. Apoc. Mary 20),30 women who do not fulfill their social role as “mother” (Apoc. Pet. 8; Apoc. Paul 40; Gk. Apoc. Mary 23), sorcerers and magicians (2 En. 10; Apoc. Pet. 12; Apoc. Paul 38), and the host of individuals who fail to live up to the ethical rubric of the Sermon on the Mount (2 En. 10; Apoc. Pet. 9; Acts Thom. 56; Apoc. Paul 31, 39, 40, 44),31 just to name a few.32 In each of these examples the unnamed wicked person is being punished for a very specific behavior, emphasizing that the behavior itself is determinative. Among the specific behaviors that are isolated in hell there is also a very high level of differentiation.33 In some depictions of hell distinct subcategories of the same sin are punished. For instance in the Apoc. Pet. 7 we find the women who plaited their hair (for the purpose of fornication) hung up by their hair, while those who did not keep their virginity until marriage have their flesh torn to pieces in a separate place (Apoc. Pet. 11). And elsewhere in the Apocalypse of Peter distinct punishments are described for those who blasphemed the way of righteousness (hanging punishments, Apoc. Pet. 7), those who have denied righteousness (a burning pit, Apoc. Pet. 7), as well as for those slanderers “who doubt my [Christ’s] righteousness” (chewing their tongues and having their eyes burned with red hot irons, Apoc. Pet 8). In the Greek Apocalypse of Mary men and women are punished separately for similar sins: men who charged usury are hung up by their feet and devoured by worms (Gk. Apoc. Mary 9) and the “money loving” women who charged interest on accounts and were immodest are hung up over fire and devoured by beasts (Gk. Apoc. Mary 21). This high level of differentiation among the sins and punishments in hell gives the impression that the minute details of one’s behavior are under scrutiny and subject to punishment (in this regard the

30 These citations are not exhaustive, but simply offer a few examples. For a detailed discussion of the sexual sins punished in the tours of hell see M. Himmelfarb, Tours of Hell: An Apocalyptic Form in Jewish and Christian Literature (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1983), 68–105. 31 See M. Henning, Educating Early Christians, 189–90, for a complete list of texts in which eternal punishment is assigned for those who fail to meet the ethical demands of the Sermon on the Mount. 32 The one named person we find in hell is Herod, who is punished on a fiery throne Latin Vis. Ezra 37–39 and Gk. Apoc. Ezra 4.8–12. 33 As M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (New York: Vintage, 1995 [1975]), 192–94, argues, disciplinary structures reverse the traditional “axis of individualization” of a society, so that those with less power are actually more highly individualized. He explains, the way that he sees this at work in his history of the modern penal system: “In a disciplinary regime, on the other hand, individualization is ‘descending’: as power becomes more anonymous and more functional, those on whom it is exercised tend to be more strongly individualized.” We do not intend to imply that the ancient and late antique depictions of the otherworld are comparable to the modern penal system. However, we take his methodological hypothesis regarding disciplinary regimes to have some merit with respect to the unseen power dynamics at play in texts across historical contexts.

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God of these apocalyptic texts is very much like Santa Claus).34 The level of detail also conveys a sense of comprehensiveness-that every sin has a special place in hell. What is more, the anonymity of these sinners also allows for almost any earthly identity to be superimposed upon their tortured bodies, so that a reader can readily see themselves or their enemies in their stead. The text of the Apocalypse of Peter suggests such an interpretation when the unnamed children are seen watching the punishment of those who did not honor their mother and father (11). Here a tortured body is an explicit opportunity for personal reflection. Elsewhere, the murdered look on as their murderers are cast into the fire in the place with the venomous beasts (Apoc. Pet. 7).35 These anonymous sinners are taunted by their victims who say “righteousness and justice is the judgment of God”, again reinforcing the hard line that is drawn between those who behave righteously and identify with Christ, and those who sin and are tortured and mocked for eternity. The anonymity in these depictions of hell allows maximal flexibility in re-assigning identity-anyone can be subject to these torments and separated from identification with the Son of God in the afterlife.36 Despite the prominence of the punishments for specific sins, earthly misdeeds are not the only disqualifier for eternal identification with Christ. In the Apocalypse of Zephaniah a person can also be marked for eternal torment because of missed opportunities to perform good deeds. In Apoc. Zeph. 7 the seer is able to read the two manuscripts that record his sins and good deeds respectively. On the manuscript that catalogs the seer’s sins he finds that all of his shortcomings are recorded, including any time that he did not visit a sick person, widow, or orphan and any day on which he did not fast or pray at the appointed time. Appalled at all of his failings, he begs for mercy, and is saved from Hades. In this passage, the identity of the righteous person is not merely formed according to what a person does, but is claimed by those who take every opportunity to care for others and practice their faith. For early Christian readers of the Apocalypse of Zephaniah the story of the two manuscripts characterizes the “in group” as those persons who practice their faith industriously and without fail. Finally, in the later apocalypses, we find that Christian identity is not only fashioned through visions of hell that delineate heteropraxis, but also by isolat34 As M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 199, noted with respect to the plague, this high degree of individualization among those with the least power creates “dualistic mechanisms of exclusion.” These mechanisms rely upon the binaries of “mad/sane, dangerous/harmless, normal/abnormal” to ensure that the social hierarchy is easily enforced because every person has a well defined place. 35 As noted above, M.J. Gilmour, “Delighting in the Suffering of Others”, 129–39, suggests that this is intended to make the readers of the text feel “vindicated”. While “delighting in the suffering of others” could be the basis for these audiences of righteous onlookers in the Apocalypse of Peter, this explanation overlays a modern idea on the ancient text. These audiences could just as easily be present to enhance the shame of the tortured (having to face those they have wronged), or to heighten the established dichotomy between the wicked and righteous. 36 See for instance, the Apocalypse of Paul 44, in which the Son of God chastises those who are punished in hell for asking for mercy in the afterlife when they failed to repent on earth.

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ing mistaken beliefs. The last two stops on Paul’s tour of hell in the Apocalypse of Paul are dedicated sites of punishment for the heterodox. Paul first sees a well that is sealed with seven seals, and is told by his angelic guide to “stand back” because he will “not be able to bear the stench of this place” (Apoc. Paul 41). Looking down into the well Paul sees a narrow passage with fiery masses burning all around it, and is told by the angel that if a person comes to this place the passage is sealed above him and no mention will ever be made of that person to the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, or holy angels. When Paul asks who is condemned to such a punishment, the angel responds: “They are those who have not confessed that Christ came in the flesh and that the Virgin Mary bore him, and who say that the bread of the Eucharist and the cup of blessing are not the body and blood of Christ” (Apoc. Paul 41). Next Paul is taken to the place where the worm (a cubit in size) never rests and there is gnashing of teeth and cold and snow. The men and women there who gnash their teeth are identified by the angel as “those who say that Christ has not risen from the dead and that this flesh does not rise” (Apoc. Paul 42). In both of these places of punishment Paul sees torment taken to an extreme, be it permanent disassociation with all persons of the Trinity or banishment to a place of extreme cold. The sins of disbelief that are punished in these places are extremely specific, explicitly naming those with incorrect theologies of the incarnation, Eucharist or resurrection as “outsiders”. Here orthodoxy is both generated and reinforced by sorting the dead into specific categories of punishment and then isolating the heterodox as particularly deserving of the worst kinds of punishments, sending a message that stepping outside of those theological boundaries carries serious eternal consequences. In the Greek Apocalypse of Mary practice and belief are defined and linked in the first two spaces that Mary sees. In Hades she sees those who did not worship the “Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit” (Gk. Apoc. Mary 3) and in the place of great darkness she sees those who are covered in a flow of pitch: “they who did not believe in the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit and did not confess thee to be the Mother of God, and that the Lord Jesus Christ was born of thee and took flesh” (Gk. Apoc. Mary 4). In these two passages incorrect worship and incorrect belief are inextricably linked and defined as punishable. Later in the apocalypse Mary makes explicit that her entreaties for mercy upon the damned are only for the “Christians” and not “for the unbelieving Jews”, emphasizing that belief is what defines Christian identity over and against Jewish identity (Gk. Apoc. Mary 26). The Lord responds to Mary’s demands for mercy by saying that “anyone who names and calls upon thy name, I will not forsake him, either in heaven or on earth” (Gk. Apoc. Mary 26). Here, the Lord promises that eternal identification with the divine is as simple as calling upon Mary correctly, allowing the Holy Mother to function as a proxy for the role played by Jesus in the Gospel of John (John 3:18; 14:14; 15:16; 16:23–26). While people throughout the apocalypse are tortured for the things that they have done in this life, the text as a whole constructs Christian identity as a matter of correct belief, including proper relationship with the Holy Mother herself.

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5. Lush Landscapes: Constructing Christian Identity through Orthopraxis in the Heavenly realms Within the heavenly realms the definition of what it means to be in the “in” group, or “Christian” seems easy. The righteous are quickly identified by the seer as such, and their surroundings are undeniably pleasant, leading one to believe that ecstasy awaits those who craft their identity according to the boundaries set by each text. In 2 Enoch 8–9 Enoch is taken up to the third heaven, which is filled with trees in full bloom, a plethora of ripe fruit, a garden with a profusion of good food, an olive tree with a perpetual flow of oil, angels singing, and four gently flowing rivers, all of which surrounds the tree of life whose fragrance is “indescribably” pleasant (the tree of life is a common feature in visions of heaven, receiving extensive treatment in 3 Baruch 4).37 Enoch is told that this place is prepared for the righteous, namely those who meet the requirements of righteousness that are outlined by Matthew 25 and the Hebrew Bible prophets: this heaven is for those who suffer tribulation, give bread to the hungry, cloth the naked, help the fallen and injured, and worship the Lord alone (2 En. 9 cf. Isa 1:17; 58:7; Jer 22:3; Ezek 18:7; Matt 25:34–37). This lush landscape, then, identifies the righteous who faithfully worship the Lord according to the Matthean vision of the “sheep” who are recognized by the king in the afterlife. We find a similar scene in the closing chapters of the Apocalypse of Peter, in which Peter looks upon a verdant garden that is full of “fair trees and blessed fruits, full of the fragrance of perfume”, a garden that is prepared for those “who will be persecuted for my righteousness’ sake” (Apoc. Pet. 16 [Ethiopic] cf. Matt 5:10). This lavish garden uses a heavenly space to bolster the text’s emphasis on suffering in the face of a false Christ, and reinforces the dividing line between those who follow that false Christ blindly (falling into a myriad of sinful behaviors) and those who stand their ground and suffer. Perhaps the most dramatic and breathtaking vision of paradise is found in the second heaven of the Apocalypse of Paul 21–30, including four rivers, of milk, honey, wine and oil. The trees have ten thousand branches which each hold ten thousand clusters of dates, each cluster holding ten thousand dates (or other fruits in the same proportion). Along each of the rivers Paul meets a different group of righteous people: the prophets, the patriarchs, the infants whom King Herod had slain, and those who dedicated themselves to God with their whole heart and humility (Apoc. Paul 25–28). In each of these heavenly visions, the lush landscapes are used to mark a general type of 37 2 Enoch is a “Jewish Christian” apocalypse in the sense that the composition of the text involved both Jews and Christians over a number of years. The text contains a number of Christian glosses, suggesting that early Christians influence of some kind. F.I. Andersen, “2 Enoch”, in Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, ed. J.H. Charlesworth (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1983), 2: 95–96, has dismissed a Christian influence on the text because it does not reflect a “Christian scheme of salvation.” We argue that readers of Matthew or the book of Revelation would readily recognize the scheme of salvation that is present in 2 Enoch as “Christian”.

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righteous person as a member of the “in” group, constructing Christian identity around exemplars with varying righteousness résumés. In contrast to the anonymity of the sinners in hell, the inhabitants of heaven are often famous righteous persons. As the apocalyptic seers tour the heavens they take note of the saints who are there, calling them out by name.38 Peter’s vision of heaven recalls the transfiguration, featuring Moses and Elijah and locating Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the great garden of paradise (Apoc. Pet. 16–17); Zephaniah runs to greet Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Enoch, Elijah and David (Apoc. Zeph. 9); Isaiah sees “the righteous from the time of Adam onwards” including Abel, Enoch and Seth in the seventh heaven (Ascen. Isa. 9); Paul sees the major and minor prophets (identified by name and as “major and minor prophets”, Apoc. Paul 25), David (Apoc. Paul 29), the Virgin Mary (Apoc. Paul 46), the patriarchs of the Hebrew Bible, Moses, Lot, Job, Noah, Adam, Abel (Apoc. Paul 47–51), and the Apostles (identified by name and as a group, Apoc. Paul 51); and upon arriving in heaven Mary asks where she might find Moses, the prophets, the patriarchs and Paul, some of whom call out to her in response (Gk. Apoc. Mary 27). Since the reputations of these saints precede them, their qualifications for dwelling in heaven need not be listed. The readers expect to see Moses in heaven, so he and the rest of the patriarchs are as much a part of the heavenly landscape as they are its occupants. There are other unnamed righteous persons in heaven, but unlike the unrighteous persons we find in hell, they are very rarely identified by specific earthly deeds (or their behaviors are described with a much lower level of specificity).39 In the final words of the Apocalypse of Peter God is praised for having “written the names of the righteous in heaven in the book of life.” Apart from the named “righteous fathers” of chapter 16, this is all we know about the inhabitants of heaven from this text-they are righteous and their names are written in the book (cf. ­Daniel 12:1; Rev.17:8). In the Ascension of Isaiah the reader is given a host of details regarding the different levels of heaven, and their inhabitants, but those details do not delineate specific behaviors. Instead we learn that the seventh heaven is inhabited by the “righteous” whose identity is primarily crafted in terms of their beliefs and by way of contrast to the pseudo-prophets.40 In the Apoc. Paul 21–22 we meet the heaven dwellers who “hunger and thirst for righteousness”, a righteousness that seems to be axiomatic since we aren’t given any further definition of their righteous qualities. 38 See the Testament of Abraham, the Testament of Isaac, and the Testament of Jacob for later explanations of how the patriarchs who were already buried had their souls removed to be with God in heaven. See also, the Greek Apocalypse of Ezra in which Jesus says that he “called Adam up out of Hades.” 39 The vision of heaven in 2 En. 8–9 provides the most specific picture of deeds that merit eternal reward. 40 For further discussion of identity matters in the Ascension of Isaiah see J.N. Bremmer, The Ascension of Isaiah, ed. Th. Karmann & T. Nicklas (Studies on Early Christian Apocrypha 11; Leuven: Peeters, 2016).

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Apart from those rare occasions where specific righteous behaviors are used to craft the identity of the “Christian” in heaven, the apocalypses primarily use the differentiation of fates to distinguish between those who are “in” the community and the “other”. In the Apocalypse of Peter those who are “written in the book of life” dwell in heaven as a single homogenous group in contrast to the dozens of anonymous sinners who are isolated according to their infractions and tormented eternally (Apoc. Pet. 17). Similar to the Apocalypse of Peter’s insistence that the inhabitants of heaven are those who resist the “false Christ”, the Ascension of Isaiah presents a vision of the heavens that is couched in terms of an ongoing conflict between the “false prophets” and the “righteous”. At the text’s outset these “pseudo-prophets” and their violent acts are juxtaposed against the “true prophets” who dwell destitute in the mountains and lament Israel’s failings (Ascen. Isa. 2:11–16). Later, the righteous are contrasted with the Christians who will go astray in the last days, falling into chaotic speech, bad leadership, and the love of money (Ascen. Isa 3:21–31). In this way, the vision of heaven that follows in the Ascension of Isaiah defines the identity of its “in” group of righteous believers not in terms of their own behaviors, but in terms of the deeds that they do not do.41 That is, the “lush landscapes” themselves are a mechanism for dividing the Christian from the other in the afterlife, but in this life these texts raise as many questions as they answer. If heaven is my goal, do I get there by imitating the named righteous persons who are there? Or simply by not performing the deeds done by those who are punished in hell (in texts where such an antipode exists)? Or like the named patriarchs, must my behavior on earth be so notoriously “good” and my identification with the Christian faith so renowned that my presence in heaven is “expected” by everyone who knows me? In this regard, the relative ambiguity of these heavenly visions may be intentional, allowing for a malleable definition of orthopraxis that demands maximal effort from the Christian on earth who cannot simply tick a box and then breathe a sigh of relief that he is heaven-bound. In a few cases the early Christian apocalypses also use belief as a qualifier for eternal reward, defining correct belief through heavenly categories. In the Ascension of Isaiah belief is a key identity marker of the “righteous” who are able to ascend to the seventh heaven: belief in the cross leads to salvation (3:18), belief in “Jesus the Lord Christ” is a defining feature of the “faithful saints” (4:13), and the crowns, robes and thrones of the seventh heaven “are placed (there) for the righteous, for those who believe in the Lord who will descend in your form”(8:26). Here, the vision of heaven assures the readers that those who believe in this incarnate Lord are going to receive a rich heavenly reward (Ascen. Isa. 9:24–26). Read41 See also Zost. 4.26, 42–44, in which different groups of souls are “classified” without material analogies for heavenly existence. Here the contrast is between agency or freedom and withdrawal into god. Like 1 En. 22, this text does not speak of actual rewards and punishments but of differentiated fates. Nevertheless, in Zostrianos those differentiated fates still outline the paragon of earthly behavior-acting so that you might “dwell within.”

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ers are also reminded of the importance of keeping the “words of Jesus Christ” (Ascen. Isa. 9:26) and are exhorted to “be in the Holy Spirit” (Ascen. Isa. 11:40), but belief in the incarnation seems to be the distinguishing feature of those who ascend to the seventh heaven. Similarly, the Greek Apocalypse of Mary contains a brief heavenly scene in which specific texts are isolated as central to Christian identity. When Mary is lifted to heaven to have an audience with the Father she finds herself in the company of Moses, John and Paul, who join her in her entreaty for clemency for the damned (Gk. Apoc. Mary 26–27). The Father responds by reminding them that these Christians were judged “according to the law which Moses gave, and according to the gospel which John gave, and according to the epistles which Paul carried” (Gk. Apoc. Mary 27). This brief vision of heaven establishes specific texts (namely the law, the gospel of John and the Pauline epistles) as the standard by which Christians are judged. While the text is still discussing the behaviour of “Christian sinners”, the emphasis is on the core texts that are to be used to separate these Christians from the saints (Mary, Moses, Paul, John, the prophets and the martyrs) that we find in heaven. This “mini-canon”, if you will, is then used to create a behavioural standard for the final judgment in which ignorance of heavenly expectations is not a legitimate excuse (Gk. Apoc. Mary 28). For the late antique audience of the Greek Apocalypse of Mary the textual core listed as the paradisiacal rubric conveyed that the serious study of these particular texts was a hallmark of Christian faith. Even well after the canon is established, the Greek Apocalypse of Mary represents an effort to construct more specific early Christian reading practices within that canon.42

6. Conclusion In the majority of otherworldly visions the theological identity of the Christian is crafted through a kind of oppositional consciousness, clarifying who is not included in the group “Christian”. Multiple differentiations in the netherworld yield a novel take on the dichotomized understanding of this world: there is only one “in” group, but there are a plethora of ways to be identified as “other” or “out”. As we have seen in a number of the apocalypses this higher level of differentiation among the damned, demonstrates an attempt to exert power over readers of the text by making it very difficult not to self-identify with the beliefs and behaviors 42 The Greek Apocalypse of Mary was written sometime between the early fifth and eleventh centuries, and relies upon the Apocalypse of Paul. See R. Bauckham, “The Four Apocalypses of the Virgin Mary”, in The Fate of the Dead: Studies in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (Leiden Brill, 1998), 335–6; J.R. Baun, Tales from Another Byzantium: Celestial Journey and Local Community in the Medieval Greek Apocrypha (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 16–18. Baun argues for a later date between 9th–11th centuries based upon the development of the cult of Mary as intercessor around this time.

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described in hell. Interpreting the scenes of eternal judgment that are found in the New Testament, the apocalypses closely identify a person’s earthly behavior and his eternal fate. Thus, the definition of “orthodoxy” that we find in the apocalypses is primarily crafted in terms of deeds or practices, making it more accurate to talk about “orthopraxy” in the otherworld. Where belief is the focus, orthodoxy is defined variously, seeming to construct different models of orthodoxy for each reading community. Several of the visions of the otherworld require Christians to know what is expected of them in this life, recognizing every opportunity to perform a good deed (as in the Apocalypse of Zephaniah), heeding the “words of Christ” or even the words of specific texts (as in the Ascension of Isaiah and the Greek Apocalypse of Mary). Other visions of heaven and hell adjudicate specific beliefs. In the Ascension of Isaiah belief in the incarnation and person of Jesus Christ is the primary marker of Christian faith, and leads to ascent to the seventh heaven. Likewise the Apocalypse of Paul and the Apocalypse of Mary demarcate particular beliefs as punishable in hell, drawing a theological line around the Christian community and excluding those who deny fundamentals like the incarnation or the bodily resurrection. Although we cannot infer a singular historical context in which orthodoxy becomes of interest for the Christian otherworld, we can say that earlier texts are more preoccupied with “outsiders” (as in the Apocalypse of Zephaniah and Ascension of Isaiah), whereas there is greater concern for managing these boundaries from within the Christian community in post-Theodosian contexts (like those of the Apocalypse of Paul and the Greek Apocalypse of Mary). These diverse definitions of orthodoxy are perhaps the natural result of texts that seem to define Christian identity in negative terms. Even in visions of heaven, where we would expect a greater differentiation of the righteous, we instead find a single group of celebrated saints and rather open-ended definitions of righ­teous behavior. The lush landscapes invite the reader to compare the reputations of the saints who are ensconced in heaven with the pseudo-prophets, the Christian sinners, or the damned, whose wicked deeds are enumerated elsewhere in the apocalypse. Do these tensions within the text reflect some kind of real world conflict between early Christian groups and those they wished to identify as “outsiders”? If so, then the different models of orthodoxy that we find in these apocalypses necessitate the imagination of orthopraxies in the plural, in which praxis is constantly redefined in a conscious effort to articulate Christian identity in changing contexts. The texts we have discussed beg us to consider that heaven and hell might be doing more than simply filtering for “right belief ” or “right practices,” even in later contexts as in the Apocalypse of Paul or the Greek Apocalypse of Mary. These texts remind us that even the categories of “deacon” and “canon” are part of early Christian lived experience, and thus are simultaneously reflecting and redefining what it means to be Christian.

Judith Hartenstein (University of Koblenz-Landau)

Wie „apokryph“ ist das Evangelium nach Maria? Über die Schwierigkeiten einer Verortung

Das Evangelium nach Maria ist ein interessantes Beispiel frühchristlicher Theologie. Die Schrift ist vermutlich im 2. Jahrhundert entstanden,1 also Teil der Vielfalt an Meinungen, aus der sich eine Mehrheitsposition entwickelte, die später „orthodox“ genannt wurde. Aus heutiger Sicht ist das EvMar eindeutig eine apokryphe Schrift, in dem Sinne, dass es nicht Teil des Neuen Testaments geworden ist und zudem überhaupt erst wieder entdeckt werden musste.2 Aber versteht das EvMar sich auch selbst als eine apokryphe Schrift, im Sinne einer geheimen, nicht allen zugänglichen Lehre? Und ist es eine inhaltlich nichtorthodoxe Schrift, vertritt es also von der Mehrheitsmeinung abweichende theologische Meinungen, nach heutigen oder antiken Maßstäben? Diesen Fragen will ich im Folgenden nachgehen und dabei versuchen, die Sicht des EvMar aus dem Text selbst zu erheben und mit einiger Vorsicht auch Rückschlüsse auf den sozialen Kontext ziehen. Dabei entsteht ein differenziertes Bild einer Schrift, die sich selbst gerade nicht als „apokryph“ präsentiert, sondern sich in der inhaltlichen Darstellung und in der Anknüpfung an allgemein anerkannte Traditionen in einem breiten Diskurs verortet – und doch Anzeichen für eine in sozialer Hinsicht separierte Gruppe als Entstehungskontext bietet.

1. Zur äußeren Bezeugung Das EvMar wird in den bekannten frühchristlichen Zeugnissen nirgendwo erwähnt, d. h. es findet sich weder der Titel noch ein klares Zitat in den Schriften dieser Zeit. Es gibt deshalb auch keinen Hinweis auf eine antike Bewertung des EvMar.3 Anders als bei einigen anderen frühchristlichen Evangelien ist beim EvMar keine inhaltliche Kritik und kein Versuch, die Schrift als unakzeptabel zu erklären, erhalten – und umgekehrt keine positive Bezugnahme. Alle Überlegun1 Dafür spricht schon die äußere Bezeugung durch zwei griechische Fragmente aus dem 3. Jahrhundert. Vgl. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, Oxford Early Christian Gospel Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 11. 2 Zur Fundgeschichte vgl. Die gnostischen Schriften des koptischen Papy­rus Berolinensis 8502, ed. W.C. Till & H.-M. Schenke (TU 60; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, ²1972), 24–26; D. Lührmann, „Die griechischen Fragmente des Mariaevangeliums POx 3525 und PRyl 463“, NovT 30 (1988), 321–38: 321. 3 Vgl. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 3.

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gen zur Einordnung des EvMar in theologischer und sozialer Hinsicht können sich deshalb nur auf den Text selbst stützen. Erhalten ist der Text durch zwei griechische Fragmente und die koptische Abschrift als erste Schrift des BG. Die griechischen Fragmente bestehen jeweils nur aus einem einzelnen Blatt, so dass kein weiterer Kontext erschlossen werden kann.4 Im BG sind knapp die Hälfte der Seiten des EvMar erhalten,5 der Kodex ist vermutlich auf das 5. Jahrhundert zu datieren.6 In ihm folgen nach dem EvMar eine Abschrift des Apokryphon des Johannes und eine der Weisheit Jesu Christi – beide sind auch in den Schriften aus Nag Hammadi erhalten (AJ NHC II,1; III,1; IV,1; SJC NHC III,4) – und ein sonst unbekanntes Stück aus den Petrusakten. Im 5. Jahrhundert wurde das EvMar also mit diesen Texten zusammen abgeschrieben und gelesen. AJ ist eine eindeutig „gnostische“ Schrift, Irenäus und weitere Kirchenväter setzen sich mit den in ihr vertretenen Vorstellungen auseinander und lehnen sie ab.7 Auch die SJC enthält „gnostische“ Elemente (z. B. den Namen Jaldabaoth), die aber viel weniger prägend sind; von einer konkreten Ablehnung ist nichts bekannt. Die Episode aus den Petrusakten hat eine stark asketische Tendenz, ist aber nicht als „gnostisch“ anzusehen, das Material im Kodex ist also keineswegs einheitlich.8 Das Vorkommen des EvMar in diesem Kontext verweist auf eine nichtorthodoxe Wirkungsgeschichte, das EvMar wurde mit anderen apokryphen (aber dabei nicht notwendig häretischen) Schriften gemeinsam überliefert. Dies ist zwar kein Beweis, dass es auch schon im 2. Jahrhundert in einem solchen Kontext abgefasst wurde, aber doch zumindest ein Hinweis auf eine Hochschätzung in möglicherweise randständigen Kreisen. Der Titel „Evangelium nach Maria“ findet sich in der koptischen Handschrift am Ende der Schrift, dem üblichen Ort der Überschrift.9 Die sprachliche Gestaltung mit der griechischen Präposition κατά entspricht der Formulierung in den kanonischen Evangelien sowie weiteren Evangelien wie dem EvThom. Der Titel kann eine sekundäre Zufügung zum Text sein, es ist aber auch denkbar, dass er schon von Anfang an zur Schrift gehörte – in diesem Fall muss die Abfassung 4 Vgl. zu Text und Beschreibung D. Lührmann, „Die griechischen Fragmente“, 323–25.327–30 und C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 80–85. PapRyl ist beidseitig beschrieben und auf dem Blatt ist auch die Paginierung erhalten (p. 21f), es stammt also aus einem Kodex, der vermutlich noch weitere Schriften enthielt. PapOxy ist dagegen nur einseitig beschrieben und es sind keine Ränder der Seite bzw. der Zeilen erhalten – der ursprüngliche Kontext ist also völlig unklar. Die kursive Handschrift spricht neben der einseitigen Beschreibung eher gegen die Herkunft aus einem Kodex. 5 Der Text steht auf p. 7–10 sowie p. 15–19, vermutlich fehlen die ersten sechs Seiten (falls das ­EvMar auf der ersten Seite des Kodex begann) sowie vier Seiten aus der Mitte der Schrift. 6 Vgl. zum BG W.C. Till/H.-M. Schenke, Die gnostischen Schriften, 6–8. 7 Vgl. Iren. Haer. I,29, auch wenn nicht eindeutig ist, ob Irenäus sich mit dem AJ selbst oder einer möglichen Quellenschrift auseinandersetzt. 8 Vgl. E. de Boer, The Gospel of Mary: Beyond a Gnostic and a Biblical Mary Magdalene (JSNT.S 260, London u. a.: Clark, 2004), 30–34. 9 In PapRyl kann er ergänzt werden, das Fragment bricht unmittelbar vorher ab. Cf. D. Lührmann, „Die griechischen Fragmente“, 329–30.

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nach der Etablierung dieser spezifischen Form der Evangelienüberschriften erfolgt sein.10 Unabhängig davon, ob der Titel schon bei der Abfassung oder später gewählt wurde, zeigt er eine Verbindung mit allgemeiner frühchristlicher Tradition und beansprucht einen bedeutenden Status für die Schrift.11 Anders als z. B. im AJ gibt der Titel keinen Hinweis auf eine besondere, nur eingeschränkt zugängliche Tradition. Die Benennung nach Maria passt besser zum Inhalt der Schrift als die Namen in anderen, vor allem den kanonischen Evangelien, denn Maria hat eine hervorgehobene Rolle in der Schrift selbst. Sie ist in der Erzählung noch wichtiger als Thomas im EvThom – die Hälfte der Schrift ist wörtliche Rede von Maria –, beide sind aber besonders verständig und stehen Jesus näher als die Übrigen.12 Ungewöhnlich ist aber, dass Maria nicht als Autorin gilt, d. h. sie ist nicht diejenige, die die Worte Jesu aufschreiben soll, jedenfalls soweit das im erhaltenen Text sichtbar ist.13 Sie ist vielmehr diejenige, die die Worte Jesu mündlich übermittelt. Mir scheint dabei der Unterschied zwischen schriftlicher und mündlicher Weitergabe nicht so gravierend,14 ungewöhnlich ist aber, dass in der Schrift selbst dieser Vorgang erzählt wird.

2. Die Personen in der Erzählung Der Befund bisher ermöglicht also keine klare Verortung des EvMar in der Vielfalt des Christentums. Während die Überlieferung im BG15 in der Rezeption eine Verbindung mit anderen apokryphen Schriften zeigt, verweist der Titel auf einen allgemeinchristlichen Kontext, jedenfalls nicht auf eine irgendwie apokryph-­ geheime Tradition.16 Im Text selbst bietet sich ein Blick auf die vorkommenden Personen an, in deren Interaktionen sich möglicherweise soziale Gegebenheiten der Abfassungszeit spie10 Diese ist erst ab der Mitte des 2. Jahrhundert belegt; vgl. zur Entstehung der Evangelientitel S. ­Petersen, „Die Evangelienüberschriften und die Entstehung des neutestamentlichen Kanons“, ZNW 97 (2006), 250–74: 264–67. 11 Vgl. S. Petersen, „Evangelienüberschriften“, 267. Im Titel „Evangelium nach …“ steckt m. E. kein Anspruch auf kanonische Geltung, aber es ist impliziert, dass die Schrift heilsrelevante Informationen von und über Jesus bietet. 12 Vgl. E. de Boer, The Gospel of Mary, 96, zur Hervorhebung von Maria durch den Titel; J. Hartenstein, „Autoritätskonstellationen in apokryphen und kanonischen Evangelien“, in Jesus in apokryphen Evangelienüberlieferungen: Beiträge zu außerkanonischen Jesusüberlieferungen aus verschiedenen Sprach- und Kulturtraditionen, ed. J. Frey und J. Schröter (WUNT 254; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 423–44: 437–38. 13 Vgl. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 205–06. 14 Vgl. AJ, wo Johannes am Ende der Schrift den Auftrag zum Aufschreiben erhält (BG p. 75,15–76,9), dann aber unmittelbar im Anschluss den Übrigen alles berichtet (BG p. 76,18–77,5). 15 Die älteren griechischen Fragmente ermöglichen keine Aussage! 16 Dass der Titel keinen Hinweis auf besondere, geheime Belehrungen bietet, schließt allerdings einen solchen Charakter des Inhalts auch nicht aus, vgl. den analogen Titel des EvThom, in dem aber am Anfang des Textes der Inhalt als geheime/verborgene Worte charakterisiert werden (EvThom 1).

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geln.17 Im EvMar werden jedenfalls Meinungsverschiedenheiten deutlich, die zu Vorwürfen, Tränen und einer Zurechtweisung von Levi gegenüber Petrus führen. Trotz dieser Konflikte zeichnet das EvMar aber insgesamt das Bild einer Jüngergruppe, die in der gemeinsamen Zugehörigkeit zu Jesus verbunden ist, die sich gegenseitig unterstützt und ermutigt. Die Gruppenmitglieder sprechen sich untereinander als Schwester und Bruder an.18 Im erhaltenen Text genannt sind Petrus, Maria, Andreas und Levi – sie alle gehören im Neuen Testament zur Nachfolgegruppe um Jesus und haben einen insgesamt positiven Status. Keiner von ihnen ist eine Negativfigur wie Judas im EvJud oder ein bekannter Häretiker wie Kerinth19. Trotz der Diskussion bricht die Gruppe nicht auseinander. Der Text endet mit der Zurechtweisung von Levi, mit der er Petrus auf die Autorität Jesu und seine Lehre verweist und zur Predigt des Evangeliums auffordert (BG p. 18,7–21). Eine Antwort von Petrus oder Andreas erfolgt nicht, es bleibt deshalb offen, welche Wirkung Levis Rede genau hat. In der koptischen Fassung des EvMar wird danach aber festgehalten, dass „sie“ (unbestimmter Plural) zum Predigen aufbrechen (BG p. 18,21–19,2), demnach hatte Levi Erfolg. In PapRyl steht der Satz im Singular, hier ist es nur Levi, der aufbricht. Dies kann als Indiz für eine Trennung verstanden werden, zumindest wird die Gemeinsamkeit nicht ausdrücklich wiederhergestellt. Aber ein wirklicher Bruch liegt nicht vor, eher ein offenes Ende, das die ganze Gruppe dazu auffordert, Levis Beispiel zu folgen.20 Diese leichte Unklarheit am Ende lässt sich auch in der gesamten Interaktion wiederfinden. Es gibt viele verbindende Elemente, durch die die Gemeinschaft betont wird, aber es entsteht auch der Eindruck eines grundlegenden Gegensatzes, obwohl der im Text nicht klar festgemacht werden kann. Denn der Konflikt am Ende mit Vorwürfen von Andreas und Petrus an Maria und Gegenwehr von ihr und deutlicher von Levi könnte auch sehr viel harscher ausgetragen werden.21 Im EvMar bleibt die Gruppe im Gespräch miteinander. Auf der Textebene entsteht der Eindruck, dass Maria und Levi ihre Gegenspieler wirklich überzeugen wollen – aber auch, dass dies nicht gelingen wird.22 Untypisch für eine frühchristliche Schrift ist die Rollenverteilung und die jeweilige Bedeutung der Akteure. Im EvMar hat Maria die wichtigste Rolle, sie 17 Vgl. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 201–03. 18 Vgl. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 201–203 zur wenig feindlichen Stimmung und Dialog­ bereitschaft in der Schrift. 19 Er ist möglicherweise Adressat in der EpJac (NHC I p. 1,2); in EpAp 1.7 ist er zusammen mit ­Simon als Gegner der Jüngergruppe genannt. 20 Vgl. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 193 f. 21 Vgl. das EvJud, in dem die Vorwürfe an die Zwölf von Jesus selbst kommen, was ihnen weiteres Gewicht verleiht. Aber auch Thomas kritisiert in EvThom 13 die übrige Gruppe härter und grundsätzlicher als Maria oder Levi, vor allem rechnet er nicht mit Einsicht. 22 Bei Andreas und Petrus wird diese Absicht weniger deutlich, sie lehnen Marias Lehre klarer ab, aber auch bei ihnen sind die Einwände als Frage an die übrigen formuliert und sie haben nicht das letzte Wort. Vgl. A. Taschl-Erber, Maria von Magdala – erste Apostolin? Joh 20,1–18: Tradition und Relecture (HBS 51, Freiburg u. a.: Herder, 2007), 520.

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und Levi stehen Jesus näher und verstehen ihn besser als Petrus und Andreas. Sie sind es, die die entscheidenden Lehren vermitteln, die Gruppe anführen und auf den richtigen Weg bringen. Maria handelt so schon in der Mitte der Schrift, Levi dann am Ende.23 Hier haben also zwei Personen aus dem Jüngerkreis eine Autoritätsfunktion, die in den meisten frühchristlichen Schriften eher mit anderen Namen verbunden ist, vor allem mit Petrus. Bei Maria wird dabei eine partielle Leitungsrolle schon vorausgesetzt, sie ist die Wichtigste der Frauen um Jesus.24 Ihre Rolle ist so gewissermaßen durch die kanonisch gewordenen Schriften vorbereitet. Im EvMar ist sie dann klar aus allen Jüngerinnen und Jüngern herausgehoben, sie ist diejenige, die Jesus am besten versteht und der er deshalb seine Lehre anvertraut, die sie weitergibt. Sie wird zur Vertreterin Jesu, was sich z. B. an ihrem zu Jesus parallelen Verhalten gegenüber der Gruppe zeigt.25 Eine solche hervorgehobene Rolle einer Einzelperson aus dem Jüngerkreis, die sich sowohl durch besondere Einsicht auszeichnet als auch durch den Empfang von Sonderbelehrungen und dadurch in eine Autoritätsposition den anderen gegenüber kommt, begegnet in verschiedenen nichtkanonischen Evangelien.26 Thomas gilt als der Autor oder vielleicht eher Schreiber (EvThom 1) des nach ihm benannten Evangeliums. In EvThom 13, seinem zweiten und letzten Auftreten, versteht er die Bedeutung Jesu besser als Petrus und Matthäus und bekommt daraufhin Worte Jesu gesagt, die die anderen nicht hören – die aber vielleicht im EvThom für die Lesenden zugänglich sind. Anders als Maria im EvMar ist er nicht bereit, diese Worte den anderen mitzuteilen, weil er eine gewalttätige Reaktion aus Unverständnis befürchtet. Thomas zieht so eine klare Grenze zwischen denen, die der Belehrungen würdig sind, und denen, die es nicht sind, was in EvThom 13 die ganze Gruppe zu sein scheint. Maria dagegen gibt Jesu Worte bereitwillig weiter, obwohl es nach ihrer Rede zu einem (verbalen) Angriff auf sie kommt. Die Situation der Sonderbelehrung und das Problem von unterschiedlicher Erkenntnisfähigkeit sind also ähnlich, aber im EvMar bleibt die Gruppe einbezogen. Dass die Übermittlung der Worte Jesu durch Maria ausdrücklich erzählt wird und einen großen Teil der Schrift ausmacht, gibt diesem Punkt besonderes Gewicht. Im AJ etwa berichtet die Schrift davon, wie Johannes die Belehrungen Jesu empfängt, auch wenn am Ende kurz erwähnt wird, dass er sie an die anderen weitergibt. Die Jakobusschriften (1Apc)Jac und EpJac konzentrieren sich ebenfalls auf den Empfang der Lehren, die hier aber ausdrücklich nicht an die ganze 23 Allerdings fehlen die ersten Seiten des EvMar, es ist unklar, ob und wie Maria und Levi bei einer möglichen Erscheinung und am Dialog mit Jesus beteiligt waren. Erhalten ist nur ein Teil mit einem Fragesteller, Petrus, der als normaler Schüler Jesu gezeichnet wird. 24 Dies stellt Petrus ausdrücklich fest (BG p. 10,2f) und gibt damit vermutlich einen breiten Konsens wieder. 25 Vgl. J. Hartenstein, Die zweite Lehre: Erscheinungen des Auferstandenen als Rahmenerzählungen frühchristlicher Dialoge (TU 146; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 2000), 146–47. 26 Dies ist aber nicht das einzige Modell, in einigen Schriften empfängt ausdrücklich die gesamte Gruppe die Offenbarungen bzw. Lehren Jesu, z. B. in der SJC. Vgl. J. Hartenstein, „Autoritätskonstellationen“, 431–33.

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Jüngergruppe weitergegeben werden sollen. Hier ist die Grenzziehung noch klarer als im EvThom, wo die Jüngergruppe bei den meisten Belehrungen selbstverständlich anwesend ist.27 Das EvMar bietet also eine erstaunliche Mischung, einerseits werden die Sonderbelehrungen an Maria betont, andererseits bleiben diese Worte ausdrücklich nicht exklusiv, sondern sind für alle bestimmt und werden entsprechend übermittelt. Der eigenen Darstellung entsprechend ist die Lehre des EvMar gerade nicht apokryph im Sinne von geheim, deshalb passt es auch gut, dass dieser Begriff (im erhaltenen Text) nicht fällt. Im EvThom sind die Worte Jesu zu Beginn als geheim gekennzeichnet (EvThom 1), das AJ führt den Begriff im Titel (ⲡⲁⲡⲟⲕⲣⲩⲫⲟⲛ BG p. 77,6 par.)28 und in der EpJac wird die Schrift im einleitenden Brief ebenfalls als Geheimlehre (ⲡⲁⲡⲟⲕⲣⲩⲫⲟⲛ, NHC I, p. 1,10) bezeichnet. Aber das EvMar bietet auch nicht einfach eine durchgehend für den ganzen Jüngerkreis öffentliche Lehre wie etwa die SJC, die Spannung zwischen Sonderbelehrung und Veröffentlichung ist ausdrücklich Thema.

3. Inhaltliche Positionen der Schrift In der narrativen Gestaltung der Figurenkonstellation setzt das EvMar also auf Miteinander und Verständigung, obwohl sowohl grundlegende Differenzen in der Jüngergruppe als auch Sonderbelehrungen an Maria als Einzelperson berichtet werden. Aber wie sieht es mit dem Inhalt aus? Lassen sich die theologischen Gedanken einer bestimmten Strömung im frühen Christentum zuordnen? Dies ist letztlich eine Variante der schon lange diskutierten Frage nach dem „gnostischen“ Charakter des EvMar. So deutet sich schon an, dass die Antwort nicht einfach sein wird. Das EvMar verwendet Material aus ganz unterschiedlichen Bereichen, besonders für eine so kurze Schrift. Der Dialog am Anfang verwendet philosophische Gedanken mit einem platonischen und stoischen Hintergrund.29 In den Abschiedsworten Jesu und am Beginn der Rede von Maria sind aus frühchristlicher Tradition bekannte Jesusworte verarbeitet. Zum Aufstieg der Seele, von dem Maria berichtet, gibt es Parallelen in ganz unterschiedlichen Texten. Das Hauptthema Erlösung wird so auf verschiedene Weise behandelt. Das EvMar

27 Möglicherweise hängt die Abgrenzung in den nach Jakobus und Thomas benannten Schriften damit zusammen, dass ihnen jeweils eine besondere Art der Beziehung zu Jesus – sie erscheinen auf die eine oder andere Weise als seine Brüder – zugeschrieben wird. Sie haben damit qualitativ einen anderen Status als die übrige Gruppe, was zum esoterischen Charakter der Belehrung passt. Vgl. J. Hartenstein, „Autoritätskonstellationen“, 426–27.430. 28 Obwohl dies sachlich nicht ganz passt, siehe die problemlose Weitergabe der Lehre. 29 Vgl. K.L. King, The Gospel of Mary of Magdala: Jesus and the First Woman Apostle (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge Press, 2003), 41–46; E. de Boer, The Gospel of Mary, 35–50.

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vertritt dabei eigenständige, teilweise sehr originelle theologische Ideen,30 die verwendeten Traditionen sind nicht einfach aufgenommen, sondern sie werden weiter verarbeitet. Aber im erhaltenen Text steht m. E. nichts, was eindeutig der sich entwickelnden „orthodoxen“ Theologie entgegensteht. Anders als z. B. in AJ und ansatzweise in SJC gibt es keine Hinweise, dass der oberste Gott und Vater Jesu Christi ein anderer als der im AT vorkommende Schöpfergott ist – das wäre bei aller Vorsicht mit dem Begriff ein klar „gnostisches“ Element. Umgekehrt gibt es aber auch nichts, das einer solchen Vorstellung widerspricht, also keinen Hinweis auf die Einheit von oberstem Gott und Schöpfer. Im EvMar (soweit erhalten) kommt Gott überhaupt nicht vor, was schon eine bemerkenswerte Leerstelle ist.31 Viele Ausleger gehen wie ich davon aus, dass der Text „gnostische“ Vorstellungen voraussetzt, obwohl es dafür nur sehr wenige Indizien gibt.32 Der vorliegende Text lässt sich vor einem solchen Hintergrund lesen, aber zwingend notwendig ist er nicht. Das EvMar scheint keine klar greifbare Position in den im 2. Jahrhundert debattierten Fragen zu beziehen. Nicht nur zur Gottesvorstellung bleibt es offen für verschiedene Interpretationen. In der Christologie wird Jesus als zentrale Autorität dargestellt, der vor allem als Lehrer wichtig ist – auf sein Leiden gibt es einen indirekten Verweis, ohne dass es näher gedeutet würde.33 Der Inhalt seiner Lehre entspricht an vielen Stellen nicht dem, was sonst bekannt ist – ein Punkt, der von Andreas ausdrücklich thematisiert wird als Reaktion auf Marias Rede –, aber es begegnen auch in den kanonischen Evangelien und anderswo überlieferte Aussprüche. Der Jesus des EvMar ist leichter mit dem Jesus z. B. der kanonischen Evangelien zu verbinden als etwa der Jesus von AJ oder SJC.34

30 Vgl. etwa die Vorstellung vom Menschensohn im Innern, dazu J. Schröter, „Zur Menschensohnvorstellung im Evangelium nach Maria“, in Ägypten und Nubien in spätantiker und christlicher Zeit, Akten d. 6. Internat. Koptologenkongresses, Münster, 20.–26. Juli 1996, Bd 2: Schrifttum, Sprache und Gedankenwelt, ed. St. Emmel (Sprachen und Kulturen des christlichen Orients 6; Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1999), 178–88: 180–82. 31 Der Verweis auf das „Gute“ (ἀγαθόν) in BG p. 7,17 meint vermutlich Jesus, cf. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 142. Selbst der Seelenaufstieg nennt Gott nicht ausdrücklich als Ziel, die Seele findet am Ende Ruhe in „Schweigen“ – das lässt sich möglicherweise als sehr verschleierte Gottes­ bezeichnung verstehen. 32 Vgl. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 53f; A. Taschl-Erber, Maria von Magdala – erste Apostolin?, 483f; J. Hartenstein, Die zweite Lehre, 132–33 (inzwischen würde ich vorsichtiger formulieren); A. Pasquier. L’Évangile selon Marie (BG 1). BCNH Section Textes 10, (Québec: Presses de l’Université Laval, 1983), 5f; anders K.-L. King, The Gospel of Mary of Magdala, 170–174; E. de Boer, The Gospel of Mary, 32–34 und 58–59. 33 Nach Jesu Weggang fürchtet die Gruppe, ein ähnliches Schicksal wie Jesus zu erleiden (BG p. 9,10– 12). Aber die Frage, ob das äußerlich sichtbare Leiden Jesus wirklich betroffen hat, was etwa in (1Apc)Jac (NHC V p. 31,6–22) oder EpPt (NHV VIII p. 139,15–25) verneint wird, wird nicht behandelt. 34 Vgl. E. de Boer, The Gospel of Mary, 22–27, die eine Vielzahl von biblisch vertraut klingenden Themen im EvMar auflistet.

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In der Anthropologie wird eine Hochschätzung des Geistigen, der inneren Werte deutlich, aber keine grundsätzliche Verdammung des Körpers. Dass die Seele vermutlich nach dem Tod den Körper zurücklässt und aufsteigt, ist eine allgemeine Vorstellung. Hier von der Seele als Personenzentrum zu sprechen, ist aber gerade für „gnostische“ Aufstiegsvorstellungen eher nicht typisch.35 Es ist auch unklar, ob das EvMar eine radikale Form von Askese vertritt. Unzucht und ein innerer Aufruhr durch Leidenschaften werden abgelehnt, aber das ist vermutlich metaphorische Sprache und verweist eher auf Beherrschung als auf radikale Ablehnung von Sexualität.36 Schließlich ist noch die Bedeutung der besonderen Rolle von Maria für andere Frauen ein offener Punkt. Das EvMar hat jedenfalls eine weibliche Hauptfigur, deren Lehre akzeptiert werden soll – ihr Geschlecht ist Anlass für Anfragen, aber am Ende kein Hindernis für ihre Rolle. Aber der Text klärt nicht, ob dies auch für weitere Frauen gilt, er vertritt nicht ausdrücklich das Recht von Frauen, zu lehren und zu leiten.37 In EvThom 114 steht Maria exemplarisch für alle Frauen, die Rechtfertigung ihrer Position im Jüngerkreis wird auf sie übertragen. Das EvMar lässt sich ebenfalls so interpretieren und wird von vielen modernen (und vermutlich auch antiken) Interpretinnen und Interpreten als Plädoyer für Frauen in Leitungspositionen verstanden.38 Aber auch das ist nicht eindeutig, Maria kann ebenso als besondere Frau aus apostolischer Zeit verstanden werden, ohne dass daraus Konsequenzen für andere Frauen in späteren Zeiten folgen. Inhaltlich ist die Position des EvMar also ungewöhnlich schwer zu erfassen. Das mag an manchen Punkten an der Kürze des Textes und der schlechten Erhaltung liegen, aber die Leerstellen sind so auffällig und zahlreich, dass sich fragen lässt, ob er eine Festlegung vielleicht absichtlich vermeidet. Eine klare Verortung des EvMar ist über die theologischen Aussagen jedenfalls nicht möglich. Auf die Frage, ob die im Vergleich mit anderen Schriften ungewöhnliche Offenheit vielleicht doch indirekt Rückschlüsse auf den sozialen Kontext erlaubt, komme ich noch zurück.

35 Vgl. Iren. Haer. I 21,5, wo der Paralleltext zu (1Apc)Jac (NHC V p. 33,2–35,25) als ein Aufstieg des inneren Menschen eingeführt wird, während der Körper in der materiellen Welt bleibt und die Seele den Demiurgen ausgeliefert wird. Auch das Buch des Allogenes CT 4 p. 63–66 (die beste Parallele zum Seelenaufstieg im EvMar), 2Jeû 52, EvThom 50 und Or., Cels. VI 31 sprechen nicht von Seele, wohl aber die Pistis Sophia. 36 Askese ist auch kein Merkmal „gnostischer“ Gruppen, vgl. J. Hartenstein, „Encratism, Asceticism and the Construction of Gender and Sexual Identity in Apocryphal Gospels“, in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Apocrypha, ed. A. Gregory & C.M. Tuckett in coll. with T. Nicklas & J. Verheyden (Oxford et al.: Oxford University Press, 2015), 389–406: 398–99. 402–404. 37 Vgl. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 200. 38 Vgl. E. de Boer, The Gospel of Mary, 92–97; A. Taschl-Erber, Maria von Magdala, 479–80; K.L. King, The Gospel of Mary of Magdala, 186–87.

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4. Die Verwendung von Traditionen Schließlich lohnt noch ein Blick auf die Verwendung von Traditionen im EvMar. An verschiedenen Stellen gibt es Parallelen zu anderen bekannten Texten, sowohl zu Jesusworten (in den Abschlussworten Jesu an die Gruppe sowie am Beginn des Gesprächs mit Maria), als auch zu Darstellungen von Maria und zu Berichten vom Seelenaufstieg. Welche Traditionen greift das EvMar auf, wie wird der Stoff verarbeitet und welche Funktion hat er für die Schrift? Am Ende des eher philosophisch geprägten Dialogs, der den ersten Hauptteil des EvMar bildet, gibt Jesus letzte Anweisungen an die Jüngergruppe, die aus einzelnen kurzen Sprüchen bestehen (BG p. 8,14–9,4). Die meisten dieser Sprüche sind aus dem Neuen Testament bekannt und stehen dort in unterschiedlichen Kontexten,39 bilden im EvMar aber eine zusammenhängende Rede mit einer eigenen Aussage. Dies lässt sich gut in der Passage über den Menschensohn erkennen, in der Jesus sagt: „Passt auf, dass niemand euch irreführt, indem er sagt: ‘Siehe hier’ oder ‘siehe dort’. Denn in eurem Innern existiert der Menschensohn. Folgt ihr ihm nach! Die nach ihm suchen, werden ihn finden“ (BG p. 8,15–21). In Lk 17,23 warnt Jesus seine Jüngerinnen und Jünger davor, denen zu glauben, die den Menschensohn ‘hier’ oder ‘dort’ zu sehen meinen. Sein wirkliches Kommen wird anders, ein nicht zu verkennendes kosmisches Ereignis sein (17,24). Unmittelbar vor dieser Aussage über den Menschensohn redet Jesus über das Reich Gottes, das nicht ‘hier’ oder ‘dort’ gesehen werden kann, sondern mitten unter ihnen bzw. in ihrem Innern ist (17,21).40 M.E. nutzt das EvMar die Parallele, dass sowohl das Reich Gottes als auch der Menschensohn nicht ‘hier’ oder ‘dort’ gesehen werden können, um die Aussage über das Reich Gottes im Innern auf den Menschensohn zu übertragen. Dadurch entsteht eine neue und ungewöhnliche Vorstellung vom Menschensohn, der weder mit Jesus identifiziert wird noch eine apokalyptische Figur ist, sondern die innere Wirklichkeit der Jüngerinnen und Jünger beschreibt, den Kern ihres Menschseins.41 Dem schließt sich die Aufforderung zur Nachfolge an – die verbreitete Idee der Nachfolge Jesu führt die Angesprochenen in diesem Kontext in ihr Inneres. Wenn der Menschensohn in ihnen ist, dann müssen sie sich auf ihre innere Wirklichkeit konzentrieren, um ihm nachzufolgen. Der Abschnitt schließt mit der Verheißung, dass die, die ihn suchen, ihn finden werden. Auch hier wird ein Spruch, der allgemein verstanden werden (so EvThom 92 und 94) bzw. im Kontext auf das Thema Gebet bezogen sein kann (so Mt 7,7 par.), für die spezifische Botschaft des EvMar genutzt und bekommt darin eine neue Bedeutung. Der Abschnitt zeigt meiner Meinung nach, wie geschickt das EvMar vorhandene Traditionen nutzt, um damit eine ganz eigene Theologie auszudrücken. Ver39 Vgl. A. Pasquier, L’Évangile selon Marie (BG 1), 57–58. 40 Der griechische Ausdruck ἔντος ὑμῶν ist vermutlich als „mitten unter euch“ gemeint, kann aber auch als „in euch“ (Luther: inwendig in euch) verstanden werden. 41 Vgl. J. Schröter, „Menschensohnvorstellung“, 183–86.

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wendet werden allgemein zugängliche Jesusworte, die durch die Zusammenstellung neu interpretiert werden. Das EvMar knüpft nicht an besondere, geheime Traditionen an, sondern scheint mitten in einem allgemeinkirchlichen Diskurs zu stehen. Auch wenn die so ausgedrückten Vorstellungen originell sind, leiten sie sich exegetisch von anerkannten Positionen ab. Ähnlich lässt sich auch die besondere Rolle von Maria erklären, die eine Vision Jesu hat und dann seine Worte, u. a. vom Aufstieg der Seele, wiedergibt. Maria sagt: „Ich sah den Herrn in einer Vision“ (BG p. 10.10f) und gibt dann wieder, was er ihr gesagt hat. In Joh 20,18 sagt sie: „Ich habe den Herrn gesehen“ als Abschluss einer Begegnung mit dem auferstandenen Jesus, der u. a. von seinem Aufstieg zum Vater spricht. Vermutlich bezieht sich das EvMar auf die Darstellung in Joh 20 und baut sie aus.42 Grundlage der Aussagen im EvMar ist dann wieder eine allgemein zugängliche Quelle, die auf eigene Weise interpretiert wird, der Status von Maria beruht nicht auf einer geheimen Überlieferung.43 Auch wenn ein großer Teil der Rede von Maria vom Aufstieg der Seele handelt, der keine Parallele in den kanonischen Evangelien hat, beginnen ihre Ausführungen mit einem bekannten Jesuswort. Jesus lobt sie für ihre Fähigkeit, ihn ohne zu wanken zu sehen, denn „wo der Verstand ist, dort ist der Schatz.“ (BG p. 10,15f) Eine Parallele zu diesem Spruch findet sich in Mt 6,21 (par. Lk 12,34): „Denn wo dein Schatz ist, da ist auch dein Herz.“ Dies ist kein wörtliches Zitat, anstelle von Herz (καρδία) verwendet das EvMar Verstand (νοῦς) – beide Begriffe überschneiden sich aber in ihrer Bedeutung und νοῦς passt besser in einen philosophischen Diskurs. Wichtiger für die Interpretation ist der Unterschied in der Abfolge der Elemente. In der synoptischen Variante folgt das Herz dem Schatz (deshalb ist es wichtig, einen Schatz im Himmel, nicht auf der Erde, zu sammeln). Im EvMar folgt der Schatz dem Verstand, der Schatz ist da, wo der Verstand ist – beide werden fast identifiziert, der Verstand kann als Schatz verstanden werden. Das EvMar ist nicht der einzige frühchristliche Text, der eine Variante des Spruchs bietet. Er findet sich bei Justin, Clemens und Makarius, in allen Fällen mit νοῦς anstelle von καρδία.44 Bei Justin (1 Apol 15.16) ist die Abfolge die gleiche wie in der synoptischen Variante, Clemens und Makarius haben wie das EvMar die umgekehrte Abfolge. Das EvMar scheint hier also ein weit verbreitetes Jesuswort aufzugreifen, das aber in seinem neuen Kontext eine neue und spezifische Bedeutung bekommt. Im synoptischen Zusammenhang geht es um weltlichen Besitz, der zugunsten eines himmlischen Schatzes abgewertet wird. Obwohl bei 42 Vgl. D. Lührmann, „Die griechischen Fragmente“, 326–27; K.L. King, The Gospel of Mary of Magdala, 130–31; J. Hartenstein, Die zweite Lehre, 157–58; A. Taschl-Erber, Maria von Magdala, 504. 43 Dass Marias leitende Rolle im EvMar im Rückgriff auf allgemein bekannte christliche Traditionen begründet wird, zeigt schon die frühere Einschätzung von Petrus: „Wir wissen, dass der Erlöser dich mehr liebte als die übrigen Frauen“ (BG p. 10,2f). Dies greift vermutlich die Darstellung in den synoptischen Evangelien auf, in denen Maria stets die Frauengruppe anführt. 44 Vgl. C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary, 65–67.

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Clemens (Strom VII 12,77) die Formulierung dem EvMar sehr nahe steht, ist auch hier weltlicher Besitz gemeint, der für bedürftige Geschwister eingesetzt werden soll.45 Es geht um den Schatz, um den richtigen Umgang mit Besitz. Im EvMar dagegen steht der Verstand im Zentrum, er wird durch den Spruch hervorgehoben. Als Erklärung für Marias Fähigkeiten hat der Schatz nichts Materielles, sondern dient bildlich als Lob für Marias Verstand. Möglicherweise ist auch einfach wichtig, dass Marias Rede mit einem bekannten Jesuswort beginnt, unabhängig von der eigenen Interpretation. Denn nach ihrer Rede greift Andreas sie an, weil ihre Worte „andere Gedanken“ sind, er glaubt deshalb nicht, dass sie von Jesus stammen (BG p.17,13–15). Dieser Einwand ist in Bezug auf den Seelenaufstieg durchaus berechtigt, aber am Anfang entsprechen Marias Worte dem, was von Jesus sonst (sogar sehr verbreitet) bekannt ist. Wieder scheint das EvMar an einigen Stellen bewusst auf allgemeine Tradition zurückzugreifen. Der Aufstieg der Seele, der dann einen großen Teil der Rede Marias ausmacht, ist allerdings keine allgemein bekannte Jesustradition, etwa aus den kanonischen Evangelien. Da in Marias Rede einige Seiten fehlen, ist unklar, wie diese Passage eingeführt wurde und um wessen Seele es geht. Vermutlich gibt Maria Worte Jesu wieder, der seinerseits von der Seele erzählt, die bei ihrem Aufstieg feindliche Mächte überwindet. Die Vorstellung einer Himmelsreise der Seele findet sich in vielen religiösen Traditionen.46 Feindliche Mächte, die dies verhindern wollen, gehören in einigen von ihnen dazu. Die beste Parallele zum Text des EvMar findet sich im Buch des Allogenes aus dem Codex Tchacos (CT p.63–66). Neu platzierte Fragmente zeigen einen Text, in dem Allogenes eine Stimme aus einer Lichtwolke hört, die ihm seinen zukünftigen Aufstieg verspricht, den auch feindliche Mächte nicht verhindern können. Dieser Text enthält Parallelen zu sechs von den sieben Namen der Mächte im EvMar, dann folgt eine Textlücke, so dass möglicherweise auch der siebte Name erwähnt wurde.47 Diese Schrift ist vermutlich später als das EvMar verfasst.48 Wahrscheinlich greift das EvMar auf eine Quelle zurück, wie sie auch dem Buch des Allogenes vorlag, bearbeitet sie aber eigenständig.49 Allogenes bekommt Anweisungen für seinen zukünftigen Aufstieg: Nach der Auflösung seines Körpers wird er auf die 45 Auch bei den weiteren Stellen steht dieser materielle Aspekt im Vordergrund. 46 C. Colpe, „Die ‘Himmelsreise der Seele’ außerhalb und innerhalb der Gnosis“, in The Origins of Gnosticism: Colloquium of Messina 13–18 April 1966, ed. U. Bianchi (Leiden: Brill, 1967), 429–47. 47 Kleine Abweichungen bei den Namen lassen sich gut als Veränderungen in der Überlieferung erklären. 48 Vgl. G. Wurst, „[Buch des Allogenes] (CT 4)“, in Nag Hammadi Deutsch: Studienausgabe, ed. ­H.-M. Schenke et al. (Berlin et al.: De Gruyter, ³2007), 590–93: 591. 49 Wegen der spezifischen Züge des EvMar ist auszuschließen, dass das EvMar als Quelle für Allogenes diente. Das EvMar hat auch nicht einfach sieben Mächte, sondern eigentlich vier, von denen die letzte siebengestaltig ist und die ersten Namen wieder aufnimmt. Wenn dies nicht eine eigene Umgestaltung ist, dann spricht das für die Verbindung verschiedener Quellen zu den Mächten.

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Mächte treffen, aber er wird sie durch spezielle Antworten auf ihre Fragen überwinden. Eine ähnliche Konstellation findet sich in (1Apc)Jac (NHC V p. 33,2– 35,25), wo Jakobus solche Informationen von Jesus bekommt. EvThom 50 ist ein kurzer Dialog über das gleiche Thema, der möglicherweise vom Aufstieg der JüngerInnen handelt (nicht notwendig postmortal). Es gibt einige weitere Beispiele aus späteren Schriften (2Jeû, PistSoph). Jeweils handelt es sich um spezielle Tradition, die den Lesenden einen Vorsprung gegenüber „normalen“ Gläubigen verschafft, außer beim EvThom ist ein „gnostischer“ Hintergrund der Schriften deutlich. Im EvMar geht es dagegen nicht um einen zukünftigen Aufstieg, etwa von Marias Seele. Es beschreibt einen schon erfolgten Aufstieg aus einer Außenperspektive. Auch wenn dies für die Lesenden lehrreich sein kann, gibt der Text keine direkten Anweisungen für den eigenen Aufstieg. Deshalb sind die Antworten der Seele auch viel weniger formelhaft, sie scheinen nicht zum Auswendiglernen bestimmt, sondern geben eher einen wirklichen Dialog mit den Mächten wieder. In dieser Gestaltung unterscheidet sich das EvMar von den bisher genannten Texten. Eine Vision mit einem Bericht über den mühsamen Aufstieg einer Seele findet sich aber in ApkPaul 14 und 16.50 Auch hier versuchen Mächte den Aufstieg zu verhindern, werden aber durch einen Dialog überwunden, der sich auf die individuelle Seele bezieht, also nicht aus Formeln besteht.51 Parallel zum EvMar ist auch, dass von einer Seele gesprochen wird, während in den anderen Vergleichstexten die Person an sich (ihr wahres Selbst ohne Körper) aufsteigt. Diese kurzen Andeutungen zu möglichen Parallelen zeigen zunächst, dass Vorstellungen vom Seelenaufstieg in ihrer Vielfalt keine besonders geheime Tradition, sondern weit und in verschiedenen Kontexten verbreitet sind. Das EvMar scheint verschiedene Traditionen aufzugreifen und zu einer eigenständigen Sicht zu verarbeiten. Eine der Quellen könnte dabei aber in einem apokryph„gnostischen“ Bereich liegen, in einem Kontext der Übermittlung von speziellen Lehren an Eingeweihte. Das EvMar gibt eine solche Quelle allerdings nicht einfach wieder, sondern gestaltet sie in einer Weise um, in der gerade der Charakter des Sonderwissens verloren geht, und verbindet sie vielleicht auch mit weiteren allgemeineren Traditionen. Insbesondere bei der Verwendung von Jesustradition stellt es sich eindeutig nicht als eine geheime Lehre dar, sondern greift auf anerkannte Quellen (wie die kanonisch gewordenen Evangelien) zurück. Die eigene originelle Theologie wird aus ihnen hergeleitet oder vielleicht mit ihnen legitimiert.

50 Es ist nicht die Paulusapokalypse aus NHC V gemeint, sondern die weit und in verschiedenen Sprachen überlieferte allgemeinchristliche Paulusapokalypse, die vor allem das Schicksal von Gerechten und Sündern schildert (Himmel und Hölle). Zu diesem Text vgl. den Beitrag von Meghan Henning im vorliegenden Band. 51 Möglicherweise findet sich ein ähnlicher Aufstieg aus einer Außenperspektive in Dial (NHC III p. 136–37).

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5. Überlegungen zum sozialen Hintergrund Die inhaltliche Auswertung des Textes in Bezug auf die Darstellung der Personen, die theologischen Aussagen und den Umgang mit Traditionen hat ein vielschichtiges Bild ergeben. Das EvMar bietet viele originelle Ideen und Ansätze, bleibt zugleich aber schwer zu greifen. Vor allem in theologisch zentralen Fragen entzieht es sich einer klaren Zuordnung, die Schrift ist nicht anstößig für eine „orthodoxe“ Sicht, lässt sich aber auch in anderen Kontexten lesen. Die Unklarheit, ob das EvMar in den Mainstream des frühen Christentums gehört oder die Position einer irgendwie abgesonderten Gruppe spiegelt, zeigt sich auch in den Interaktionen des Jüngerkreises, in dem Gegensätze und Streit neben einer Betonung der Gemeinsamkeit stehen. In der Gesamttendenz plädiert das EvMar dabei für die Gemeinschaft und die Zugehörigkeit zur Mehrheitsmeinung, aber darunter liegt eine andere Strömung. Diese Spannung lässt sich vielleicht so erklären, dass das EvMar bewusst Anstöße vermeiden will. Es könnte ein Text sein, dessen offene Stellen Insider füllen können, der aber Außenstehenden keinen Ansatz für Kritik gibt. Dem EvMar eine absichtliche Verschleierung der eigenen Position zu unterstellen, ist natürlich ein gefährlich spekulatives Unternehmen. Ich will es trotzdem mit aller Vorsicht versuchen, weil die Nichtgreifbarkeit von Positionen ein so auffälliger Befund ist. Wenn das EvMar tatsächlich seine Positionen vorsichtig oder sogar bewusst unklar ausdrückt, dann sind Rückschlüsse auf den sozialen Kontext möglich. Wenn die Gruppe hinter dem EvMar Angst hat, die eigenen Vorstellungen offen auszusprechen, dann müssen sie in einer abhängigen oder Minderheitenposition im christlichen Kontext gewesen sein. Ein Verstoß gegen eine möglicherweise vorherrschende Mehrheitsmeinung muss irgendeine Art von Konsequenzen befürchten lassen. Das bedeutet dann auch, dass es schon eine Unterscheidung zwischen richtigen („orthodoxen“) und abweichenden, nicht akzeptablen Positionen gegeben haben muss, zumindest in einem bestimmten, möglicherweise regional begrenzten Bereich.52 Wenn diese Annahme zutrifft, dann lässt sich das Konzept von „hidden“ und „public transcript“ auf das EvMar anwenden. James Scott entwickelt den Begriff des „hidden transcript“, um die Kommunikation von politisch und/oder wirtschaftlich unterdrückten Gruppen (z. B. zur Zeit der Sklaverei in den USA) zu beschreiben, die ihre Ansichten öffentlich nicht frei ausdrücken können. Der öffentliche Diskurs wird von den Mächtigen bestimmt, was die Marginalisierten zu einer Anpassung an die erwarteten Verhaltensweisen zwingt, z. B. zu Ehrerbietung im sozialen Kontakt.53 Unter ihnen gibt es aber einen anderen, verborgenen Diskurs, der sich der Prägung durch die Mächtigen entzieht, der 52 Dies spricht eher für eine Zeit am Ende des 2. Jahrhunderts. 53 Vgl. J.C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven, CT a. o.: Yale University Press, 1990), 23–24.

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aber auch öffentlich werden will, sofern dies gefahrlos möglich ist. Dieser verborgene Diskurs kann sich anonym äußern, um die verantwortlichen Personen zu schützen. Er kann die eigenen Ansichten in metaphorische Sprache kleiden, um die Absichten zu verbergen, oder Teile von allgemein akzeptierten Traditionen nutzen. Dadurch entstehen vieldeutige Texte, die auf unterschiedliche Weise interpretiert werden können, aber der dominierenden Meinung keinen offenen Anstoß geben.54 Lässt sich dieses Konzept sinnvoll auf das EvMar anwenden, bei dem der soziale Hintergrund ja gerade nicht bekannt ist? Es gibt zumindest einen Hinweis auf eine schwache Position derer, die sich dem EvMar verbunden fühlen: Der Befehl Jesu, keine Gesetze zu erlassen. Er wird am Ende der Schrift von Levi nochmals aufgegriffen, was seine Wichtigkeit zeigt. Dies kann natürlich einfach ein Argument in einer Debatte um die Entwicklung der entstehenden Kirche sein. Aber es kann auch ein Zeichen dafür sein, dass das EvMar mit den Gesetzen in seinem Umfeld nicht einverstanden ist, sie aber nicht verhindern kann. Die Bemerkung wird oft auf die Rolle von Maria und die Position von lehrenden Frauen bezogen.55 Zumindest an diesem Punkt sehen also viele das EvMar in Auseinandersetzung mit einer anderen, dominanten Position. Aber die Anweisung ist allgemein formuliert, sie muss sich nicht nur oder hauptsächlich auf die Frage von lehrenden Frauen beziehen. Es kann gut sein, dass die Gruppe hinter dem EvMar auch sonst Regeln unterworfen ist und Jesu Warnung vor der Verstrickung in Gesetzen ihr Missfallen ausdrückt. Es gibt noch weitere Punkte, die gut in das Spannungsfeld von verborgener und öffentlicher Kommunikation passen. So sagt Maria ausdrücklich, dass sie etwas Verborgenes offenlegen will. („Was euch verborgen ist, werde ich euch verkündigen“ BG 10,8f; „Was euch verborgen ist und ich erinnere, will ich euch verkündigen“ PapOxy). Die ganze relativ komplizierte narrative Struktur des EvMar macht deutlich, dass die Worte Jesu schon vorhanden sind, auch wenn nur Maria sie kannte. Insbesondere die Kommunikation in der Jüngergruppe mit ihrer Spannung zwischen unterschwelligen Gegensätzen und einer zumindest oberflächlichen Betonung der Gemeinsamkeiten lässt sich in diesem Zusammenhang erhellen. Nach Scott müssen abhängige Gruppe in der öffentlichen Kommunikation mit den Mächtigen die Hierarchien wahren und die nötige Ehrerbietung zeigen. Im EvMar werden keine Hierarchien in der Gruppe deutlich, vielmehr wird sie betont als egalitäre Gruppe von Brüdern und Schwestern dargestellt, etwa durch die gegenseitige Anrede. Das kann je nach Kontext durchaus eine politische Aussage sein, eine Forderung nach Gleichberechtigung, die sich geschickt auf die bekannte Tradition der Jüngergruppe als Geschwister stützt. Auch für Maria wird, anders als in anderen Texten, nur indirekt eine überlegene Autoritätsposition beansprucht. Petrus fragt ausdrücklich „Sollen wir alle 54 Vgl. J.C. Scott, Domination, 18–19. 55 Vgl. K.L. King, The Gospel of Mary of Magdala, 56–57.

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auf sie hören?“ Aber diese Frage wird nicht einfach bejaht, obwohl genau das der Tendenz des EvMar entspricht. Levi stellt zwar fest, dass Jesus Maria mehr als alle anderen geliebt hat, aber er lenkt den Blick auf die (für alle unstrittige) Autorität Jesu und zieht keine Folgerungen für den Status von Maria, außer dass Petrus sie nicht grundsätzlich ablehnen soll. Auffällig ist Marias eigene, sehr defensive Reaktion auf den Vorwurf des Petrus.56 Es wäre sachlich passender, wenn sie nicht weinen, sondern über das Unverständnis des Petrus lachen würde. Aber Lachen würde eine Überlegenheit ausdrücken, die eindeutig kein angemessenes Verhalten einer unterlegenen Gruppe ist. Möglicherweise nimmt die Darstellung des Umgangs in der Gruppe also Rücksicht auf die Erfordernisse der Kommunikation in sozial hierarchischen Verhältnissen, vertritt dabei aber trotzdem ein eigenes, nichthierarchisches Ideal – und deutet so eine alternative Möglichkeit des Miteinander an. Auch der Bericht vom Seelenaufstieg kann gut als hoffnungsvolle Vision einer marginalisierten Gruppe gelesen werden.57 In bildlicher Sprache wird vom Sieg über mächtige Feinde berichtet, den die Seele eher durch Geschick als durch eigene Stärke erlangt. Die Schilderung ist aber so vieldeutig, dass sie keinen direkten Anstoß erregt.58 Schließlich lässt sich auch die Verwendung von allgemein anerkannter Jesustradition anführen: Auch dies ist eine sinnvolle Strategie, um Anstoß zu vermeiden. Das EvMar nutzt bekannte Worte Jesu über den Menschensohn, um sehr geschickt die eigene Vorstellung vom wahren inneren Menschen auszudrücken. Das EvMar lässt sich also mit dem Konzept von Scott lesen und als ein Text verstehen, in dem eine abhängige Gruppe ihre Position geschützt und vorsichtig in den frühchristlichen Diskurs einbringt ohne dabei Machtpositionen direkt in Frage zu stellen. Die Verbindungen zum Ansatz von Scott verstärken die Idee, dass das EvMar wirklich Positionen verschleiert (ein Beweis sind sie aber nicht). Probleme im Text werden so verständlicher. Aber ist es überhaupt vorstellbar, dass es im 2. Jahrhundert zumindest regional eine schon so klar etablierte Hierarchie zwischen christlichen Gruppen gab, dass die unterlegene ihre Ansichten nicht offen aussprechen konnte? Etliche Schriften der Zeit enthalten aus heutiger (und auch schon antiker) Sicht ausgesprochen offen unorthodoxe Vorstellungen. Die SJC verbindet verschiedene Traditionen und ist sich dabei m. E. nicht einmal bewusst, dass dies problematisch sein könnte. Das AJ setzt eine Diskussion z. B. um die Auslegung von Genesis voraus und sieht klar, dass die eigene Position anderen Meinungen widerspricht. Aber die Vorstellungen über Gott, die Schöpfung, die Menschen und vieles mehr werden trotzdem ohne Zögern und detailliert ausgedrückt. 56 Anders die Reaktion von Thomas in EvThom 13! 57 Vgl. K.L. King, The Gospel of Mary of Magdala, 76–79. 58 Die Erzählung passt deshalb in verschiedene Kontexte, sie kann z. B. auch als Hoffnung einer in einem heidnischen Umfeld diskriminierten christlichen Gruppe gelesen werden, anders als bei den Auseinandersetzungen in der Jüngergruppe muss es nicht um innerkirchliche Gegner gehen.

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Aber es gibt auch andere Schriften. Das EvJud ist sehr offen in seiner Polemik gegen die zwölf Jünger. Aber gerade die Polemik wirkt wie der verzweifelte Versuch einer schwachen und evtl. ausgegrenzten Gruppe, sich gegen eine überlegene Mehrheit zu wehren. Der soziale Hintergrund von EvJud und EvMar könnte durchaus ähnlich sein, aber ihre Strategie, mit einer Minderheitenposition umzugehen, ist sehr unterschiedlich. Das EvJud zeigt zumindest, das klare Abgrenzungen zwischen christlichen Gruppen schon im 2. Jahrhundert möglich waren.59 Eine größere Nähe zum EvMar weist EpJac auf. Auch in EpJac werden in der Rahmenerzählung Diskussionen unter den Jüngern beschrieben, aber die Offenbarungen Jesu gelten dann nur Jakobus und Petrus, die anderen sind ausdrücklich von Jesus selbst ausgeschlossen. Sie sind mit der Abfassung von Evangelien beschäftigt, während gleichzeitig Jakobus und Petrus die wichtigsten Belehrungen erhalten. Diese Darstellung ist polemischer als im EvMar, aber die Auseinandersetzung ist noch verschleiert, es gibt keinen offenen Bruch.60 Und in EpJac gibt es ähnliche Probleme mit der Interpretation des Inhalts wie im EvMar. Auch hier ist umstritten, ob der Text „gnostische“ Vorstellungen voraussetzt, weil es keine klaren Hinweise gibt. In anderen Punkten ist das Verständnis nicht nur schwierig, sondern es gibt direkt gegensätzliche Aussagen. Vermutlich sind einige von ihnen ironisch zu verstehen und die Lesenden sollen dies erkennen können. M. E. ist EpJac eine Schrift für die eigene Gruppe, die die Anspielungen deuten können, während Außenstehende sie nicht verstehen und keinen Anstoß nehmen. Auch hier könnte eine unterdrückte Gruppe ihre Ansichten vorsichtig und geschützt ausdrücken. Anders als im EvMar ist EpJac aber vor allem für die eigene Gruppe gedacht, eine breitere Veröffentlichung ist ausdrücklich nicht vorgesehen. Bei aller Vorsicht scheint das EvMar doch Einfluss auf den Diskurs nehmen zu wollen.

6. Folgerungen Ist es sinnvoll, das EvMar so zu lesen? Ich leite aus einer Schrift, die offen angelegt ist und das Miteinander betont, abgegrenzte Gruppen und Hierarchien ab. Es ist bestimmt nicht die einzige Möglichkeit, das EvMar zu interpretieren. Aber wenn es darum geht, aus dem Text allein einen möglichen sozialen Hintergrund zu rekonstruieren, dann scheint es mir eine plausible Möglichkeit zu sein, eine irgendwie „apokryphe“ Gruppe anzunehmen. Das EvMar lässt sich als apokryph im Sinne eines hidden transcript, einer verborgenen Kommunikation einer marginalisierten Gruppe, verstehen. Eine solche Entstehung passt auch zur Überlieferungsgeschichte. 59 Ich gehe davon aus, dass das EvJud eine Schrift aus dem 2. Jahrhundert ist, auf die sich Irenäus bezieht. 60 Am Ende wird die Gruppe zwar getrennt und das hat aus der Sicht des Jakobus die Funktion, Schwierigkeiten zu vermeiden, aber äußerlich wirkt dies wie ein Aufbruch zur Mission.

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Aber von seinem eigenen Anspruch her ist das EvMar gerade nicht apokryph, keine verborgene Lehre, sondern eine öffentliche, die an allgemein vorhandene Traditionen anknüpft und allen zugänglich ist. Das EvMar beruft sich nicht auf geheime Quellen und Traditionen, weder im Stoff noch in der Darstellung von Maria, die eine anerkannte Jüngerin, nicht eine Sondervertraute ist. Es stellt sich im Gegenteil als Teil eines allgemeinen Diskurses dar, in dem es mit seinen Meinungen gehört werden will. Für die konkrete Interpretation des Textes und seiner Ideen ist dieser Ansatz entscheidend. Weil er sich auf einen breiten geistig-literarischen Kontext bezieht, sollte er auch in ihm gelesen werden. Dann zeigt sich, wie das EvMar Traditionen neu verbindet und zu eigenständigen Ideen verarbeitet. Und dabei die möglicherweise vorhandenen Grenzen überschreitet.

Jens Schröter (Humboldt University Berlin)

The Figure of Seth in Jewish and Early Christian Writings Was there a “Sethian Gnosticism”?

1. Introduction The discovery (or invention) of “Sethian Gnosticism” is inextricably linked with the name of the eminent Berlin scholar, Hans-Martin Schenke (1929–2002). In a key article, published in 1974, Schenke argued that in a considerable number of the Nag Hammadi writings a Gnostic system can be discovered in which Seth plays a decisive role as the progenitor of the generation that will be saved and as the mediator of salvation.1 According to Schenke, “Sethian Gnosticism” is therefore a proper designation for this supposed movement within ancient Gnosticism. The remarkable influence of Schenke’s article can be recognized e. g. by the fact that at a conference on Gnosticism, held in 1978 at Yale University, one of the two main sections was devoted to “Sethian Gnosticism” (the other one was on “The School of Valentinus”). For the proceedings of this conference, Schenke himself contributed another article in which he developed his hypothesis further.2 He compiles a list of 11 “Sethian” writings,3 elaborates their mutual relationship, interprets them individually with regard to their content and literary character (e. g. the Gos. Eg., a text whose main subject is prayer), reflects about the baptismal practices of the “Sethians” and relates his findings in more detail to early Christianity and ancient philosophy. Furthermore, at a Symposium held in 1993 in Graz (Austria), Schenke in a lecture entitled “Was ist Gnosis?” describes the “Sethians” as a pre-Christian baptismal sect that was Christianized only at a later

1 H.-M. Schenke, “Das sethianische System nach den Nag-Hammadi-Handschriften“, in Studia Coptica, ed. P. Nagel (BBA 45: Berlin: Akademie, 1974), 165–72 (repr.: Der Name Seths. Hans-Martin Schenkes Kleine Schriften zu Gnosis, Koptologie und Neuem Testament, ed. G. Schenke-Robinson, G. Schenke & U.-K. Plisch [NHMS 78, Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2012], 285–92). 2 H.-M. Schenke, “The Phenomenon and Significance of Gnostic Sethianism”, in The Rediscovery of Gnosticism. Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, ed. B. Layton (­Sethian Gnosticism, SHR 41.2, Leiden: Brill, 1981), 588–616 (repr.: Der Name Seths, 501–28). 3 Ibid., 501. These writings are: Apocryphon of John, Hypostasis of the Archons, Gospel of the Egyptians, Apocalypse of Adam, Three Steles of Seth, Zostrianos, Melchizedek, Thought of Norea, Marsanes, Allogenes, Trimorphic Protennoia.

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stage in its history.4 Accordingly, Schenke regarded “Sethianism” as a pre-Christian Gnostic group with a distinct mythological system that was developed further from a Christian perspective only a later stage in its history. In Schenke’s view, the Sethian system consists of a heavenly triad comprising the “Highest invisible Spirit”, also called “Father”, his female companion “Barbelo” and their offspring “Autogenes”. This Autogenes is mingled with the first, incorruptible human being “Adamas” (Gos. Eg.) and can therefore even be called “Adamas” himself (Steles Seth). To the heavenly world also belong the “Four Aeons” or “Four Lights”, called “Harmazoel”, “Oroiael”, “Daveithe” and “­Eleleth”. The demiurge Jaldabaoth, who originated from the fall of Sophia, is the creator of the lower world and ignorant of his real origin. Seth as the offspring of the heavenly Adamas is the Gnostic redeemer or the mediator of redemption. In some writings he also appears as the ancestor of a “generation that does not waver”. In the Christianized Sethian writings, according to Schenke, Autogenes is differentiated from the heavenly Adamas and instead identified with Christ, as in Ap. John and Gos. Eg. In some of these writings Seth is a prominent figure – especially in Gos. Eg. and Apoc. Adam – whereas in others he is only mentioned in passing, as e. g. in Hyp. Arch. or in Zost. – or he does not appear at all, as in Allogenes or Norea. In those writings where Seth is mentioned, he appears in different roles. As we will see in more detail below, this is e. g. the case in Steles Seth but also Ap. John, a text with special importance for the “Sethian” hypothesis. Schenke’s justification for calling also those writings “Sethian” which do mention Seth at all, was the observation that they share certain features with those texts in which Seth plays a prominent role. Therefore, he argued that they belong to the same Gnostic system. Finally, Schenke concluded that “Sethianism” was probably the oldest and most distinctive kind of Gnosticism and could even be regarded as “the” Gnostic system per se. Schenke received support from James M. Robinson who argued that his observations would bring to light “a whole new Jewish sect” responsible for a large number of writings within the Nag Hammadi Library.5 Other scholars like Bentley Layton and John Turner developed Schenke’s system further.6 Layton even suggested to restrict ancient Gnosticism to the hairesis called “Gnostics” – γνωστικοί – in 4 H.-M. Schenke, “Was ist Gnosis? Neue Aspekte der alten Frage nach nach dem Ursprung und dem Wesen der Gnosis“, in Gnosis, ed. J.B. Bauer & H.D. Galter (GrTS 16, Graz: Styria, 1994), 179–207 (repr.: Der Name Seths, 772–91). 5 J.M. Robinson, “Nag Hammadi: The First Fifty Years”, in The Nag Hammadi Library after Fifty Years. Proceedings of the 1995 Society of Biblical Literature Commemoration, ed. J.D. Turner & A. McGuire (NHMS 44; Leiden et al.: Brill, 1997), 3–33: 27. 6 B. 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 & O.L.Yarbrough (Minneapolis, Minn.: Fortress, 1995), 334–50; J.D. Turner, Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition (Bibliothéque Copte de Nag Hammadi, Section “Études” 6; Québec: Université de Laval, 2001 [2nd edition 2006]); Id., “Sethian Gnosticism. A Literary History”, in Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism and Early Christianity, ed. C.W. Hedrick & R. Hodgson (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1986), 55–86.

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ancient sources and to regard this group as a formation of Second Temple Judaism influenced by Platonic philosophy. In Layton’s view, therefore, the Sethian system discovered by Schenke is an essential characteristic of the Gnostic hairesis as such. John Turner describes the Sethians as “the earliest gnostic movement for which we possess a great deal of textual evidence”.7 Likewise, in Karen King’s words, this strand of early Christianity can be called “Classical Gnosticism”, if the term “Gnosticism” is to be used at all in future scholarship.8 Other scholars remained less convinced by Schenke’s hypothesis. Frederik Wisse, an early and forceful critic of Schenke’s approach, doubted that there was a “Sethian system” at all. He argued instead that the writings concerned relied on related motifs and interpreted them in analogous, but distinct ways.9 Also Gerard Luttikhuizen and Christoph Markschies cast doubt on “Sethianism” as an appropriate designation for a specific movement within ancient Gnosticism.10 To specify the quest of a certain strand within ancient Gnosticism it has to be recognised that the relationship between some of the Nag Hammadi writings and the Platonic tradition is indeed striking. Remarkably, Porphyry in his bio­ graphy of the Neo-Platonic philosopher Porphyry, Vita Plotini, refers to several apocalypses, among them those of Zoroaster, Zostrianos and Allogenes.11 In a discourse of Porphyry, entitled “Against the Gnostics”,12 Plotinus fought against the views propagated in these writings, whereas a certain Amelius wrote against the tractate “Zostrianus”. Although it remains uncertain whether Plotinus relied on the same Greek text that also served as the basis for the translation of the Coptic tractate in NHC VIII, 1, it is obvious that the meaning of Christ in some Nag Hammadi writings has relationships to ideas circulating in Neo-Platonism. Whether the characterization of these writings as “Sethian” contributes to their better understanding, however, has to be discussed. Of course, Schenke was not the first one to identify “Sethianism” as a certain movement within ancient Gnosticism. Already ancient writers as e. g. Pseudo-­ Tertullian, Hippolytus and Epiphanius referred to a group of Christian heretics called “Sethians”. However, their descriptions differ considerably not only from each other but also from the so-called “Sethian” writings from Nag Hammadi. The relationship between the latter and “Sethians” described by early Christian theologians therefore remains ambiguous. ­  7 J.D. Turner, Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition, 747.   8 K.L. King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, Mass. & London: Harvard University Press, 2003), 218.   9 F. Wisse, “Stalking Those Elusive Sethians”, in The Rediscovery of Gnosticism, 563–77. 10 G. Luttikhuizen, “Sethianer?“, ZAC 13 (2009), 76–86; C. Markschies, Die Gnosis (München: Beck, 32010), 98–101. 11 Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 16:81, refers to a certain “Amelios” who supposedly wrote 40 books against “Zostrianos”. In the same context he mentions Plotinus’s tractate which he (Porphyry) entitled “Against the Gnostics” (Πρὸς τοὺς Γνωστικούς). 12 Plotinus, Ennead II:9 (Plotini Opera, Tomus I, ed. P. Henry & H.-R. Schwyzer, Paris, Bruxelles, 1951, 223–252).

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A specific problem of Schenke’s theory is that, in the writings concerned, Seth appears in different roles and with various meanings. This observation did of course not escape Schenke’s attention. He argued, however, that “one could designate our text group by any neutral convention, such as X-group, Apocryphon of John group, etc.”13 This remark highlights the fact that the Ap. John is of central importance for Schenke’s model and also for other supporters of the “Sethian theory” because in this writing, especially in the longer version, the so-called “Sethian” system is developed in a distinct way. To make things even more complicated, Irenaeus, as is well known, in Adv. Haer. I:29 describes the same “system”, but without referring to Seth or the “Sethians”. He rather speaks of a group who in the Latin translation (the Greek original of the passage is lost) is called “a great number of Barbelo Gnostics” (multitudo Gnosticorum Barbelo), whereas Epiphanius mentions a group that he calls Βαρβηλῖται,14 but he deals with the Sethians only in another passage of his Panarion.15 The references to Seth in the Nag Hammadi writings therefore have to be distinguished from the concept described by Irenaeus, in the Apocryphon of John and in some other writings. Schenke inferred his theory of Sethianism as a pre-Christian Gnostic strand from the observation that in the Nag Hammadi writings the “Sethian” concept can appear in Christian as well as in non-Christian texts.16 He further speculated that the figure of Seth might have been of special interest for the Samaritans and that it was – perhaps for this very reason – widely neglected in Judaism.17 These assumptions remain somewhat obscure, especially because Schenke does not deal with the Jewish texts about Seth themselves, but comes up with the idea of a Samaritan Gnostic baptismal sect that allegedly had its roots in pre-Christian Judaism and was in some way or another also related to John the Baptist and Mandean Baptismal groups. In Schenke’s view these Jewish groups saw themselves “in a special connection with Seth” and could therefore be regarded “as ancestors of Gnostic Sethianism”.18 To discuss these observations and hypotheses in what follows, I will begin with a look at the figure of Seth in some Jewish texts, then proceed with the interpretation of Seth in Nag Hammadi writings and finally ask how these findings can be related to the reports of early Christian heresiologists about the “Sethians”.19

13 H.-M. Schenke, “Phenomenon“, 590. 14 Epiphanius, Pan. 26,3:7. 15 Pan. 39. 16 H.-M. Schenke, “Das sethianische System“, 169; Id., “Phenomenon“, 607–12. 17 H.-M. Schenke, “Das sethianische System“, 171–72. 18 H.-M. Schenke, “Phenomenon“, 593. 19 Cf. A.F.J. Klijn, Seth in Jewish, Christian and Gnostic Literature (NovT.S 46; Leiden: Brill, 1977); B.A. Pearson, “The Figure of Seth in Gnostic Literature”, in Id., Gnosticism, Judaism, and Egyptian Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 52–83.

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2. The Figure of Seth in Jewish Writings The starting point for the various interpretations of the figure of Seth in Jewish and Christian texts is the remark about Adam’s and Eve’s son in Gen 4:25–26 and again in 5:3–4. 6–8. Both of these passages present a genealogy that runs from Adam to his son Seth (‫ בט‬in Hebrew; Σήθ or Σῆθος in Greek) and from there to Enosh. According to Gen 5:3 Adam begat Seth in his own likeness and his image.20 As the genealogy in Genesis 5 makes clear, this image was passed on from him to all humankind. The genealogy in Genesis 5 therefore runs parallel to that of Adam and Eve and their sons Cain and Abel. In the latter case Seth is the third son who was called Seth because, as Eve said, “God has given me another seed instead of Abel, whom Cain slew” (Gen 4:25). In both traditions Seth plays an important role for the origin of humankind. In Gen 4:25–26 he replaces Abel and begets Enosh as his own son. According to the Hebrew text of Gen 4:26 it was at that time that people began to call on the name of Yahweh (the Septuagint text differs here). According to Gen 5 Seth bears the image of Adam and becomes the progenitor of humankind. It is against this background that the figure of Seth gained a distinct meaning in Jewish and Christian texts. In the first book of his Antiquities Josephus mentions Seth in a short, but remarkable passage. Josephus reports that it would take too long to speak about all the descendants of Adam, therefore he wants to relate only the ones derived from Sethos. He informs his readers that Sethos “was himself of an excellent character, so he did leave children behind him who imitated his virtues”.21 Seth and his descendants were also the inventors of the science with regard to the hea­ venly bodies and their order. Furthermore, Josephus mentions that the sons of Seth erected two steles, one of brick and the other of stone. On both of them they inscribed their discoveries in order that they might not get lost when the world would be destroyed according to Adam’s prediction. The stele of stone, Josephus concludes, remains in the land of Seirida (Σειρίδα) until Josephus’ own time.22 The Jewish tradition about the steles of Seth is the backdrop of the Nag Hammadi tractate The Three Steles of Seth (ϯϣⲟⲙⲧⲉ ⲛ̅ⲥⲧⲏⲗⲏ ⲛ̅ⲧⲉ ⲥⲏ̅ⲑ᾽, NHC VII,5), a liturgical text which consists of three hymns directed to Autogenes, Barbelo and the Father. The text is introduced as “The revelation of Dositheos about the three steles of Seth, the Father of the living and unshakable race”.23 As we will see below, the designation “the living and unshakable race” or similar expressions appear in several of the Nag Hammadi tractates. In Steles Seth it is used as a characterization of those who belong to Seth as the father of this race. Seth himself does not 20 ‫ ִבּ ְדמוּ֖תֹו ְּכַצְל֑מו‬LXX: κατὰ τὴν ἰδέαν αὐτοῦ καὶ κατὰ τὴν εἰκόνα αὐτοῦ. 21 Ant. 1:68 γενόμενος αὐτὸς ἄριστος μιμητὰς τῶν αὐτῶν τοὺς ἀπογόνους κατέλιπεν. 22 A comparable tradition about writing carved on stone is found in Jubilees 8:3–4. 23 NHC VII,5, p. 118:10–13: ⲡⲟⲩⲱⲛϩ̅ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲛ̅ⲧⲉ ⲇⲱⲥⲓⲑⲉ ⲟⲥ ⲛ̅ⲧⲉ ϯϣⲟⲙⲧⲉ ⲛ̅ⲥⲧⲏⲗⲏ ⲛ̅ⲧⲉ ⲥⲏ̅ⲑ· ⲡⲓⲱⲧ⸌ ⲛ̅ⲧⲉ ϯⲅⲉⲛⲉⲁ ⲉⲧⲟⲛϩ̅ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲛ̅ⲁⲧ ⸌ⲕⲓⲙ.

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belong to the heavenly triad, but instead formulates the prayers directed to the three divine persons in whom the elect will join in. Accordingly, in this writing Seth appears as the representative of a particular group of humankind. More­ over, the liturgical character of the text could point to a community in which these prayers were in use. Steles Seth can therefore be regarded as a writing that takes up the Jewish tradition about the two steles of Seth and integrates it into a tripartite mythological concept. In the (Greek) Apocalypse of Moses and the (Latin) Life of Adam and Eve, two writings that are closely interrelated, Seth is born, as in Gen 4:25, because Cain has murdered Abel. When Adam is going to die he summons his children and gets into a dialogue with Seth in which he tells him about God’s creation of mankind, sin and his plagues in the form of bodily punishment. Later Seth and Eve are on their way to the paradise to get the oil that would give Adam relief from his illness. A beast attacks Seth – obviously an interpretation of Gen 3:15 (“I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed: it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.”).24 Eve accuses the beast for not fearing to fight with the image of God (X:3). In a dialogue with the beast Seth prompts the beast to “stand off from the image of God until the day of Judgement” (XII:1). Towards the end of Apoc. Mos. Seth is instructed by the archangel Michael to bury Eve and all humankind until the day of resurrection. In the final episode (49:1–51:3) Eve advises her children to make steles of stone and of clay and to write on them the life of their parents. This command is motivated by the prediction that God will destroy the world first with water and then with fire – which obviously provides the reason to produce steles of stone because those of clay will be dissolved by these events. The last sentence informs the readers that Seth made the steles. The Life of Adam and Eve obviously relies on the same tradition as Josephus about steles made by Seth to preserve the knowledge of the period before the destruction of the world. According to Josephus, it is astrological knowledge which should be preserved on these steles, whereas in the Life of Adam and Eve they contain the life story of the first human beings. As a last example in this context I refer to Philo’s tractate On the Posteriority of Cain and his Exile. In this writing, a part of his Allegorical Commentary on the Pentateuch, Philo is concerned with the interpretation of Gen 4:16–25 (without 4:23–24), i. e. with the posteriority of Cain. Several times Philo mentions the meaning of the name “Seth”, namely “potion” (ὁ ποτισμός).25 In the first passage (on Gen 4:25) Philo contrasts Cain and Seth by referring to the voluntary and involuntary absence from God. Whereas the involuntary “as not existing in consequence of any intention on our part, will subsequently have such a remedy”, “the voluntary one that has taken place by deliberate purpose and intention, will await 24 C.J. Dochhorn, Die Apokalypse des Mose. Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar (TSAJ 106, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 277–80. 25 Post. 10. 124.126.

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on irremediable punishment in all eternity”. In a later passage Philo interprets the name of Seth by explaining that it is through him that the soul is immersed with wisdom and God immerses the virtues with his λόγος (125–127). In another passage Seth is called “the foundation of good and the primary principle of virtue”, generated by the mind (170).26 Seth as “the seed of human virtue” (σπέρμα ὢν ἀνθρωπίνης ἀρετῆς, 173) becomes the origin of a new generation, different from that of Cain. The difference between these two groups is also explained in Post. 42. The race of Cain, Philo states, gives an ungodly opinion because they say that all thinking, and feeling, and speaking, are the free gifts of their own soul, whereas the race of Seth ascribe them to the divine grace. As these texts demonstrate, the starting point for Jewish traditions about Seth is that, according to the Genesis account, he preserved the true image of humankind because he was begotten in Adam’s own likeness. According to this tradition, it was Seth who also preserved the knowledge of humankind before the deluge which he wrote down on two steles. Against this background Sethian traditions were further expanded in Jewish writings, e. g. in the Targumim and in Rabbinic writings.27 Thereby the contrast between Cain and Seth is highlighted, e. g. by emphasizing that Eve begot Cain from Sammael, the angel of death, whereas Seth was received from Adam and is therefore his true heir. In Christian texts the name “Seth” was even interpreted as “resurrection”, taking up the translation of Gen 4:25 in the Septuagint: ἐπωνόμασεν τὸ ὄνομα αὐτοῦ Σηθ λέγουσα ᾿Εξανέστησεν γάρ μοι ὁ θεὸς σπέρμα ἕτερον ἀντὶ Αβελ.28 These speculations about Seth provided the milieu for the reception of this figure in the Nag Hammadi writings to which I now turn.

3. The Figure Seth in Nag Hammadi Texts A first important topic is Seth’s origin and his position within the upper world. Because in some writings Seth belongs to the heavenly realm he can also serve as the progenitor of a particular group of human beings who understand themselves as the “seed of Seth” and designate themselves as “the immovable race”. As already mentioned earlier, this expression appears in the Incipit of Steles Seth. It is also used several times in Gos. Eg., Ap. John (ⲧⲅⲉⲛⲉⲁ ⲉⲧⲉⲙⲉⲥⲕⲓⲙ), Zost., and also appears in Gos. Jud.29 Therefore, in several Gnostic writings it appears as a distinc26 Γεννήσας τοίνυν ὁ νοῦς ἀρχὴν σπουδαίας διαθέσεως καὶ ἀρετῆς τινα πρῶτον τρόπον τὸν Σήθ, τὸν ποτισμόν. 27 Cf. A.F.J. Klijn, Seth, 6–12. 28 Augustine, Civ. XV 17, presumably relying on Jerome’s Liber interpretationis Hebraicorum nominum, where the name “Sett” is explained as follows: “positio, vel positus, aut poculum, sive gravem, aut semen, seu resurrectio” (P. Lagard, Onomastica Sacra 10 [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1870]). Hieronymus relies on a Greek Onomasticon that allegedly was compiled by Philo and later expanded by Origen. 29 Gos. Jud., p. 49:5–6: “the incorruptible [generation] of Seth”.

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tive designation of those who understand themselves as the elect and have true knowledge. A related formulation, ⲧⲅⲉⲛⲉⲁ ⲛ̅ⲁⲧⲕⲓⲙ, however, appears in Eugnostos and Soph. Jes. Chr. which do not share the other mythological features of the writings just mentioned. The self-designation is therefore not exclusively used in texts that refer to Seth as the progenitor of a specific race of human beings. In the so-called Gospel of the Egyptians or perhaps better The Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit (NHC III,2/IV,2) it is reported that the Father with his approval (ⲧⲉϥⲉⲩⲇⲟⲕⲓⲁ) “approved the great incorruptible, immovable race of the great mighty men of the great Seth”.30 Seth, who at the end of the writing even appears as its author, is therefore characterized as the mediator between the upper and the lower world, bringing his seed (ⲥⲡⲟⲣⲁ) to the latter. As son of Adamas Seth belongs to the heavenly figures and is called “the Great Seth” throughout the writing. His origin is described as the consequence of a request of the “incorruptible man Adamas” who asks for a son who might become the Father of the “immovable, incorruptible race”.31 This son is then brought forth from above together with the “four great lights” Harmazoel, Oroiael, Davithe and Eleleth. Afterwards the great angel Hormos prepares a “Logos-begotten holy vessel” for the heavenly Seth in order that he might bring his seed.32 Seth then passes the three parousias, that is “the flood and the conflagration and the judgement of the archons”. Eventually Seth is clothed with the “Logos-begotten (λογογενής) one, even Jesus the living one”.33 The starting point of the mythological system to which Seth according to Gos. Eg. belongs, is the very beginning of creation, even before the creation, when the Father is still alone and, as a first step, three powers came forth from him: the Father, the Mother and the Son (III,1, p. 41:8 f.) as well as three Ogdoads and Adamas, “the first Man through whom and to whom everything became (and) without whom nothing became” (p. 49:10–12). The first Ogdoad is characterized as “Ennoia”, “Logos”, “Incorruption”, “Eternal life”, “Will” and “Mind”, whereas the second Ogdoas is the Mother, who is also called “virginal Barbelo” and the third one is the “Son of the silent silence and the glory of the Father”. This mytholo­ gical description of the upper world serves as the framework for the origin of the great Logos, the divine Autogenes and the incorruptible human being ­Adamas from whom Christ and the “Great Seth” come forth. The origin of the “Sethian race” is therefore described in Gos. Eg. in a detailed way. The mythology is thereby developed from a Christian perspective. This is already obvious from the description of Seth as the “incarnated“ Christ or Jesus, but also from the triad Father, Mother and Son, as well as from the reference to baptism (e. g. p. 63:24; 66:4) and the adoration of Jesus (Yesseus, Yessedekeus) in 30 Cf. e. g. NHC III,2, p. 59:13–15: ⲉⲩⲇⲟⲕⲓ ⲉϫⲛ̅ ⲧⲛⲟϭ ⲛ̅ⲅⲉⲛⲉⲁ ⲛ̅ⲁⲫⲑⲁⲣⲧⲟⲛ ⲉⲧⲉ ⲙⲉⲥⲕⲓⲙ ⲛ̅ⲛⲓⲛⲟϭ ⲛ̅ⲣⲱⲙⲉ ⲛ̅ϫⲱⲱⲣⲉ ⲙ̅ⲡⲛⲟϭ ⲛ̅ⲥⲏⲑ. 31 NHC III,2, p. 51:5. 32 NHC III,2, p. 60:2–8. 33 NHC III,2, p. 64:1–3.

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the hymnic parts of the writing. These latter sections also indicate that baptism and prayer are rituals of the community (or communities) presupposed in Gos. Eg. Whether there was a non-Christian “Vorlage” behind the Gos. Eg., as is sometimes assumed, however, remains uncertain. Next, I will take a short look at the Hypostasis of the Archons (NHC II,4). This tractate comprises a mythological account of Gen 1–6 that is closely related to On the Origin of the World (NHC II,5), a tractate that follows directly in the same codex. As in Gos. Eg. and also e. g. in Zost. the four “lights” are mentioned as well as the “Father of the truth” and Jaldabaoth. Eleleth and the three other “lights”, however, are directly related to the “Great invisible Spirit”, whereas Barbelo and the Autogenes do not appear at all. Seth is only mentioned in passing within the account of Gen 4:25 as the third son of Adam and Eve, who was born instead of Abel. But it is Norea, his sister, who plays the decisive role in the further course of the story, whereas Seth is never mentioned again. The clue of the account is that Eleleth brings to Norea the true knowledge about the archons and the upper world. Norea is informed that she and other human beings belong to the Father and that their souls are from the imperishable light (p. 96:19.22). Obviously, the mythological concept of Hyp. Arch. has relationships with writings such as Gos. Eg., but it is developed here in a distinct and probably independent way. As a next example I turn to the Apocryphon of John which is often regarded as the most characteristic writing, or even the “archetype”, of Sethian Gnosticism. In Ap. John it is Christ himself who reveals to John the formation of the upper world in order that John himself may relate it “to his fellow spirits who are [from] the immovable race (γενεά) of the perfect (τέλειος) Man”.34 Similar to the Gos. Eg. the mythological account begins with a description of the heavenly world which consists of the Father, the Mother and the Son. The heavenly Father is depicted as a Monad, as invisible Spirit (ⲡⲉⲡⲛⲁ ⲛ̅ⲁϩⲟⲣⲁⲧⲟⲛ) who is even more than a God because there is nothing above him. This description of the Father as Monad (ⲙⲟⲛⲁⲣⲭⲓⲁ) can be characterized as “negative theology” because it is emphasized that “It is not right to think of him as (ὡς) a god or (ἤ) something similar for (γάρ) he is more than a god.”.35 This “negative theology” is one of the most distinctive features of those writings that share the mythological concept of Ap. John. It also appears e. g. in Steles Seth, Zost., Norea and Marsanes. In all of these writings there appears the idea of an upper, inaccessible world that is only recognizable through special revelation given to the elect. In Ap. John Seth himself is of much less importance than in the Gos. Eg. After the cosmogonic account it is depicted how the “four great lights” came forth.36 The “perfect true man” is generated by the “Great Invisible Spirit” and with the good will of the Autogenes. He is called “Adam” and is set over the first Aeon,

34 BG 22:13–16; NHC II,1, p. 2:23–25/IV,1, p. 3:19–21. 35 BG 2, p. 23:3–6. 36 BG 2, p. 33–34.

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together with the great God, the Self-Generator (αὐτογενέτωρ) Christ.37 His son Seth is set over the second light Oroiael, and in the third aeon the seed of Seth was placed.38 Seth is mentioned a second time in a critical interpretation of Ge­ nesis 1–7. There Jaldabaoth as the adversary of the Father plays a negative role. He clothed Adam in gloomy darkness, defiled the virgin and begot two sons, a righteous one and an unrighteous one (62:2–14). In this context the shorter version only mentions that “Adam begot Seth” (ⲁⲇⲁⲙ ⲁϥϫⲡⲟ ⲛ̅ⲥⲏⲑ),39 whereas the longer version (NHC II,1/IV,1)) states: “Adam … begot the likeness of the Son of Man. He called him Seth.”40 The description of Seth therefore differs considerably from that in the Gos. Eg. He is not the incarnated Christ nor is there a correspondence between the heavenly Adamas and the earthly figure of Seth and/or Christ. It is therefore obvious that the speculation about the significance of Seth is not developed here in a “Christological” way. In Ap. John Seth rather has an “anthropological” meaning as the guarantor of the heavenly origin and the salvation of those who belong to the generation of the perfect man. The mythological description in Ap. John can be related to Irenaeus’ and also to Theodoret’s account about the so-called “Barbelo Gnostics”.41 According to Irenaeus, these Gnostics “set forth a certain Aeon who never grows old, and exists in a virgin spirit: him they style Barbelo”. Irenaeus also mentions that Barbelo generated light as the beginning of all things. The Father anointed the light which, according to them, was Christ to whom Nous was given as an assistant. The Father also generates the Logos and several conjunctions, among them Ennoia and Logos as well as Aphtarsia and Christos. Autogenes generates the perfect and true man whom they also call “Adamas”. This direct relationship between Autogenes and Adamas does not appear in Ap. John where Adamas is instead generated by Pro­ gnosis and Nous. The role of Autogenes may therefore indicate that the mytho­ logy in Ap. John is developed further than in Irenaeus’ account.42 Seth himself is not mentioned by Irenaeus in this context. It is only in a later passage in which Irenaeus deals with the Ophites and the Sethians that he gives a description of the birth of Seth and Norea from whom all the rest of humankind descended.43 The description of Irenaeus has analogies with several writings in the Nag Hammadi codices. To these belong the description of an upper Aeon which some37 BG 2, p. 35:1–8. 38 BG 2, p. 35:20–36:4. 39 BG 2, p. 62:14–15. 40 ⲁⲇⲁⲙ ⲁϥϫ̣[ⲡ]ⲟ̣ ⲙⲡ̣[ⲓⲛⲉ ⲙ]ⲡ’ϣⲏⲣⲉ ⲙ̅ⲡⲣⲱ̣ⲙⲉ ⲁ[ϥⲙⲟⲩ]ⲧ̣ⲉ ⲉⲣⲟϥ ϫⲉ ⲥⲏ̅ⲑ̅. (NHC II,1, p. 24:35–36/IV,1, p. 38:25–29). 41 Iren., Haer. I,29; Theod., Haer. Fab. 13. Cf. the synopsis in M. Waldstein/F. Wisse, The Apocryphon of John. Synopsis of Nag Hammadi Codices II,1; II,1; and IV,1 with BG 8502.2 (NHMS 33; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 188–93. 42 Cf. R. van den Broek, “Autogenes and Adamas. The Mythological Structure of the Apocryphon of John”, in Gnosis and Gnosticism, ed. M. Krause (NHS XVII; Leiden: Brill, 1981), 16–25. 43 Haer. 30:9.

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times, but not always, has a threefold structure, consisting of the highest, invisible Father, his female counterpart, usually called Barbelo, and a Son who can be called Autogenes or Monogenes. Sometimes it is also stated that the human race has its origin in the fixated upper world. This last aspect that appears in the Gos. Eg. as well as in the Ap. John has a counterpart in the Latin translation of Irenaeus’ description of the Barbeloites where he states that the emanations of the upper world there all “fixated”.44 Seth himself, however, is treated differently in these accounts. He has an outstanding role in the Gos. Eg., a less prominent one in the Ap. John and he does not appear at all in Irenaeus’ account in Haer. I:29. The reason for these differences could be that the crucial point for the Gnostics was to emphasize that there is a certain group among human beings with special knowledge about the upper world. They are distinguished from the rest of the human race as those who will be saved. This conviction could be endorsed by referring to the tradition about Seth as the one who bears the image of the true human being and could therefore be regarded as the ancestor of this group. But it was obviously not essential to substantiate the conviction in this way. As a last example I take a short look at the Apocalypse of Adam (NHC V,5), which is preserved only in a poor condition with many gaps in the manuscript. According to the Incipit the text delivers “the revelation which Adam taught his son Seth in the seven hundredth year”.45 The literary genre of Apoc. Adam is therefore similar to the testament of Adam to his son Seth in the Life of Adam and Eve mentioned above. In Apoc. Adam Adam informs Seth about his and Eve’s creation until he came under the authority of death. Afterwards he gives an overview of the catastrophes that will be brought about on all humankind. Only a certain group of the seed of Noah and his sons, those “who came forth from the great eternal knowledge” (p. 73:18–20), and from whom the “illuminator of know­ledge” will “redeem their souls from the day of death” (p. 76:9–16) will be saved. The remark at the end of Apoc. Adam that the words of God “were not committed to the book nor were they written”, but instead “brought on a high mountain upon a rock of truth” probably relies on the Jewish tradition about Seth’s disco­ veries written on steles. Also the reference to a child, coming from a virgin womb and brought to a desert as well as to Solomon’s army of demons (p. 78–79) rely on Jewish and Christian apocalyptic traditions. In Apoc. Adam Seth appears in the first place as the addressee of the revelation. In the account itself he is mentioned in the first line of p. 77. Since the beginning of this line and also the end of p. 76 are destroyed, it is almost impossible to determine precisely the meaning of Seth in this passage. In any case, it is obvious that Apoc. Adam relies on traditions about Seth in its own way. By way of summary, it can be stated that in several of the Nag Hammadi wri­ tings and related texts a creation myth is developed in which the heavenly triad of Father, Mother and Son, also called the “Highest invisible Spirit”, “Barbelo” and 44 Confirmatis igitur sic omnibus … (I,29:3). 45 NHC V,5, p. 64:2–3: ϯⲁⲡⲟⲕⲁⲗⲩⲯⲓⲥ ⲉⲧⲁⲁⲇⲁ[ⲙ ⲧ]ⲁ̣ ⲙⲉ ⲡⲉϥϣⲏⲣⲉ ⲥ̅ⲏ̅ⲑ̅.

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“Autogenes”, plays an important role. In some of these writings four lights are mentioned bearing the names Harmazoel, Oroiael, Daveithe and Eleleth. A further aspect is the speculation about the origin of the world and humankind and the way to salvation for a specific group of the human beings. For this group the designation “the living and unshakable race” or related expressions can be used. Occasionally speculations about the figure of Seth as the progenitor of this race can occur in this context. Seth can be related to the third person of the heavenly triad or to the heavenly Adamas or he can even be identified with Adamas himself. In the background of these speculations are Jewish traditions about Seth as the bearer of the true image of Adam who also preserved the true knowledge of humankind from the time before the deluge. However, the speculations about Seth obviously do not form an integrating element of a distinct group of writings. This is already evident from the observation that the same mythological concept can also be developed without referring to the figure of Seth as e. g. in Irenaeus’ description of the system of the “Barbelo Gostics” or in the Hypostasis of the Archons. Moreover, among the writings referring to Seth he appears e. g. as the one who praises the heavenly triad (Steles Seth), as the addressee of revelation (Apoc. Adam), or even as the heavenly Adamas or Autogenes himself (Gos. Eg.). The designation “immovable race” can also occur in writings which do not rely on the mythological concept of the so-called “Sethian writings” (Eugnostos, Soph. Jes. Chr.). Eventually, the figure of Seth can also appear in writings which do not participate in speculations about his particular role at all (Treat. Seth). Therefore, it comes as no surprise that in tractates such as Zostrianus, Allogenes and Marsanes the mythology is developed in the form of visionary accounts with only superficial Christian elements. These writings also share a mythological concept of the heavenly triad consisting of the Highest God, Barbelo and the Autogenes, whereas Seth as the “son of Adamas the [father] of the immovable race and the [four] lights” is only mentioned in Zost. (p. 6:22–28) but does not occur in the preserved passages of Allogenes and Marsanes. The mythological concept of all of these texts can be distinguished from the Valentinian system of the highest God who is also called “Forefather”, “Ennoia” and “Nous” or “Monogenes” and “Aletheia”. Obviously, both of these concepts were developed as interpretations of Jewish traditions about the origin of the world and the human beings and their way of salvation with the help of Middle-Platonic elements. The relationship between these two concepts is not entirely clear. But it seems that in difference from the Valentinian school the “Sethian” writings are much less coherent with regard to their mythology and rituals.

4. “Sethians” in the heresiological reports of early Christian theologians In this final section I will briefly look at those texts which describe “Sethians” as a heretical group within early Christianity. As already mentioned above, the relevant texts of these polemics were produced by Pseudo-Tertullian, Hippolytus and ­Epiphanius. The account by Pseudo-Tertullian describes the mytho-

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logical doctrine of the “Sethites” (Sethoites) as a fight among the angels arising from their forming of Cain and Abel as a sinful permixture of angels and human beings.46 As a reaction, the “Virtue” who was above all the Virtues and is also called “Mother” wanted to create a new seed instead of Abel and swept away the seed of permixture by the deluge. But together with the eight souls of the seed of Seth also the seed of Ham was saved in the ark and therefore exists until today. Finally, Pseudo-Tertullian reports, the “Sethites” call Christ “Seth” who came instead of the actual Seth. Hippolytus47 reports that the Sethians presuppose three definite principles of the universe that possess infinite powers. Their substances are light and darkness, in between there is the unmixed spirit (πνεῦμα). The light and the spirit seek after the power that belongs to them and try to retrieve their powers that are intermingled with the darkness and to bring them back to themselves. The serpent that entered into the defiled womb produces mankind. This is the reason why the Logos has entered into the womb of a virgin, was washed, and drank of the cup of life-giving bubbling water. Finally, Hippolytus declares that the doctrines of the Sethians are derived from the ancient theologians Musaeus, Linus and Orpheus and he mentions a writing containing their doctrines, called “Paraphrasis Seth”.48 Epiphanius states in ch. 39 of his Panarion that the Sethians would “trace their ancestry to Seth the son of Adam and glorify him”. As in Pseudo-Tertullian, he mentions Cain and Abel as creations of the angels, the mother who caused the generation of Seth and the salvation of the seed of Seth together with Ham in the ark. Christ, who came from Seth by descent and lineage, is identified with Seth. Epiphanius also mentions books that were composed by the Sethians in the name of great men and refers to seven books in Seth’s name. Obviously, Epiphianus has only second-hand knowledge about the Sethians and probably relies on reports similar to that of Pseudo-Tertullian. From these short remarks it is obvious that these ancient Christian authors received their knowledge about the “Sethians” not from the writings discussed above. It would even be difficult to relate their reports in a more precise way to any known doctrines or groups of second or third century Christianity. Their accounts about the Sethians, especially those by Pseudo-Tertullian and Hippolytus, could however indicate that speculations about the figure of Seth circulated among Christian or Gnostic groups in the second and third century. Whether some of these groups called themselves “Sethians” and how their doctrines looked like, however, would be difficult to determine. It seems nevertheless evident that there are only superficial points of contact between the groups described by the authors mentioned in this paragraph and the Nag Hammadi texts discussed above. 46 Ps.-Tert., Haer. 2: Huius perversitatis doctrina haec est: Duos homines ab angelis constitutos, Cain et Abel, propter hos magnas inter angelos contentiones et discordias extitisse. 47 Ref. V,19–21. 48 Ref. V,22:1: Παράφρασις Σήθ. Among the Nag Hammadi writings only a “Paraphrasis of Shem” is preserved (NHC VII,2). The relationship between the two writings remains unclear.

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5. Conclusion By way of conclusion the observations outlined in this article can be summarized as follows. In a certain number of the Nag Hammadi texts and related writings, as e. g. the Gospel of Judas, a mythological concept can be detected that consists of a heavenly triad with specific designations and four lights related to them. The demiurge bears the name Jaldabaoth or Saklas or Samael, sometimes also two or all three of them. Within the speculations about the salvation of humankind the correspondence between the heavenly Adamas and his earthly counterpart Seth occasionally plays a prominent role. This is especially the case in the Gos. Eg., a writing that also consists of hymnic doxologies and a detailed description of a baptism ritual and can therefore probably be related to a specific “Gnostic” group. But it is by no means certain that this group called itself “Sethians”. In other writings Seth can appear as the progenitor of the immovable or unshakable race. But this aspect is neither constitutive for this group of writings, and the speculations about the figure of Seth in Gnostic texts are by no means restricted to this aspect. Moreover, the “negative theology” of writings as Gos. Eg. or Ap. John can be found also in other writings. The descriptions of the Sethians as a heretical group by ancient theologians indicate that one or more groups with such a name existed. But the relationship of the reports about such groups and their doctrines to the Nag Hammadi texts remains rather obscure. The designation “Sethianism” or “Sethian Gnosticism” might therefore be somewhat misleading. It can be concluded, however, that in a number of Gnostic writings speculations about Seth can appear, taking up motifs from Jewish wri­ tings. It seems rather improbable that these speculations were developed from a pre-Christian or non-Christian perspective. Rather, as especially Gos. Eg. indicates, the meaning of Seth as the earthly counterpart of the heavenly Adamas was developed as a specific kind of “Christology”. Therefore Seth could even be identified with Christ himself. It might therefore be advisable to stop using the designation “Sethian Gnosticism” with regard to Nag Hammadi texts and related writings. Instead one should regard these texts as attempts to interpret Jewish traditions about the origin of the world and the Christian idea of salvation by using mythological motifs from Middle- or Neo-Platonism. Sometimes – as e. g. in the Gos. Eg. or in the Ap. John together with Irenaeus, Haer. I,29 – religious groups relying on these interpretations are discernible. Other writings were apparently composed as philosophical tractates, sometimes as polemical re-interpretations of Old Testament traditions. Taken together, these writings provide far less concrete indications for a specific group than the Valentinian texts. They rather point to a broader range of thinking about God, the world and salvation within groups on the fringe of early Christianity.

Christopher Tuckett (University of Oxford)

What’s in a Name? How “apocryphal” are the “apocryphal gospels”?

1. What is “apocryphal”? What do we mean when we label a text as “apocryphal”? Conversely, could we be absolutely clear in deciding that a text is not “apocryphal”? Is it a simple “either/ or” decision? Are the categories of “apocryphal” and “non-apocryphal” simply binary opposites with no overlap at all? Would it make a difference to way that texts are read if the label “apocryphal” were attached to them? As is well known, there has been extensive discussion in recent years about some of these issues. Various collected volumes and/or editions of texts have been published in volumes entitled e. g. Neutestamentliche Apokryphen (Hennecke in a number of editions, taken over more recently by Schneemelcher), New Testament Apocrypha (the ETs of Hennecke-­ Schneemelcher), The Apocryphal New Testament (M. R. James, with the completely new and rewritten version of this volume by Keith Elliott, but with the same title), Écrits apocryphes chrétiens (2 vols, but deliberately avoiding the language of “NT apocrypha” and replacing this with “Christian apocrypha”), and most recently the massive new version of Hennecke-Schneemelcher, edited by Markschies and Schröter with the title Antike christliche Apocryphen (again avoiding the term “NT apocrypha”).1 These various titles reflect in part the ongoing debate about what precisely is meant by the word “apocryphal”. As part of the project of bringing out a new edition of Hennecke-Schneemelcher, Christoph Markschies has written an extensive discussion of the principles of selection, and the criteria and/or “definitions”, used by Hennecke himself and subsequently modified by Schneemelcher in the successive editions of their classic work;2 further there 1 See e. g. E. Hennecke & W. Schneemelcher (ed.), Neutestamentliche Apocryphen in deutscher Übersetzung (Tübingen: Mohr, 51987–89) (original edition: ed. E. Hennecke, 1904); W. Schneemel­cher (ed.), New Testament Apocrypha (2 vols; ed. R. McL. Wilson; Cambridge: James Clarke & Co., 1991– 92); F. Bovon & P. Geoltrain (ed.), Écrits apocryphes chrétiens I (Bibliothèque de la Pléiade; Paris: Gallimard, 1997); P. Geoltrain & J.D. Kaestli (ed.), Écrits apocryphes chrétiens II (Bibliothèque de la Pléiade; Paris: Gallimard, 2005); M.R. James (ed.), The Apocryphal New Testament (Oxford: Clarendon, 1924); J.K. Elliott (ed.), The Apocryphal New Testament (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993, 22005); C. Markschies & J. Schröter (ed.), Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung. I. Band Evangelien und Verwandtes. Teilband 1 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012). 2 See C. Markschies, “‘Neutestamentliche Apokryphen’. Bemerkungen zu Geschichte und Zukunft einer von Edgar Hennecke im Jahr 1904 begründeten Quellensammlung”, Apocrypha 9 (1998), 97–132; also his “Haupteinleitung”, in Antike christliche Apokryphen, 1–180.

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are the criticisms associated perhaps above all with the work of Éric Junod, advocating not least a change of nomenclature from “NT apocrypha” to “Christian apocrypha”.3

Τhe discussion about what is, or should be, termed “apocryphal” today sometimes relates to the meaning of similar (sometimes etymologically related) terms in antiquity. Thus for many, the term is related to debates about the canon, and the rejection of some possible candidates for inclusion in the canon as ἀποκρύφοι, from which of course the contemporary word “apocryphal” is just a transliteration. (The terminology varies: the rejected books are referred to sometimes as ἀποκρύφοι,4 but others use different words.5 Further, for a number of writers, the “rejected” candidates are not simply lumped into a single category of “rejected” or “apocryphal”; rather, they are often further sub-­divided into two groups, of e. g. “disputed” and “firmly rejected”, with the former group sometimes accepted as having more than a little religious merit, e. g. as being useful for reading perhaps at home, whereas the latter group is rejected as religiously worthless if not positively dangerous.6) In this sense “apocryphal” means effectively “non-canonical”, though with also perhaps an implicit rider that the text in question might have been considered by some to be a possible candidate for inclusion in a canon of scripture and/or be similar in form/genre to New Testament texts.7

3 É. Junod, “Apocryphes du NT ou apocryphes chrétiens anciens? Remarques sur la désignations d’un corpus et indications bibliographiques sur les instruments de travail récents”, ETR 58 (1983), 409–21; idem, “‘Apocryphes du nouveau Testament’: une appelation erronée et une collection artificelle. Discussion de la nouvelle définition proposée par W. Schneemelcher”, Apocrypha 3 (1992), 17–46. 4 See e. g. Irenaeus, A.H. 1.20.1 in relation to the (secret) books of Gnostics, using ἀπόκρυφος alongside νόθος (“false”). Cf. Tertullian, Pud. 10.12 (apocrypha and falsa used as virtual synonyms). See C. Markschies, “Haupteinleitung”, 20. It is indeed in relation to Gnostic (secret) books, rather than to writings whose place in a putative NT canon is disputed, that the word “apocryphal” seems to start being used by Christian writers. The word ἀποόκρυϕα is used in Athanasius’ 39th Festal Letter to refer to the books that are not included in the list of what is in effect a NT canon there. On the varied use of the term ἀπόκρυφος, see too T. Nicklas, “Christian Apocrypha and the Development of the Christian Canon”, EC 5 (2014), 1–21: 4–7. 5 E.g. Eusebius, H.E. 3.25, has a number of categories and corresponding words or phrases: there are writings that are (universally) “recognised” (ὁμολογούμενοι), there are others which are “disputed” (ἀντιλεγόμενοι), others which are “spurious” (νόθοι), and all these distinguished from the writings of the heretics which are to be seen not even as “spurious” but as “wicked and impious”. 6 See also most recently F. Bovon, “Canonical, Rejected, and Useful Books”, in F. Bovon, New Testament and Christian Apocrypha (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 318–22; and more fully in his article “Beyond the Canonical and the Apocryphal Books, the Presence of a Third Category: The Books Useful for the Soul”, HTR 105 (2012), 125–137. 7 Apocryphal texts may be all non-canonical, but not all non-canonical texts are apocryphal! Cf. the criteria used by Hennecke-Schneemelcher, in deciding what texts to include in their collection of “Apocryhpa”, based on the form of the writings as well as their non-canonical status.

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For others however, perhaps alongside this,8 there is sometimes an appeal to the Greek word ἀπόκρυφος as meaning “hidden”: hence “apocryphal” writings are esoteric, hidden and not available to the public. These two slightly different meanings can be seen reflected in the recent essay of Tobias Nicklas, engaging with the work of Dieter Lührmann. Over a period of several years, Lührmann published a number of detailed essays on individual apocryphal “gospels” (or “gospel”-like texts which were never in the NT canon). In 2004 he collected a number of these together and re-published them in a single volume with the title for the book (which was evidently carefully chosen) Die apokryph gewordenen Evangelien, “the gospels that became apocryphal”.9 In his Introduction, Lührmann explains what he means. Clearly implicit in his discussion (which is focused almost exclusively on the history of the canon) is that “apocryphal” is taken as the (binary) opposite of “canonical”. His point is in one way indisputable: texts such as “gospels” were never (probably) initially written explicitly as “canonical” texts, nor were other “gospel” texts ever written to be not part of a NT canon, simply because the formation of any canon post-dates the writings of the texts concerned. Hence the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John became canonical in the later processes of canon formation;10 and gospels such as those associated with the names of figures such as Thomas, Mary, Philip etc. became “apocryphal” by virtue of not being included in the canon. In a recent (2011) essay,11 Tobias Nicklas has questioned aspects of this model, appealing in part to the alternative meaning of the word “apocryphal” (cf. above) as deriving from the Greek word ἀπόκρυφος, meaning “hidden”. Hence “apocryphal” texts were hidden texts, texts that were for an esoteric in-group and not for public consumption. With this in mind, he suggests that different texts may be assessed differently in relation to whether they should be regarded as “apocryphal”. He focuses on “gospels”, and claims that this meaning of “apocryphal” (as “hidden”) might apply to some non-canonical texts, but not all. For texts which might not be “apocryphal” in this sense, he refers to the Gospel of Peter, which may   8 Cf. the use of the word by Irenaeus and Tertullian, as in n. 4 above.   9 D. Lührmann, Die apokryph gewordenen Evangelien (Leiden: Brill, 2004). Cf. too his earlier edition of the text of a number of these works published as D. Lührmann (with E. Schlarb), Fragmente apokryph gewordener Evangelien in griechischer und lateinischer Sprache (MThSt; Marburg: Elwert, 2000). 10 On the other hand, the category only applies to texts which were written before the delineation of a well-defined canonical list: yet there may well be very many non-canonical “apocryphal” texts which continue to appear well after the establishment of the canon and hence which did not necessarily only “become” apocryphal later. Cf. e. g. the burgeoning literature associated with the birth narratives of Jesus and/or Mary, and the huge “growth industry” in texts such as the Protevangelium of James. 11 T. Nicklas, “‘Apokryph gewordene Schriften’? Gedanken zum Apokryphenbegriff bei großkirchlichen Autoren und in einigen ‘gnostischen’ Texten”, in “In Search of Truth”: Augustine, Manichaeism and other Gnosticism. Studies for Johannes van Oort at Sixty, ed. J.A. van der Berg, A. Kotzé & T. ­Nicklas (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 547–65; more briefly in his “Christian Apocrypha”, 5.

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have been intended to be read by all openly and without any secrecy (and according to Eusebius’ account of Serapion [see H.E. 6.12.1–6] was read in this way in Rhossos before Serapion’s intervention prohibiting its use). On the other hand, a text such as the Gospel of Thomas may be rather different: its opening Prologue refers to the importance of finding the interpretation of the sayings contained in the gospel: it seems to be assumed that the text on its own is challenging and not necessarily clear and open. It thus embodies, apparently quite self-consciously, an element of secrecy and hiddenness. It is therefore in essence a hidden, “apocryphal” text in a way that e. g. the Gospel of Peter is not. Nicklas is surely right to highlight the very varied nature of the texts which are often lumped together under the category of being “apocryphal”. Indeed, a similar implicit claim has been part of the objections raised against titles such as M.R. James’ The Apocryphal New Testament (especially the use of the definite article), as if the texts under consideration form a clear, cohesive unity as a collection. Thus “apocryphal gospels” are a very “mixed bag”. At one level, any “disagreement” between Nicklas and Lührmann is not significant when analysed more closely. It revolves around the issue of what we mean by the word “apocryphal”. As noted, Lührmann appears to assume that it is the binary opposite of “canonical”, so that one could almost replace it with “non-canonical”. Nicklas appeals to the etymology of the word and takes the meaning then from the Greek original (or the Greek from which the word derives by virtual transliteration) as “hidden”.12 Yet Nicklas’ essay does raise a broader, and more interesting, question of how far some non-canonical “gospels” (or indeed other non-canonical/“apocryphal” texts) were intended to be read by wider audiences, and how far they were intended to be “esoteric” documents. This is then part perhaps of a wider issue about readership: who read this literature, or for whom was it intended?

2. Readership As soon as one raises the issue of the readership of non-canonical, or “apocryphal”, texts, one enters into a complex web of issues and questions where there are, and can be, no clear answers. At the very least, we can remind ourselves of some of the issues before making rash assumptions and/or attempts to answer questions about possible readership(s). We have to distinguish various different kinds of “readers”. At least three (if not more) need to be carefully distinguished. There is (a) the “implied reader” (in lit12 I leave aside the question of whether the meaning of a word in contemporary usage is/should be determined by its etymology: most students of semantics would say that it should not and that contemporary usage is the prime determining factor in meaning. However, in some cases a contemporary meaning is disputed (or at least pluriform); if then, some take factors of etymology into account in determining their “contemporary” usage, the meaning attained can have its own validity in the contemporary context.

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erary critical terms), i. e. the reader implied by the text; there is (b) the “intended reader”, i. e. the reader for whom the text might have been (“originally”) intended to be written (insofar as one can posit any clear intentionality at the level of authorship or “origin” in relation to many “apocryphal” texts); and there are (c) the real readers, i. e. the people who actually read the text. Further, all three such “readers” may be different. For example, it is not clear that, if we could identify the real readers, this would determine who the intended readers were (see below). Nor will the implied reader necessarily be identical with the intended readers. On the other hand, it is sometimes very difficult to access some of the readership levels! Nicklas’ essay effectively focuses on the level of the implied reader, and/or the intended reader, of a text such as the Gospel of Thomas: it is intended by the “author” of the text that the gospel is not for the general public, but is for a small, esoteric in-group. And this is indicated by the prologue which refers to the necessity of finding the “interpretation” of the sayings which follow: with the interpretation the sayings are presumably lifeless, useless or whatever; only the proper understanding, which involves going beyond the surface meaning of the text, will enable the reader not to “taste death” and to obtain the “life” that the gospel promises. Yet despite the caveats above about confusing real readers and intended readers, one can at least ask the question of who actually read texts such as the Gospel of Thomas. Indeed the question of the real readers of a text may enable one to consider some evidence apart from the contents of the text itself and thus avoid the dangers of a completely circular argument. One can consider in this context both the material evidence of the manuscripts,13 and perhaps also (though this is rarely done in this context as far as I am aware) the evidence of external attestation in other texts (i. e. in witnesses apart from actual manuscripts of the text). In what follows I offer some brief comments about the possible “real readers” of three well-known non-canonical gospels – the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Mary and the Gospel of Peter – insofar as we can deduce anything from the extant evidence. 2.1. Gospel of Thomas 2.1.1. External attestation. One (striking?) feature of the Gos. Thom. is the extent of the external attestation for the existence of the gospel, in the form of warnings by “orthodox” writers of the dangers and/or “heretical” nature of the text. I am fully aware that one has to be cautious since references to an otherwise unspecified “gospel” associated with the name of “Thomas” might be a reference to the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, rather than to “the” Gos. Thom. (i. e. the text known to 13 For a similar approach to the apocryphal Acts, see K. Haines-Eitzen, “The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles on Papyrus: Revisiting the Question of Readership and Audience”, in New Testament Manuscripts. Their Texts and Their World, ed. T.J. Kraus & T. Nicklas (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 293–304.

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us from P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655, and NHC II.2). Nevertheless it is striking how many references there are in the writings of others, albeit often as references to a text which the writer in question clearly does not approve of. Under the heading of “Testimonia to the Gospel according to Thomas”, Harold Attridge collects 18 such references, and more recently Simon Gathercole has found considerably more.14 Two on Attridge’s list are possible citations, or allusions, to sayings also found in Gos. Thom.,15 but the remaining 16 are (negative) references to the existence of a gospel associated with “Thomas”. At the very least, it might appear that this text was well known, or known about,16 and its general characteristics and/or nature also known. However much it may have been (originally?) the property of an esoteric in-group, and not intended for “outsiders”, it would seem that, in its later history, the gospel was known by a large number of people (admittedly not being seen in a favourable light, and perhaps known as much by name only as by any details of its contents). 2.1.2. Manuscripts. As is well known, Gos. Thom. survives in three Oxyrhynchus fragments (P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655), and in one Coptic translation (NHC II.2). In a recent essay, Hurtado has argued that the three Oxyrhynchus fragments of the text are relatively low-level productions. In terms of scribal competence, all three display a script that is not very high class (certainly for 1 and 654) and their form indicates that these were probably both written for private use, not for any kind of public use; the same is implied by the very small size of 655: the very small page would militate against its being used in a public setting. Hence the fragments suggest that the gospel was being used by one or more private individuals and there is certainly no justification on this basis for thinking about a “Thomasine community”.17 Generalisation here is difficult, but the following points may be relevant. 14 H. Attridge, in Nag Hammadi Codex II,2–7. Together with XIII,2, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926(1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655, ed. B. Layton (Leiden: Brill, 1989), 103–109. S.J. Gathercole, The Gospel of Thomas. Introduction and Commentary (TENT 11; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 35–61, finds 39 “fairly clear” examples of explicit references to the gospel in other texts, and 9 other “possible” instances; also ibid., 62–90, for a large number of possible references to sayings found in Gos. Thom. (though many of these could be instances of another writer knowing the tradition which Thomas also uses). 15 Nos. 1 and 4 in Attridge’s list: these are the saying in Hippolytus, Ref. 5.7.20 attributed to the “Naassenes” closely resembling Gos. Thom. 4, and a saying from Mani in Augustine, Contra epist. Fundam. 11 (similar to the introduction to Gos. Thom.). 16 It may of course be that some of these negative references feed off each other, so to speak, i. e. there may be some dependence between the various references: hence a negative statement about a “Gospel of Thomas” may get repeated by a later writer even though the latter knows nothing about the text itself. 17 L. Hurtado, “The Greek Fragments of the Gospel of Thomas as Artefacts: Papyrological Observations on Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 1, Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 654 and Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 655 “, in Das Thomasevangelium. Entstehung – Rezeption – Theologie, ed. J. Frey, E.E. Popkes & J. Schröter (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), 19–32. For the most part, Hurtado’s comments and views are summarised unquestioningly by Gathercole, Thomas, 4–7, in his treatment of the Greek fragments (though cf. p. 12 for the issue of possible markings in 654).

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2.1.2.1. P. Oxy. 654. The hand here is indeed of a fairly rudimentary standard, and mistakes in the text are not uncommon.18 On the other hand, there are indications of punctuation and paragraphing: cf. the coronis that is used (fairly) consistently to mark off the words “Jesus said”, and the use of a paragraphus at the end of each saying.19 Such punctuation and paragraphing is often taken as a sign that the text was read out in public, the extra signs being additional reading aids.20 Whether this applies to 654 itself, or reflects an ancestor from which 654 may have been copied (directly or indirectly) is not certain.21 But either way, this may suggest that the text of Thomas was at some stage read out publicly. Luijendijk, in defending the general thesis that 654 itself may have been a private copy, appeals to the fact that it is a roll, written on the back of an earlier accounts list. This may then indicate a text written for private usage only.22 On the other hand, she herself notes that Roberts himself had noted possible exceptions, such as P. Ryl. 1.1, a copy of Deuteronomy (with extensive punctuation etc., implying its use for public reading) written on the back of a previously used roll, perhaps because the community could not afford new materials.23 Hence 654 itself could even be a text intended for public usage, but produced from a possibly “cash strapped church”. 2.1.2.2. P. Oxy. 655 is also a roll, not a codex.24 Its hand seems quite high class;25 Hurtado though appeals to the small size of the layout (a roll height of perhaps 18 Cf. for example the evident corruption in the first line (οιτοι οι οι λογοι, often emended to ουτοι οι λογοι). 19 Hurtado, “Greek Fragments”, 26, says that these paragraphus lines “appear to have been added by someone other than the copyist”, but it is not clear what this is based on. 20 See W.A. Johnson, “The Function of the Paragraphus in Greek Literary Prose Texts”, ZPE 100 (1994), 65–68; A. Luijendijk, “Reading the Gospel of Thomas in the Third Century. Three Oxyrhynchus Papyri and Origen’s Homilies”, in Reading New Testament Papyri in Context. Lire les papyrus du Nouveau Testament dans leur contexte, ed. C. Clivaz & J. Zumstein (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 241–67: 253–54. Perhaps ironically, the importance of such markers in manuscripts, as evidence for the texts being read in public, is highlighted in the recent article of L. Hurtado, “Oral Fixation and New Testament Studies? ‘Orality’, ‘Performance’ and Reading Texts in Early Christianity”, NTS 60 (2014), 321–40: 336–37 (though he seems to be focusing only on “biblical” manuscripts at this point in this essay). 21 A. Luijendijk, “Reading the Gospel of Thomas”, 254, tentatively opts for the latter, noting that punctuation signs were often copied by scribes from their Vorlagen. In part she seems convinced by the phenomenon that 654 is written on a roll, using the unused back of an earlier accounts list: see below. 22 A. Luijendijk, “Reading the Gospel of Thomas”, 252, referring to C.H. Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief in Early Christian Egypt (London: Oxford University Press, 1979), 9. 23 Ibid. Also some “scholarly” texts may have been written on re-used rolls. 24 Whether the roll as such is an indication that the text would not have been regarded as “canonical”, or “scriptural” in any sense by any Christian group (so e. g. Hurtado) seems to me very doubtful. See my review of L. Hurtado, The Earliest Christian Artifacts (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), in JTS 61 (2011), 730–36. 25 L. Hurtado, “Greek Fragments”, 27: “the small, majuscule characters are confidently and skilfully formed, with serifs or small hooks on some letters.”

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only 16 cm) as an indication that it must have been a “personal copy”, not one intended for public use.26 What is regularly noted in passing, but rarely if ever commented on in this context, is the fact that the text is written in double columns. This format was very rare in early codices (though of course 655 is not a codex!). Turner has argued that the use of the double column may be a reflection of the fact that the scribe (and/or the commissioner of the manuscript) thought of the text as a very high quality prose text.27 Certainly too some others have referred to this format as indicating the high regard which the text was accorded, and also the format as facilitating its use in being read in public. Thus Graham Stanton refers to the double column format of P 64 + P67 + P4 as “an indication of a high-class codex … intended for liturgical use”.28 At the very least, the existence of (the sadly highly fragmentary) 655 shows the text being regarded as of very high status, and perhaps (pace Hurtado) being produced for a possible “liturgical” context. The size of the manuscript need not necessarily tell against this. The difficulty of reading such a small product applies whether the text was read in a public forum or privately. In any case, any “private” reading at the date of the manuscript (c. mid 3rd century) was still probably reading out loud, not silent reading, and hence to a certain extent “public”;29 hence any alleged difficulties in reading the text due to its size would apply as much, or as little, to an alleged “private” context as to a “public” one. 2.1.2.3. P. Oxy. 1 is in many ways more similar to other “biblical” NT papyri manuscripts in that it is a codex, written in a fairly workaday hand. This, along with the absence of scribal devices normally used in texts to be read aloud, leads Hurtado to conclude that this must be a private copy.30 However, as Luijendijk points out, these characteristics of P. Oxy. 1 are shared by many other early Christian papyri, including “biblical” texts. Hence simply appealing to the somewhat unimpressive ability of the scribe may not show very much in this context.31 2.1.2.4. NHC II.2. As is well known, the full text of Gos. Thom. survives in a Coptic translation from Nag Hammadi. The origins of the Nag Hammadi library are shrouded in mystery and obscurity. We simply do not know who preserved these texts, and for what reason. However, in a stimulating recent essay, ­Stephen 26 Ibid., 28; cf. too A. Luijendijk, “Reading the Gospel of Thomas”, 251. 27 And presumably the producers of double-column codices were only reflecting the use of the double column format in rolls. See E.G. Turner, The Typology of the Early Codex (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1977), 36–37. 28 G.N. Stanton, Jesus and Gospel (Cambridge: CUP, 2004), 199. (The issue of whether P4, P64 and P67 comprised a single codex is now more debated.) 29 But see also L. Hurtado, “Oral Fixation”, 326–327, with further references, for private, silent reading being more widespread than has sometimes been assumed in the past. 30 L. Hurtado, “Greek Fragments”, 24. 31 A. Luijendijk, “Reading the Gospel of Thomas”, 256.

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Emmel has raised an important fundamental question: why were all these texts (including Gos. Thom.) translated into Coptic?32 For Emmel, the question is all the more pressing because many of the works in the Nag Hammadi library seem to demand and presuppose a knowledge of Greek to be understood at all: hence any idea that the texts were translated simply to make them available to non-Greek speakers seems unlikely. Emmel argues against the (now older) theory that the Nag Hammadi library might have been collected by (Pachomian) monks, claiming that a “monastic” origin of the collection is improbable. Further, he appeals to linguistic evidence to support the theory that the texts may well have been translated into (perhaps another dialect of) Coptic elsewhere and then “moved” to the area of Nag Hammadi. He claims that this is more probable if one postulates an urban/city milieu for this activity (evidenced too perhaps by the variety of scribes involved in writing the Nag Hammadi texts themselves). Further, it is seems unlikely that each text, and the library as a whole, was preserved by one particular supporter of any one “thought system”.33 Rather, the library may represent a group of people who took bits and pieces (“shards”) from various texts which were around the place and sought to make them “at home” in Egypt (hence the translations). What this indicates about the readers of the texts is not so clear. Evidently at the time of the writing of the codices of the Nag Hammadi library,34 texts such as Gos. Thom. were known and being used. But equally the model suggested by Emmel implies that the text must have been known and circulated relatively widely at an earlier stage too. 2.1.3. Conclusion on Gos. Thom. The evidence from the manuscripts and the external attestation suggests that the text of Gos. Thom. may have circulated quite widely. It may also have been read aloud in some kind of “public” forum (possibly “liturgical”). It seems to have been used and valued by quite a number of people; others who disliked it and/or disapproved of it, clearly felt they had to make the point explicit by naming it specifically in order to reject its value. The material evidence then suggests that, at least in its later history, Gos. Thom. was not a particularly “hidden” or “secret” text. 2.2. Gospel of Mary A discussion of the evidence concerning the Gos. Mary supplied by external evidence and manuscripts about possible readers can be much shorter than with 32 S. Emmel, “The Coptic Gnostic Texts as Witnesses to the Production and Transmission of Gnostic (and Other) Traditions”, in Das Thomasevangelium. Entstehung – Rezeption – Theologie, ed. J. Frey/ E.E. Popkes & J. Schröter (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), 33–49. 33 As if a Valentinian might have preserved only Valentinian texts, or a Sethian only Sethian texts. 34 If indeed it is right to refer to this as a “single” “event”.

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the Gos. Thom. If nothing else, this is due to the fact that the evidence is far less extensive.35 2.2.1. External attestation. Any external attestation about the Gos. Mary is simply non-existent. No other writer in antiquity mentions the text; no one (as far as we know) cites it; no one takes the trouble to reject its value or authenticity. If we did not have manuscript evidence providing versions of the text, we would not even know of its existence. 2.2.2. Manuscripts. The text is known to us through one incomplete Coptic version in the BG 8502 codex,36 and through two small Greek papyrus fragments (P. Oxy. 3525 and P. Ryl. 463). Both the Greek papyrus fragments are of very poor quality, both in terms of their scribal hand and also in terms of mistakes in the text (the P. Ryl. 463 fragment more so than P. Oxy. 3525).37 Neither gives any indication that it might have been used for public reading (e. g. signs for punctuation etc.). Some indication of possibly wider circulation might be provided by some of the mistakes, especially in P. Ry. 463, which suggest that the text was copied from an earlier Vorlage. But how many stages of copying are implied we simply do not know. The Coptic BG text may also represent a copy of a previous version in Coptic.38 As with Gos. Thom., we have to account for the presence of the text in Coptic: and, it may be that this again represents evidence of the circulation of the text in wider circles at some stage. On the other hand, this text was not found in the Nag Hammadi library itself39 (though Emmel’s arguments would presumably relate as much to a single codex such as BG 8502 as to the codices of the Nag Hammadi library itself). 2.2.3. Conclusion on Gos. Mary. All the material evidence we have, as well as the (non-existent) external attestation, suggests that the text did not circulate widely. For whatever reason, it seems to have remained “hidden” from view until the modern manuscript discoveries. As such, it might seem that it qualifies rather more for the description “apocryphal” than the Gos. Thom. does.

35 Regarding the Gospel of Mary see also Judith Hartenstein’s essay in the present volume. 36 The text is contained in pp. 7–10 + 15–19 of the BG codex. The page numbers of the codex are preserved with pp. 1–6 + 11–14 now lost. It is assumed that the rest of the text occupied all the missing pages (though this is an assumption which cannot be verified). 37 For details, see C.M. Tuckett, The Gospel of Mary (Oxford: OUP, 2007), 81–85, 108–118. 38 See Tuckett, Gospel of Mary, 80, with reference to Till and the possible confusion of letters in Coptic that are clearly distinct in this scribal hand and which may then provide evidence of an earlier version and/or script where the letters were more similar in appearance. 39 The geographical origin of the BG codex is obscure. The codex was purchased from a dealer in Cairo in 1896 who apparently claimed that it had been found in a niche in a wall; but the generally good state of preservation of the codex makes this somewhat doubtful.

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2.3. Gospel of Peter As is well known, the manuscript evidence for the text of Gos. Pet. is, like Gos. Mary, very weak. The external attestation may be a little stronger. 2.3.1. External attestation. There is a certain amount of external evidence about the existence of a “Gospel according to Peter”.40 Above all there is the well-known extended account in Eusebius (H.E. 6.12.1–6) about the bishop Serapion and the Christian community at Rhossos. Clearly this implies that the gospel was known and used in the 2nd century, and also that its use generated some disagreements. Thereafter, there are some (but not many) references to the gospel in lists of canonical and other books (e. g. Origen, Eusebius, the Gelasian Decree) as well as references to its use by others in Theodoret, Didymus etc. It is mentioned too by Jerome. It is difficult to be certain, but the impression gained is that perhaps this gospel did not make as great an impact as Gos. Thom., in that references to it seem fewer in number. 2.3.2. Manuscripts. It is well known that the manuscript evidence for the text is extremely slender. The one manuscript that appears to offer anything like a substantial amount of the text is P. Cair. 10759. This is a codex found in a grave, the codex being dated to c. the late 6th century. The text is mutilated (it starts and finished mid-sentence, though the manuscript itself has decorations at the finish, as well as on an initial page, implying that the scribe perhaps thought the text was complete). Most argue that the text is probably a copy from an earlier Vorlage. Other possible fragments of the text are more disputed, though there is widespread agreement that at least one Oxyrhynchus fragment (P. Oxy. 2949) represents a fragment of (roughly) the same text as P. Cair. 10759.41 It is dated relatively early (late 2nd – early 3rd century). However, the fragment is extremely small, and not well preserved, so that it is impossible to deduce very much if anything from it about its possible use. There is no evidence of e. g. punctuation signs. Other fragments have been claimed to belong to the text, e. g. P. Oxy. 4009, though there is considerable dispute about this.42 40 See especially T.J. Kraus & T. Nicklas, Das Petrusevangelium und die Petrusapokalypse (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2004), 11–19; also P. Foster, The Gospel of Peter (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 97–115. 41 Cf. T.J. Kraus & T. Nicklas, Petrusevangelium, 55–58, pace e. g. P. Foster, “Are there any Early Fragments of the So-called Gospel of Peter?”, NTS 52 (2006), 1–26: 5–12 (= Gospel of Peter, 57–68). However, as Kraus and Nicklas point out, the agreement between the fragment and the later Akhmim text might be due to dependence on common traditions used by both. 42 For the view that P. Oxy. 4009 does contain a part of the Gos. Pet. (or its traditions), see D. Lührmann, Die apokryph gewordenen Evangelien, 73–86; for a strong rebuttal, see Foster, “Early Fragments?”, 12–19 (= Gospel of Peter, 69–79). For doubts about the identification, see too Kraus & Nicklas, Petrus­ evangelium, 59–63. For possible identification of other fragments as parts of Gos. Pet. (e. g. P. V ­ indob. G 2325), see Kraus & Nicklas, Petrusevangelium, and Foster, “Early Fragments?” (though see too Lührmann’s strong response to Foster: D. Lührmann, “Kann es wirklich keine frühe Handschrift des Petrusevangeliums geben? Corrigenda zu einem Aufsatz von Paul Foster”, NovT 48 [2006], 379–83).

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2.3.3. Conclusion on Gos. Pet. As with the Gos. Mary, there seems little evidence that the text was widely known, or that it circulated widely. The (relatively late) single MS of the text from the Akhmim Codex does indicate that the text was still being used as late as the 7th century (or later, depending on the date of the grave in which the codex was found); also it evidently attests to a process of copy­ing of the text that was still underway at the time of the writing of the codex. 2.4. General Conclusions on Gos. Thom., Gos. Mary and Gos. Pet. It would seem that, of the three texts considered briefly here, the external attestation and the manuscript evidence might imply that the Gos. Thom. was the most widely known and/or used of the three, and that the Gos. Mary was the least known and used. In terms then of the nomenclature suggested by Nicklas in his essay, Gos. Mary might well qualify for the adjective “apocryphal” since it does appear to have remained relatively “hidden”; but equally the Gos. Pet. may also have remained quite “hidden”. By contrast, the Gos. Thom. appears to have been the least “apocryphal” of the three. Despite then its claims and assertions at the start of the text (about the fact that it provides the “secret sayings” of Jesus), the text does not appear to have been quite so “hidden” in the course of its history.

3. Further Considerations I am fully aware that the suggestions made here can be questioned and may not be very useful. Various points can, and should, be made in relation to the evidence cited above. First, the very fact that a text is under discussion in scholarly debates presupposes that someone somewhere has mentioned it! A text that was totally “silent”, i. e. one which had left no later trace at all, would be unknown to us. We would not know of its existence and hence could not begin to discuss it. Thus the very fact that we know of a text means that there is some attestation (whether in comments by others, in quotations, or in manuscript evidence). All we can do is gauge relative strengths of attestation. It is not a neat either/or, black/white, situation of texts being attested or not attested. A completely unattested text would by definition remain unknown to us. Second, for many of the non-canonical texts, the very fact that they were not canonised meant that they were copied far less frequently than their canonical counterparts. Thus certainly the manuscript attestation for these texts is sometimes very small.43 In absolute terms, the number of surviving manuscripts is

43 This applies to some texts, but by no means universally: cf. e. g. the Protevangelium of James, versions of which survive in a large number of manuscripts today.

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thus tiny, and we cannot make very meaningful comparisons with these absolute numbers.44 Third, one should bear in mind the different kind of “readers” mentioned earlier. The suggestions above, relating to manuscripts and external attestation, must relate primarily to real readers; moreover, some of these readers are quite “late” readers! The one extensive MS copy of Gos. Pet. is (probably) from the 6th century. This may provide some evidence for the ways in which the text was being read and used in the 6th century; but it says nothing about how the text might have been read at the time of its composition (probably sometime in the 2nd century). The same applies to the Coptic versions of texts such as Gos. Thom. and Gos. Mary: these probably date from c. 4th century, and yet both gospels are probably 2nd century productions. The early papyrus fragments might help us a little more in this respect (in that they are much closer in time to the time of composition). But even then they may well be some way removed chronologically from the time of any initial composition.45 Hence the (possible) “real readers” which the MS evidence may allow us to glimpse may be very different from the real readers at an earlier time, nearer the time of composition. Further, one must remember the inherent distinction between “real” readers, “implied” readers, “intended” readers (and perhaps many more). I myself have criticised others for muddling the differences here and hence confusing issues, e. g. on the possible audiences of the (canonical) gospels. Who a gospel might have been written for (its “intended” readers) cannot necessarily be resolved by appealing to who in fact appears to have read it (its “real” readers).46 As stated 44 E.g. it has sometimes been claimed that Gos. Thom. is better attested in papyri fragments than the (canonical) Gospel of Mark (cf. L. Hurtado, “Greek Fragments”, 29). This is true, but the numbers concerned (3 vs. 1 or 2) are not large enough to make the comparison statistically significant. Further, the statistical data can change: e. g. until relatively recently it was thought that Mark was attested in only one “early” (2nd/3rd century) papyrus manuscript (P45), but this number has now doubled (!) with the publication of P. Oxy. 5073, apparently attesting (albeit in what is probably an amulet rather than a continuous gospel text, but dated by the editors possibly to the late 3rd century) a version of Mark 1.1–2 (interestingly lacking the phrase υιος θεου in v. 1): see Oxyrhynchus Papyri 76 (2011). For others warning about basing too much on such tiny numbers, see S. Gathercole, Thomas, 11. 45 If indeed it is appropriate to think in these terms, e. g. for a text such as Gos. Thom. 46 Cf. the (much cited) essay of R.J. Bauckham, “For Whom were the Gospels Written?”, in The Gospels for All Christians. Rethinking the Gospels Audiences, ed. R.J. Bauckham (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 9–49. In his attempt to answer the question implied in his title, he argues that the intended audience of gospels such as Matthew and Mark can be determined by the fact that Matthew’s gospel was widely read, and Matthew and Luke both used Mark: hence Matthew and Mark must have “travelled” and been read more widely than in a single community. But the fact that it was so read does not mean necessarily that it was intended to be so read. The “real” readers and the “intended” readers may not be identical. See C.M. Tuckett, “Gospels and Communities. Was Mark written for a suffering community?”, in Jesus, Paul, and Early Christianity, ed. R. Buitenwerf/H.W. Hollander & J. Tromp (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 377–96: 380; repr. in C.M. Tuckett, From the Sayings to the Gospels (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 544.

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earlier, Nicklas’ comments on the “apocryphal” nature of some gospels seems to relate to the implied (or possibly the intended) readers. A text such as Gos. Thom. does indeed claim (in the prologue) to be providing “secret” sayings which are in need of “interpretation” if they are to provide saving life. It would seem then that for the readers whom the text has in mind (hence the implied and/or intended readers), this is indeed a “secret” hidden text. How then does any “map” of possible “real” readers correlate with a “map” of possible implied or intended readers?

4. Implied Readers For the implied reader of the Gos. Thom., the text is clearly one with a secret, hidden meaning; and the meaning is evidently extraneous to the text itself. The prologue makes this clear. On the other hand, it is difficult to envisage any permanent secrecy as being the aim for any intended reader. Presumably the text was produced precisely in order to provide the vehicle (albeit indirectly) enabling the secret meaning to be disclosed. Since too the meaning of the sayings is by no means transparent, it seems not implausible to suggest that the long-term aim (of enabling the secret meaning of the sayings to be made known to others) presupposes a context where perhaps the individual reader is not left on his/her own but is “helped” to discover the hidden meaning of the sayings by others. The nature of the text seems then to presuppose a “community” context in which the text is known, valued and interpreted.47 On the other hand, it is noteworthy that the Gos. Mary, which on the basis of the earlier discussion (on MSS etc) seems to be the most “apocryphal” of all the three examples, is, in terms of its content, potentially far more “open” and not “secret”.48 It is true that the bulk of the text can be interpreted in terms of teaching being received by a chosen in-group (in the first part of the text by teaching from the Saviour himself, in the second part in the account of the journey of a soul past hostile powers), so that by implication those “outside” are excluded from these esoteric secrets. Yet the implied reader is clearly one who is “in the know” (s/he is the one who is given this teaching in the text!). Further, there is no suggestion that the teaching given is hard to understand or requires special interpretation (hence unlike the prologue in Gos. Thom.). It is assumed to be transparently clear on its own. Nor is there any suggestion by the end of the text that this teaching is intended to be confined to a chosen few, an esoteric in-group. In the final climactic scene (where Levi berates Peter and Andrew), it is striking that Peter and Andrew themselves (representatives of an out-group?) have received the same teaching 47 Hence talk of a “Thomasine community” may be not completely wide of the mark (despite great uncertainty about the more precise nature of any “community” here): hence pace e. g. Hurtado above. 48 See also Judith Hartenstein’s essay in the present volume.

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and heard the same things from Mary; further, there is no suggestion that they have failed to understand fully what has been said.49 Moreover at the end of the text, Levi’s response to Peter and Andrew concludes with the exhortation “let us preach the gospel” (18.18–19), followed by the final sentence “they/he began to go out to proclaim and to preach” (19.1–2).50 The whole text seems to be leading up to the climactic note about making public the message which the gospel has contained. By the end of the Gos. Mary, there seems to be nothing “secret” at all about the contents of the gospel. It would seem that the aim is that the message of the gospel is to be made available to all: hence the “intended reader” (at least in a broad sense) is very wide-ranging indeed. In this sense then the gospel is not very “apocryphal” at all. Finally, as Nicklas himself notes, the Gos. Pet. has nothing in the text itself to suggest a restricted readership. Nothing suggests that the text is to be “hidden”, or “secret”, or to be read only by a chosen élite.51 As far as one can tell from the limited amount of text available, the implied reader and the intended reader are both wide-ranging and general. In no sense then is this an “apocryphal” text in Nicklas’ terms (as he himself says). And yet, as we saw earlier, the impact of the text in subsequent history, and the number of “real” readers implied, seems to suggest that the text did remain not widely known or used.

5. Conclusions All this shows that the issue of how “apocryphal” (in the sense of “hidden”) the “apocryphal gospels” were remains a somewhat problematic one. Some gospels which one might think to be more “apocryphal” may be less so at one level, more so at another and/or vice versa. Any “map” of the extent to which a text might have been “apocryphal” in relation to “real” reader does not necessarily correlate with any “map” based on implied readers, and/or possible intended readers. The Gos. Thom. seems to have been perhaps more in the public domain than might be expected, even though its contents suggest it provides “hidden” mate49 Their complaint is not that they have been excluded (at least in the end in terms of receiving the teaching given), nor that they have been unable to understand what they have heard, but that the teaching is “new” and “not [given] openly”: cf. BG 8502 17.14–15, 19–20. 50 The Coptic text and the Greek (Rylands) fragment differ as to whether the subject here is singular or plural. Hence it is not clear if Levi alone goes out to preach, or whether all the followers (including Peter and Andrew) go out. But either way, the exhortation is to go out and make the message of the gospel known more widely, apparently without any restrictions (certainly no restrictions are stated!). 51 This would also be confirmed by the way in which Gos. Pet. seems to reflect ideas and attitudes which are very commonplace at the time, especially in its highly negative portrayal of non-Christian Jews: see J. Verheyden, “Some Reflections on Determining the Purpose of the ‘Gospel of ­Peter’”, in Das Evangelium nach Petrus. Text, Kontexte, Intertexte, ed. T.J. Kraus & T. Nicklas (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2007), 281–99.

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rial; the Gos. Mary appears to have been far less in the public domain, though its contents suggest at times that it was seeking be “heard” more widely. Further, the three texts chosen here as a sample may not be representative of other non-­ canonical texts. For example, the Protevangelium of James was clearly one which was very widely known (it is extant in a very large number of manuscripts and was often translated) and evidently widely read: as such it was not a “hidden”, or esoteric, text at all.52 All this may simply reinforce Nicklas’ general point that the (so-called) “apocryphal gospels” are very much of a “mixed bag” and firmly resist being all put into the same “basket”!

52 The same would probably apply to the Infancy Gospel of Thomas. See also the essay of Reidar ­Aasgaard in the present volume.

Candida R. Moss (University of Notre Dame)

Notions of Orthodoxy in Early Christian Martyrdom Literature

The study of martyrdom has always implicitly involved assumptions about orthodoxy and heterodoxy in the early Church. In traditional ecclesiastical contexts as well as scholarship, martyrdom is often assumed to be orthodoxy in practice. This is in large point due to ancient caricatures of ‘heretical’ groups being either suicidal or anti-martyrdom. In recent years a great deal of scholarship on identity formation in the early church has pointed to the ways in which the concept and category of the martyr was used in the formation of the idea and language of the “true Christian.”1 In these studies the concepts of the “true martyr” and the “true Christian” in ancient literature are interlaced and overlapping. We might say that they are co-produced. What it means to be Christian then, is to die as a martyr.

1. Martyrdom as Orthopraxis in Justin Martyr The recent scholarly interest in martyrdom as performance of Christianity is not merely a modern interest fed by a post-modern focus on rhetoric and power. We could turn to Justin Martyr, whose own description of martyrdom serves to distinguish Christians from others. In 1 Apology 26 Justin catalogs those groups of individuals who, though they presented themselves as gods, were not persecuted by the Romans. Justin’s proposition that heretical groups (haeresis) do not have martyrs as the Christians do is a rhetorically powerful move that forces a wedge between Christianity and its opponents. Justin acknowledges that these individuals are called Christians but contends that they are in facts ‘heretics.’ This genealogy of magicians and heretics is intended to force the later generations of faux Christians, most notably Marcion, outside the boundary of what can be called Christian. The creation of distinct groups is articulated using the terminology and self-description of a persecuted community. As Judith Lieu has noted, Justin’s attribution of confessional language to the Marcionite blasphemy contrasts the witness of Chris-

1 J. Lieu, Neither Jew nor Greek? Constructing Early Christianity (London: T & T Clark, 2002); L.S. Cobb, Dying To Be Men: Gender and Language in Early Christian Martyr Texts (Gender, Theory, and Religion. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008); C.R. Moss, The Other Christs: Imitating Jesus in Ancient Christian Ideologies of Martyrdom (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010).

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tians with the witness of the heretics.2 Justin concludes this section of the apology by reiterating his point that though called Christians, these groups are frauds: And all those springing from them [these heretics] are, as we said, called Christians, just as among the philosophers those who do not share the same doctrines do have the common name of philosophy predicated of them … But that they are not persecuted nor killed by you – at least because of their doctrines – we are sure. There is another composition by us, written against all the heresies that have arisen. If you want to read it we will give you a copy. (1 Apol 26.6–8 Cf. 7.1–3)

For Justin, the activity that proves the authenticity of claims to Christian identity is the experience of persecution and the performance of martyrdom. These other groups are excluded from Christianity because they do not experience persecution, suffering, or martyrdom. Conversely, they are not persecuted because they are not truly persecuted. Membership in Justin’s philosophical club not only expects, but requires that the Christian suffer.3 The experience of persecution both serves as proof of the authentic Christian identity and the constituting element of Christian identity itself. We might say then that, for Justin, an appropriate degree of willingness to assume on the mantle of the martyr was in itself orthopraxy. Justin stands at the beginning of an early Christian rhetorical tradition – perhaps best exemplified by Clement of Alexandria – in which the appropriate practice of martyrdom is indistinguishable from orthodoxy. At the other end of this tradition we would find commentary on the unfortunate death of George of Laodicea, who despite being bludgeoned, strapped to a camel and set on fire, was denied the title of a martyr by Christian historiographers on the grounds that he was a suspected heretic.4 Recent scholarship on early Christian martyrdom has been attentive to the role that notions of martyrdom, the practice of martyrdom, and martyrdom stories themselves played in establishing the identity of the true Christian. Yet even as scholars have peaked behind the narrative of persecution to the rhetorical role played by these texts, academics have struggled to discard the categories and “instinctive logic” with which ancient commentators worked and the 2 J. Lieu, “Constructing Judaism/Constructing Heresy in the Second Century” paper presented in the Christliche Literatur des späten ersten Jahrhunderts und des zweiten Jahrhunderts seminar of the 65th General Meeting of the Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas, Berlin, July 27–31, 2010. 3 By polarizing these groups of named Christians Justin sets up a type and an anti-type for his Christian audience. The general principle that martyrs served as examples for members of the early church is here highly specific; their exemplary function is offset against those who profess the name, but profess it incorrectly and superficially. This situation is notably different from the one envisioned in Martyrdom of Polycarp 4, where Quintus the Phrygian recants his beliefs and offers sacrifice. Justin addresses superficiality and ethical conduct directly, but only hints at apostasy. 4 See discussion in H.A. Drake, “The Curious Case of George and the Camel”, in Studies of Religion and Politics in the Early Christian Centuries, ed. D. Luckensmeyer & P. Allen (Early Christian Studies 13; Strathfield, AUS: St Pauls; Virginia, AUS: Center for Early Christian Studies, 2010), 173–94.

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ways that these categories intersected with and created notions of orthodoxy in early Christianity.5 We may recognize, for example, that Justin and Clement are using the title of the martyr to establish a sense of orthodoxy, but many scholars would accept Clement’s distinction between true and false martyrdom or Justin and ­Irenaeus’s assertions that heretics are not martyrs. It is worth noting the extent to which – whether they know it or not – many scholars have taken their own definition of martyrdom from Clement of Alexandria.6 Clement distinguishes true martyrdom from the passionate enthusiasts (presumed by most to be Montanists), on the one hand, and orthodox martyrs from gnostic “cowards” who avoided martyrdom on the other. In many respects Clement of Alexandria forms – together with Irenaeus – the basis for caricatured impressions of the Montanists as suicidal and the Gnostics rejected martyrdom. These caricatures are enduring. Despite the important work Tabernee, which demonstrated that the Montanists were no more or less eager for death than their “orthodox” counterparts, martyrs continue to be identified as Montanists (or, later, Donatists) merely for seeming too eager. I do not speak here of Perpetua but rather of bit characters in the martyrs of Lyons, the unnamed “volunteer” in Justin’s second apology, and others who some modern commentators, enchanted by Clement, categorize as Montanists. In the majority of these cases it appears to be the modern scholar who is too eager. At the other end of the spectrum, the important work of a number of scholars of Valentinianism has demonstrated that there were multiple approaches to martyrdom among both those texts termed “Valentinian” and those term “gnostic.”7 This was true even before the discovery of the Tchacos codex, which destabilized the idea that Valentinians are anti-martyrdom.8 All of this is to say that discussions of martyrdom – both ancient and modern – operate with assumed 5 For a critique of the ways in which we assume a stable notion of martyrdom as endemic to orthodoxy see, for example, D. Boyarin, Dying for God: Martyrdom and the Making of Christianity and Judaism (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1999), 121. Boyarin recognizes the difficulties inherent in the term voluntary martyr and yet works with assumptions about what martyrdom is. For a similar critique of the use of the term “voluntary martyrdom” see A. Wypustek, “Magic, Montanism, Perpetua, and the Severan Persecution”, VC 51 (1997), 276–97: 281. For the displacement of the idea of martyrdom as a facet of orthodoxy see A.J. Droge & J.A. Tabor, A Noble Death: Suicide and Martyrdom Among Christians and Jews in Antiquity (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1992). 6 C.R. Moss, “The Discourse of Voluntary Martyrdom: Ancient and Modern”, Church History 81/3 (2012), 531–51. 7 C. Markschies, Valentinus Gnosticus?: Untersuchungen zur valentinianischen Gnosis; mit einem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten Valentins (WUNT 65; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992); M.A. Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1996); D. Brakke, The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual and Diversity in Early Christianity (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2011). – See also I. Dunderberg’s article in the present volume. 8 See M. Haxby, “‘I Have Not Suffered at All’: Gender, Violence and Martyrdom in the First Apocalypse of James”, Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature (­Atlanta, Ga., November 20, 2010).

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understandings of true and false martyrdom, discreet “orthodox” and “heterodox” forms of Christianity. Most of these conversations unwittingly reproduce the language of ancient apologists like Clement and Justin. But rather than allowing this to turn into a meta-conversation about martyrological discourse or simply the problems identifiying “heretical martyrdom” or heteropraxic martyrdom” what I would like to do in the rest of my paper is examine boundary marking in the Martyrdom of Polycarp. While it may not use terms like haeresis, how the Martyrdom of Polycarp serves to construct a notion of martyrdom that is explicated in terms of Biblical orthodoxy and presented to the audience as a model for emulation. There is an implicit construction of orthodoxy.

2. Martyrdom of Polycarp and the Rejection of False Martyrdom The Martyrdom of Polycarp presents itself as a letter, composed by the church at Smyrna to the church at Philomelium, a small unremarkable town that had little to recommend it in the second century.9 The letter opens in the first-person: We are writing to you, brothers, an account of those who were martyred, especially the blessed Polycarp, who put an end to the persecution as though he were setting his seal upon it by his martyrdom. For nearly all the preceding events happened in order that the Lord might show us once again a martyrdom which is in accord with the Gospel. For he waited to be betrayed, just as the Lord did, in order that we too might be imitators of him, “not looking only to that which concerns ourselves, but also to that which concerns our neighbors.” (1.1–2)

In this way the opening of the letter frames the following narrative as an exemplary text and exhorts its recipients to imitate the example of the martyrs. Martyrdom is already explicitly identified as a social and communal activity not so much mandated as grounded in the Gospel. Polycarp’s death is very much embodied exegesis.10 It takes place, we learn, in “accordance with Gospel.” It might seem   9 The obscurity of Philomelium in the second century forms part of the basis for Ronchey’s later dating in the third century. There is an early third century inscription that can be assigned to the church in Philomelium. See W.M. Ramsay, “The Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia”, JHS 4 (1883), 4345 (no. 43) and discussion in S. Mitchell, Anatolia (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993) II.41. Mitchell cites Martyrdom of Polycarp as his only other source for the Christian community at Philomelium (Anatolia, II.37). 10 This much is observed by many including B. Dehandschutter, “The New Testament and the Martyrdom of Polycarp”, in Trajectories through the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers, ed. A.F. Gregory & C.M. Tuckett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 395–406; G.E. Steitz, “Der Charak­ ter der kleinasiatischen Kirche und Festsitte um die Mitte des zweiten Jahrhunderts”, Jahrbuch für deutsche Theologie 6 (1861), 102–41; M.-L. Guillaumin, “En marge du ‘Martyre de Polycarpe’: Le discernment des allusions scripturaires”, in Forma Futuri: Studi in onore del Cardinale Michele

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that the presentation of Polycarp’s death as reiteration of the death of Jesus was instinctive or somehow expected. So it is worth noting that the presentation of Polycarp as imitator Christi is not just, as Michael Holmes has called, a “moderate take on martyrdom in accordance with gospel” it is strategically placed in opposition to something else. A few sentences later we encounter the ‘other’ form of martyrdom in the presence and ‘apostasy’ of Quintus, a Christian from Phrygia in Asia Minor. According to the narrative, there was a certain Quintus who rushed to offer himself for execution only to fall away at the last moment: Now there was one man, Quintus by name, a Phrygian recently arrived from Phrygia, who, when he saw the wild beasts, turned coward. This was the man who had forced himself and some others to come forward voluntarily … For this reason therefore, brothers, we do not praise those who hand themselves over, since the Gospel does not so teach.11

The function of Quintus’s spectacular failure has not been lost of scholarly interpreters of the martyrdom. While some have viewed Martyrdom of Polycarp 4 as a later insertion, it is clear that Quintus’s eager attempts to secure glory and death for himself and other contrasts, narratively, with the patient self-restraint of the Martyrdom of Polycarp’s episcopal hero. Whereas Quintus is brash and active, Polycarp is restrained and quiet. In the words of Holmes, Polycarp’s martyrdom “is a matter of divine calling rather than human accomplishment or initiative.”12 The contrast between Quintus and Polycarp is an integral part of the narrative and cannot be easily excised. If, as Holmes and others have argued, the contrast between Quintus’s unevangelical self-offering and the model of martyrdom “in accordance with the gospel” presented in Polycarp is a motivating force for the composition of the account, Quintus takes on a greater significance.13 If one purpose of the author is to condemn the kind of martyrdom that Quintus represents,

Pellegrino (Turin: Bottega d’Erasmo, 1975), 462–69; B. Dehandschutter, Martyrium Polycarpi: Een literair-kritische studie (BETL 52; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1979), 241–54; V. Saxer, Bible et Hagiographie: texts et themes bibliques dans les Actes des Martyrs authentiques des premiers siécles (Bern: Peter Lang, 1986), 27–33; G. Buschmann, Das Martyrium des Polykarp (Kommentar zu den Apostolischen Vätern 6; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998); J.M. Lieu, Image and ­Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1996), 59–63; and M.W. Holmes, “New Testament Passion Narratives”, 407–32. See discussion in C.R. Moss, “Nailing Down and Tying Up: Lessons in Intertextual Impossibility from the Martyrdom of Polycarp”, Vigiliae Christiane 67:2 (2013), 117–36. 11 Martyrdom of Polycarp 4.1. Trans. Michael W. Holmes, Apostolic Fathers. 12 M.W. Holmes, “New Testament Passion Narratives”, 421. 13 For the importance of the concept of martyrdom “according to Gospel” as a polemical function of the work see G. Buschmann, Martyrium Polycarpi: Eine formkritische Studie. Ein Beitrag zur Frage nach der Enstehung der Gattung Märtyrerakte (Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 1994), 321–27 and idem, Das Martyrium, 51.

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the character of Quintus provides a valuable insight into the historical context of Martyrdom of Polycarp’s composition. When it comes to the significance of Quintus a number of possibilities present themselves. In the first place Quintus may represent a form of behaviour – either potential or actual – that the author wished to discourage. Quintus’s conduct in Martyrdom of Polycarp is classified by some scholars as a form of “voluntary martyrdom.”14According to the narrative, he had “forced himself and some others to come forward voluntarily.” His eagerness and self-offering is connected to his cowardice and apostasy. The critique that the author offers is not against apostasy but self-offering. This much is evident in the author’s concluding statement that it is “for this reason [the apostasy of Quintus], therefore, brothers, we do not praise those who hand themselves over.” The behavior the author condemns is not apostasy, a general threat envisioned in the writings of a number of early Christian authors, but coming forward to volunteer oneself for death, a practice that requires a particular political and ideological situation. And certainly a real practice if not a real group is identified here. Offering oneself for martyrdom, as a practice or even potential practice, requires both an ideology that values suffering and death as a good and a political and legal system in which it is possible to volunteer oneself for execution. If, as many have argued, Martyrdom of Polycarp is written in 150–165 C. E., Quintus is correctly cited as the first voluntary martyr and Martyrdom of Polycarp’s condemnation of Quintus as the first condemnation of voluntary martyrdom in the early church.15 Even as Quintus personifies a type of martyrdom that the author of the account wishes to avoid it is possible that Quintus also represents a particular ancient Christian group. In the history of scholarship on martyrdom the description of Quintus as a Phrygian has been interpreted by some as a veiled allusion to Montanism, the ecstatic religious practice popular in Asia Minor and Carthage in the third century.16 Montanists have traditionally been portrayed as eager and enthusiastic believers in martyrdom whose reckless, provocative conduct led to their

14 For a classic discussion see G.-E.M. De Ste. Croix, “Voluntary Martyrdom in the Early Church”, in Christian Persecution, Martyrdom and Orthodoxy, ed. G.-E.M. de Ste. Croix et al. (New York: ­Oxford, 2006), 153–200 with criticisms in C. Moss, “The Discourse of Voluntary Martyrdom”. 15 G.-E. M. de Ste. Croix, “Voluntary Martyrdom”, 157–8. According to Ste. Croix, the chronological successors to Martyrdom of Polycarp ’s anti-voluntary martyrdom position are Clement of Alexandria, Stromateis 4.4.17.1–3; 4.10.76.1–77.3; 7.11.66.3–67.2; Tertullian, De Corona Militis, 1.4.4–5; and Origen, Comm, in Johannem 28.23. 16 W. Belck, Geschichte des Montanismus, 35–36; idem, “Montanismo e le tendenze separatiste delle chiese dell’ Asia Minore a fine de 2 secolo”, Rinnovamento 5 (1909), [107]; W.M. Calder, “Philadelphia and Montanism”, BJRL 7 (1923), 332–33; idem, “The New Jerusalem of the Montanists”, Byz 6 (1931), 421–22; H. Grégoire, “La veritable date du Martyre de S. Polycarpe”, Anal. Boll. 69 (1951), 1–38; S. Ronchey, Imagine sul martirio di San Policarpo: Critica storica e fortuna di un caso giudiziario in Asia Minore (Nuovi Studi Storici 6; Rome: Istituto Italiano per il Medio Evo, 1990).

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execution.17 The argument that Quintus must be a Montanist formed the basis of Grégoire’s assertion that the account must have been composed in 177 C. E. Montanus, the sects purported founder, did not begin to prophesy until 168 C. E. and thus the work could not have been composed before this date. Similarly, an important recent monograph by Silvia Ronchey reasserts the importance of Quintus’s identity for the dating of the account. Ronchey instead dates the account to the latter half of the third century, a period in which Montanism flourished and was well known. She argues that the Martyrdom of Polycarp was composed during a period of relative peace for Christians, as part of an anti-Montanist pro-Roman agenda. The debate over Quintus’s association with Montanism rests on the assumption that the practice or group embodied in Quintus is an accurate portrayal of late second or third century Montanists. In other words, in order to believe that Quintus is a Montanist his behavior must line up with what can be learned from other sources about the nature of Montanism. In responding to Ronchey’s work, a number of scholars have highlighted the disparity between the caricature of Montanists as enthusiastic martyrs present in Martyrdom of Polycarp and the actual practices and perspectives of the Montanists.18 William Tabernee’s important work on Montanist inscriptions, for instance, has demonstrated that Montanists were no more eager to seek out martyrdom than the ‘orthodox.’19 In the majority of scholarly discussions about the identity of Quintus, the conversation has focused upon the extent to which Montanists were or were not voluntary martyrs. If they were, it is assumed, the identification of Quintus as Phrygian who offered himself for martyrdom is a fairly certain reference to the Montanists. If the Montanists were not especially given to voluntary martyrdom, then the reference to Phrygia is an incidental detail. There is, however, as I have previously argued, another possible interpretation; that while Quintus does not embody Montanists as they actually were, he is an ‘orthodox’ caricature of Mon17 F.C.A. Schwegler, Die Montanismus und die christliche Kirche des zweiten Jahrhunderts (Tübingen: Fues, 1841), 65; N.G. Bonwetsch, Geschichte des Montanismus (Erlangen: Deichert, 1881), 108; V. Ermoni, “La crise montaniste”, RQH 72 (1902), 61–96: 84; W.H.C. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution (Oxford: Blackwell, 1965), 291–92: 361; T.D. Barnes, Tertullian: A Historical and Literary Study (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 177–78; N. Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium: Revolutionary Millenarians and the Mystical Anarchists of the Middle Ages (New York: Oxford, ³1970), 25–27; R.A. Knox, Enthusiasm: A Chapter in the History of Religion, with Special Reference to the XVII and XVIII Centuries (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1950), 49; A.R. Birley, “Persecutors and Martyrs in Tertullian’s Africa”, in The Later Roman Empire Today: Papers Given in Honour of Professor John Mann 23 May 1992, ed. D. Clark (London: Institute of Archaeology, 1993), 47. 18 This objection is noted by D.E. Trout in his review of Indagine sul martirio di San Policarpo in Speculum 68 (1993), 251–53. 19 W. Tabernee, “Christian Inscriptions from Phrygia”, NewDocs 3, 128–39; idem, “Early Montanists and Voluntary Martyrdom”, Colloq 17 (1985), 33–44; idem, Montanist Inscriptions and Testimonia: Epigraphic Sources Illustrating the History of Montanism (Macon, Ga.: Mercer University Press, 1997), 146–50; idem, Fake Prophecy and Polluted Sacraments (VCSup 84; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 201–42.

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tanism.20 Given that the Martyrdom of Polycarp unmistakably condemns Quintus’s behavior there is no reason to think that the author is concerned with accurately depicting his or her opponents. Perhaps the author perpetuates an orthodox caricature in order to condemn a particular practice and a particular group by associating each with the other. A related objection concerns the somewhat vague identification to Montanism in the account. To what extent can we assume that early Christians understood “Phrygian” to mean “Montanist”?21 In the second century, when “Montanism” was in its infancy, the identification is uncertain. By the time of Eusebius, however, the use of the term “Phrygian heresy” as the title for followers of Montanus was well established (Hist. eccl. 2.25.6; 4.27.1; 5.16.1; 5.18.1). Eusebius’s own modification of the Quintus passage, in his transmission of Martyrdom of Polycarp further confirms this reading. He describes Quintus as belonging to the Phrygian genos an innocent phrase that is usually rendered “a native of Phrygia.”22 Eusebius’s redaction, however, draws out and accentuates the contrast between the god-fearing “race of Christians” in h.e. 4.15.6//Martyrdom of Polycarp 3.2 and the “Phrygians.” The identification of the Christians as a genos is found in both the pseudo-Pionian and Eusebian versions of the account, but only Eusebius applies this terminology to the Phrygian Quintus. The contrast between Polycarp and Quintus is not just one of adherence to/deviation from Gospel; it is a question of race. By overlaying doctrinal disagreement with ethnic stereotype, he forces his division between orthodoxy and heresy further.23 If Quintus is an orthodox caricature of Montanists, we can understand his failed attempt at voluntary martyrdom as helping to create and perpetuate a stereotype of Montanists as unnaturally eager for death. Quintus’s inability to go through with martyrdom further undermines and criticizes the voluntary martyrs by demonstrating that, despite their eagerness for death, they fall away at the last moment. The accusation enables the orthodox author of Martyrdom of Polycarp to criticize voluntary martyrdom, implicitly label the Montanists as cowards, and (re)claim martyrdom as an orthodox practice. Alongside the negative example presented in Quintus we can set the use of the phrase “catholic Church” throughout the account. The phrase is used four times – in 1; 8.1; 16.1; 19.1 – in ways that resonate quite differently than one another. In 20 C.R. Moss, “On the Dating of Polycarp: Rethinking the Place of the Martyrdom of Polycarp in the History of Christianity”, Early Christianity 1/4 (2010), 539–74. 21 So J. den Boeft & J.N. Bremmer, “Notiunculae Christianae V”, 146–48: 148. 22 K. Lake, The Ecclesiastical History (LCL; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1926), 343. 23 For a discussion of race in Eusebius see A.P. Johnson, Ethnicity and Argument in Eusebius’ Praeparatio Evangelica (Oxford Early Christian Studies; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). For discussion of the construction of a Christian race in martyrdom and Christianity in general see D.K. Buell, Why This New Race: Ethnic Reasoning in Early Christianity (Gender, Theory, and Religion; New York: Columbia University Press, 2005); J. Lieu, “The Race of the God-Fearers”, JTS 46 (1995), 483–501 and Eadem, Image and Reality: the Jews in the World of the Second Century (Edin­ burgh: T & T Clark, 1996), 83–86.

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three of the four instances in Martyrdom of Polycarp in which the phrase appears, the sense of the passage conveys nothing more than the notion of a unified community. A similar usage is found in Ignatius’s Letter to the S­ myrneans, where he writes that wherever the bishop appears there also is the Catholic church (Ign. Smyr. 8.2). In 16.1, however, the use of the term is different. The text describes Polycarp as “bishop of the Catholic Church in Smyrna.” The use of the term katholike is slightly complicated as in two manuscripts (m L) the term hagiai appears in its place. The weight of the manuscript evidence (a b h p Eus) supports the reading and recent critical editions of Martyrdom of Polycarp have retained it.24 The nuance of the term, therefore, demands additional reflection. Whereas other uses of the term in the martyrdom account appear to refer to the universal church in general, the specification of the church in Smyrna seems to connote a sense of proto-orthodox conformity. On the one hand, the use of the phrase suggests a contrast between Polycarp’s Catholic Church and other Christian communities in Smyrna.25 In which case, we must ask, what kinds of Christians does the author oppose? Hübner tentatively hypothesizes that the phrase takes its rise from a situation of conflict between the ‘catholic church’ and Valentinian Gnostics.26 He argues that the Martyrdom of Polycarp is both polemic directed against the elitist Valentinian Gnostics and contains a positive egalitarian message in presenting a vision of Christianity ‘everywhere.’ A similar argument made by Boudewijn Dehandschutter, who argues on the basis of comments in Irenaeus, the Apocryphon of John, and the Testament of Truth that the “Gnostics” were anti-martyrdom and that, consequently, in presenting a view of martyrdom as following God, the author of Martyrdom of Polycarp is criticizing the “Gnostics.”27 While it seems likely that the author of Martyrdom of Polycarp has a group in mind, it seems extraordinary to suggest that this group is a cohort of Valentinian Gnostics. Dehandschutter’s argument fails to account for both the numerous non-polemical first century scriptural texts that present suffering and martyrdom as a means of following Jesus (e. g. Mark 8:34–36) and more moderate orthodox positions on martyrdom such as that of Clement of Alexandria. This argument is grounded in a stereotype of “Gnosticism” as elitist and anti-martyrdom over and against the Catholic,

24 H.A. Musurillo, The Acts of the Christian Martyrs (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 14; M.A. Holmes, Apostolic Fathers, 324. 25 Lightfoot discards the phrase, but writes, “If this reading be retained, the Catholic church in S­ myrna is tacitly contrasted with heretical communities in the same city” (S. Ignatius, 1.622). 26 R.M. Hübner, “Überlegung zur ursprünglichen Bedeutung des Ausdrucks ‘katholische Kirche’ (katholikè ekklèsia) bei den frühen Kirchenvätern”, in Vätern der Kirche: Ekklesiales Denken von den Anfängen bis in die Neuzeit. Festgabe für H. J. Sieben, ed. J. Arnold (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2004), 31–79. 27 B. Dehandschutter, “Le Martyre de Polycarpe: La conception du martyr au deuxième siècle”, 102– 104. He cites Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.33; Testament of Truth 9.3; and the Apocryphon of John in ­general.

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popularist, appeal of martyrdom. The binary is simplistic and reductionist, and it relies on a caricature of Gnosticism that is wildly outdated.28 More importantly, if Martyrdom of Polycarp is directed against a specific form of Christianity, surely the starting point for information about the identity of this group of Christians should be the martyrdom account itself? Looking to the text, the most likely candidate for this kind of implicit criticism would be the “Phrygian” Christians personified by the anti-type Quintus. If, as I have argued elsewhere, the account was composed in the third century it functions as a subtle denouncement of orthodox stereotypes of Montanism.29 Alternatively, the reference to the Catholic Church in Smyrna may be directed to those outside of Asia Minor as a means of suggesting Smyrna’s conformity to orthodoxy in general. The author presents the work as something of an encyclical, addressing the “letter” not only to Philomelium but all the churches everywhere (1.1). The use of the term “Catholic Church” here, therefore, is a statement of conformity. The addressees can be sure that they are receiving a communiqué from the universal church in Smyrna, not some suspicious regional variety. The term Catholic Church is a weighty one, but there are other moments that serve to mark insiders from outsiders. We might consider here one further instance of what might be called “boundary marking” from the Martyrdom of Polycarp. At a number of junctures in the text the author of the martyrdom account reverts to the first person in order to legitimize miracles. In 9.1 we learn that “as Polycarp entered the stadium, there came a voice from heaven: ‘Be strong, Polycarp, and act like a man.’” And no one saw the speaker, but those of our people who were present heard the voice”. The miraculous intervention of a heavenly voice in conjunction with the abrupt reappearance of the first-person is intriguing but what is especially interesting is the fact that only some of those who were present actually heard it. Perhaps the note that no one else heard the voice is intended to strengthen the allusion to scriptural accounts of the baptism, in which it is unclear if passers-by heard the voice of God. Functionally, the introduction of the first-person places the authors of the letter in a privileged position vis-à-vis their audience; the claim to have heard the voice of God endows them with a particular kind of elite religious authority–they hear the voice of God. The same use of eyewitness testimony to legitimize the miraculous resurfaces towards the end of the account, at the lighting of Polycarp’s pyre: And as a mighty flame blazed up, we saw a miracle (we, that is, to whom it was given to see), and we have been preserved in order that we might tell the rest what happened. For the fire, taking the shape of an arch, like the sail of a ship filled by the wind, completely surrounded the body of the martyr; and it was there in the middle, not like flesh 28 On the difficulty polarizing “Gnosticism” and “orthodoxy” see K.L. King, What is Gnosticism? (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003). 29 Moss, “On the Dating of Polycarp.”

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burning but like bread baking or like gold and silver being refined in a furnace. For we also perceived a very fragrant odor, as if it were the scent of incense or some other precious spice. (15.1)

Once again the first-person justifies and authenticates a miracle that was otherwise indiscernible. The miracle is visible only to a chosen group who claim for them an unassailable rhetorical high-ground: those who doubt the miracle are not part of the divinely appointed elite. It is easy to interpret these moments as efforts to drag the miraculous into the martyrdom account, arguably to account for miracles that the addresses or other eye-witnesses knew nothing about. Alternatively, perhaps these moments are part the account’s broader scheme of distinguishing orthodoxy from heterodoxy. Perhaps in a text that sees martyrdom in accordance with gospel as co-terminous with the Catholic Church from east to west the ability to discern miracles was another marker of insider group status and, by extension, orthodoxy.30

3. Conclusion What we find in the Martyrdom of Polycarp is a fusion of the concept of Biblical orthodoxy and martyrological orthopraxy: to the idea of a “Catholic Church” or the mere designation Christian, the author bonds not only the idea of martyrdom but or a particular practice of martyrdom one that is gospel mandated. This language of dying in accordance with gospel certainly lays the groundwork for a mimetic interpretation of martyrdom as death like and for Jesus, but it also fuses orthopraxy and exegesis. In this way the act of interpreting scripture in a manner that was both embodied and to some extent “orthodox” is already present here. The problem faced by the author of the Martyrdom of Polycarp is analogous to that confronted by Justin Martyr. Justin rhetorically expels a group that shares the name Christian by claiming that they are not persecuted and do not die. The Martyrdom of Polycarp is forced to go a step further and claim that the martyrdom (when successful) of these outsiders is exegetically illegitimate. No appeal to canonical orthodoxy is made here, but as the rhetoric of illegitimacy and heresy tightens, the construction of orthodox Christian conduct is reinforced through the language of race and ethnicity. Quintus, we infer, is not of the race of the Christians. He belongs to a mere local iteration rather of martyrdom. Whether or not the heretical others presumed by the text represent actual heretical groups or real people they serve to create a notion of martyrdom in accordance with gospel as orthopraxy.

30 For a discussion of miracles and their function in early Christian literature see by T. Nicklas & J. Spittler, ed. Credible, Incredible. The Miraculous in the Ancient Mediterranean. (WUNT 321; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013).

Jacques van der Vliet (Leiden University/Radboud University Nijmegen)

The embroidered garment: Egyptian perspectives on ‘apocryphity’ and ‘orthodoxy’1 In a volume devoted to such inherently problematic concepts as ‘apocryphal’ and ‘orthodox’, it may be profitable – at least temporarily – to steer clear of questions of terminological propriety and turn to the ways in which ‘apocryphity’ and ‘orthodoxy’ were construed in and through ancient texts. The sources that will be discussed below are Egyptian texts preserved – though not necessarily originally composed – in Coptic, one of the two written languages of late-antique Egypt, the other being Greek. This is partly because Coptic is my specialism, partly because Coptic sources still tend to be less generally valued than Greek or Latin ones.2 The present essay has a tripartite structure. The first section presents some introductory remarks on the nature and original setting of the Coptic source material. A second part focuses on aspects of the debate about apocryphity in late-antique Egypt. A third part will discuss two apocryphal texts from late-­ antique Egypt and their strategies for defining orthodoxy. In the end, some conclusions of a more general nature will be formulated.

1. Coptic-language sources: Nature and heuristics Coptic: Status and development As is well known, Coptic is the latest stage of the Egyptian language, a separate branch of the Afro-Asiatic language family.3 Egyptian has known a very long 1 The following essay is part of ongoing work on Coptic literary culture, aspects of which are likewise discussed in J.H.F. Dijkstra & J. van der Vliet, “The earliest manuscript of the Coptic Life of ­Aaron (British Library, Or. 7558 [89] [93] [150])”, VigChr 69 (2015), 368–92; J. van der Vliet, “Nubian voices from Edfu: Coptic scribes and Nubian patrons in southern Egypt”, in Nubian Voices II: New texts and studies on Christian Nubia, ed. A. Łajtar, G. Ochała & J. van der Vliet (Journal of Juristic Papyrology. Supplement 27; Warsaw: University of Warsaw, 2015), 263–77; id., “The voice of Jacob in Egypt: Coptic echoes”, in Guide to early Jewish texts and traditions in Christian transmission, ed. J. Zurawski (Oxford: OUP) [forthcoming]. All translations from Coptic are mine. 2 When the noun or the adjective Coptic is used in this essay, which deals with late antiquity, it refers to the language only, not to assumed ethnic or ecclesiastical distinctions. 3 For what follows, see in particular E.D. Zakrzewska, “A ‘bilingual language variety’ or ‘the language of the pharaohs’? Coptic from the perspective of contact linguistics”, in Greek influence on Egyptian-­ Coptic: Contact-induced change in an ancient African language, ed. E. Grossman, P. Dils, T.S. Richter & W. Schenkel (Hamburg: Widmaier Verlag) [forthcoming].

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development. It is attested in a written form from about 3,000 BC and the northern (Bohairic) form of Coptic (distinct from the Sahidic, southern form of Coptic) continues to be used as a liturgical language till today. Different than earlier stages of Egyptian, however, Coptic could never claim to be a national language. When Christianity started to spread in Egypt, Greek was the dominant language within society at large as well as within the nascent Church. Against the background of the thorough Hellenization of Egypt’s literate classes, the sudden rise of Coptic as a written prestige language in the early fourth century is not easily explained. Most likely, earliest Coptic, an innovative form of Egyptian, now written with the Greek alphabet and strongly shaped by Greek models, is to be understood as the in-group language of the ascetic communities that arose at the time and would rapidly turn the country into the epicenter of the monastic movement.4 From the outset, therefore, Coptic was a language used by and for Christians, including those that modern usage would class as Manichaeans or Gnostics. Monasticism remained the primary sociotope of Coptic throughout its history, even though its use spread to an ever broader range of functional domains, in particular in the sixth to eighth centuries, at least in Upper Egypt.5 Yet Coptic always functioned in a multilingual environment. Greek remained the first language of state and church till well after the Arab conquest of the mid-seventh century. Only with the imposition of Arabic from the early eighth century onwards, Greek gradually lost its primacy. Not much later, however, also Coptic began to fade out. In the years after the turn of the millennium, due to major sociological changes within the Christian community of Egypt, a large scale language shift occurred and both Greek and Coptic were eclipsed by Arabic, also for ecclesiastical purposes. Only Bohairic Coptic survived as the largely fossilized liturgical language of the Coptic Orthodox Church, comparable to Latin in the Roman Catholic Church. Coptic sources The historical and social framework briefly sketched above, is indispensable for properly understanding the status of Coptic literary sources, such as the texts that are our focus here.6 Whereas it is uncertain how much the early fathers of monasticism actually wrote in Coptic, even the fifth-century abbot Shenoute of 4 See E.D. Zakrzewska, “L* as a secret language: social functions of early Coptic”, in Christianity and monasticism in Middle Egypt: al-Minya and Asyut, ed. G. Gabra & H.N. Takla (Cairo & New York: American University of Cairo Press, 2015), 185–98, who convincingly challenges traditional models. 5 See, briefly, J. van der Vliet, “Coptic documentary papyri after the Arab conquest”, Journal of ­Juristic Papyrology 43 (2013), 187–208: 196–200, where further references are given. 6 For a review of literary sources in Coptic, see S. Emmel, “Coptic literature in the Byzantine and early Islamic world”, in Egypt in the Byzantine world, 300–700, ed. R.S. Bagnall (Cambridge et al.: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 83–102. I prefer to speak of Coptic sources, rather than Coptic literature, following the document oriented approach advocated by T. Orlandi, Coptic texts relating to the Virgin Mary: An overview (Rome: CIM, 2008).

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Atripe, who is now considered the major Coptic writer, was a bilingual author.7 In the domains of theology and liturgy, Greek remained the standard practically until its replacement by Arabic (for theology) and Bohairic (for the liturgy). Much of Coptic exegetic and homiletic literature, often parading under the names of major Church fathers, was undoubtedly translated from Greek, even in those cases where the texts bear an unmistakable Egyptian stamp.8 The same is most likely true for the rich hagiographic literature that arose in Egypt and survives in Coptic. The final stage of Coptic, in the tenth-twelfth century, is marked by language loss. As texts in Coptic became more and more inaccessible, there was no reason to copy or even preserve them any longer. For later audiences, they were translated into Arabic and, for the Ethiopian market, Ge’ez. As a result, the majority of surviving Coptic manuscripts has come to us as archaeological artefacts, merely preserved thanks to the dry climate of Upper Egypt and Lower Nubia. More precisely, apart from numerous stray fragments and isolated finds, the bulk of surviving literary texts in Coptic stem from a limited number of manuscript hoards.9 The most famous of these is, of course, the early Nag Hammadi find (4th–5th cent.);10 later examples include the disjointed codices from the White Monastery, near ancient Panopolis (10th–12th cent.).11 Designating these hoards as ‘libraries’ (as in “the Nag Hammadi library”) is hardly felicitous, for next to nothing is known about their relation to the greater wholes of which they must once have been part. The social life of texts The codices (or remains thereof) that make up the hoards mentioned above were expensive books, written on papyrus or parchment and bound in sumptuous leather bindings.12 Calling the compositions thus transmitted literary texts may give rise   7 See E. Lucchesi, “Chénouté a-t-il écrit en grec?”, in Mélanges Antoine Guillaumont. Contributions à l’étude des christianismes orientaux, ed. R.-G. Coquin (Geneva: Patrick Cramer, 1988), 201–10; L. Depuydt’s rejoinder, “In Sinuthium graecum”, Orientalia 59 (1990), 67–71, is methodologically flawed. Cf. S. Emmel, “Coptic literature”, 90–91.   8 Thus, I adhere to the critical positions of Enzo Lucchesi and Philippe Luisier, cited in S. Emmel, “Coptic literature”, 95–96. Finds of ‘typically Coptic’ texts in Greek from medieval Nubia (mostly still unpublished) can be quoted in support.   9 Tito Orlandi’s ‘bibliological units’, for which see T. Orlandi, “A terminology for the identification of Coptic literary documents”, Journal of Coptic Studies 15 (2013), 87–94: 91. Cf. J. van der Vliet, “Nubian voices from Edfu”, 263–64. 10 See now J.M. Robinson, The Nag Hammadi story (NHMS 86.1–2; Leiden: Brill, 2014). 11 See T. Orlandi, “The library of the Monastery of Saint Shenute at Atripe”, in Perspectives on P ­ anopolis: An Egyptian town from Alexander the Great to the Arab conquest, ed. A. Egbert, B.P. Muhs & J. van der Vliet (Leiden, Boston and Cologne: Brill, 2002), 211–31; cf. A. Suciu & T. Orlandi, “The end of the library of the Monastery of Atripe”, in Coptic society, literature and religion from late antiquity to modern times. Proceedings of the tenth International congress of Coptic Studies, Rome, September 17th–22nd, 2012, ed. P. Buzi, A. Camplani & F. Contardi (Leuven, Paris and Bristol, CT, Peeters), Vol. II, 801–918. 12 For the following paragraphs, see the fuller argument in my “Voice of Jacob”.

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to misunderstandings. They were as a rule liturgical texts, destined for public reading within a given community. This is most obviously so in the final phase of their transmission in Coptic, roughly from the ninth century onwards. This period has been characterized as that of the “synaxarial standardization”, when texts were provided with long preambles, mentioning authors, subjects and liturgical dates, that allowed their insertion in the liturgical calendar (the Synaxarium) of the Egyptian Church.13 Yet their liturgical character is no less apparent in earlier periods. Recognizing the liturgical nature of Coptic literary sources, including so-called apocrypha, is quintessential to understanding the how and why of their transmission over time. As liturgical texts, they were embedded in the social practices of the particular communities that selected, acquired, adapted and recited them in order to pass on the shared values of the own group. As a participant in these social practices, the texts themselves were not static unities, but subject to change over time. They are themselves affected by the process that they help to shape. Instead of cherishing a legacy, that is something one happens to inherit, transmitting these texts is a way of acting out varying Christian identities. Their selection, adaptation and use are conditioned by social practices that were articulated differently over time and place. This process is reflected for instance in changing titles and attributions, but also in the very form of the texts themselves. As mentioned before, in the period of the synaxarial standardization, the texts were adapted for insertion in the liturgical calendar by means of extensive ‘titles’, introductory statements about authorship, genre, subject matter and liturgical date. As an example of changing authorial attribution, the well known Apocalypse of Paul (CANT 325) may be mentioned, to which I will come back later. In one branch of the Coptic manuscript tradition, this text is no longer ascribed to Saint Paul, but to Saint Athanasius, the fourth-century Church father, a favorite author in later Egyptian monasticism and, ironically, a declared opponent of non-canonical revelations.14 This move was clearly meant to enhance the text’s authority and is paralleled in the Coptic Testaments of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob (CAVT 88, 98–99) that in their tenth-century Bohairic version are likewise attributed to Athanasius.15

13 T. Orlandi, “Terminology”, 89–90, 93; for the development of the so-called titles, see P. Buzi, Titoli e autori nella tradizione copta: studio storico e tipologico (Pisa: Giardini, 2005). 14 E. Lucchesi, “Une (pseudo-)Apocalypse d’Athanase en copte”, Analecta Bollandiana 115 (1997), 241–51, including an addendum, ‘Das Lebesende des Ezechiel’, by A. Hilhorst. 15 A favorite stratagem used in re-assigning authorship (also in the present case) was that of the ‘manuscript find’; see J.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, ed. M. Immerzeel & J. van der Vliet (Leuven & Paris: Peeters, 2004), vol. I, 349–367, discussing the Bohairic Testaments at 349–352; on the same theme: P. Piovanelli, “The miraculous discovery of the hidden manuscript, or the paratextual function of the prologue to the Apocalypse of Paul”, in The Visio Pauli and the Gnostic Apocalypse of Paul, ed. J.N. Bremmer & I. Czachesz (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 23–49.

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Interestingly, the still later Ethiopic version of the Apocalypse of Paul circulated under the name of the Virgin Mary (CANT 330).16 In addition to paratextual elements such as titles and preambles, also the texts themselves were subject to a continuous process of editorial revision. The phenomenon is well known from Christian Oriental literature in general.17 Hardly ever two manuscripts of the same work offer really identical texts and the variant readings are so important that they are difficult to accommodate in a critical apparatus. The manuscript transmission of a given text does not represent an effort at faithfully reproducing an ‘Urtext’, but rather an ongoing process of updating the text and enhancing its effectiveness as an edifying (or better, persuasive) text, that was meant for oral performance and aural reception within a Christian congregation.18 To sum up, so-called literary texts preserved in Coptic cover a limited period in the history of Egyptian Christianity, from the early-fourth till about the twelfth centuries. They are often translated from Greek, the culturally dominant language of Egypt in late antiquity. Their primary sociotope were the ascetic and monastic communities of – in particular – Upper Egypt, where they functioned in communal reading practices. As a result, they are characterized by shifting authorial attributions and by an unstable textual form that reflects a transmission geared towards efficacious performance. This instability is not a matter of negligence, but the expression of the social function of these texts within a changing communal context. Within such communal contexts also the texts that we will discuss below had their function.

2. The debate about apocryphity in late-antique Egypt I: Shenoute of Atripe The cultural construction of ‘apocryphity’ in late-antique Egypt is – broadly speaking – determined by three historical factors. The first is the rapid diffusion of the ascetic movement in entire Egypt, the very same movement that created the social context in which Coptic had attained the status of a prestige language. Apart from favoring the rise and diffusion of Coptic, it also tended to favor practices of communal piety over philosophical discussion, even though we should avoid 16 For the bibliography of the Ethiopic Apocalypse of Mary, see additionally J.N. Bremmer, “Bibliography of the Visio Pauli and the Gnostic Apocalypse of Paul“, in The Visio Pauli and the Gnostic Apocalypse of Paul, ed. J.N. Bremmer & I. Czachesz (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 211–36: 235–36. 17 Cf. Emmel, “Coptic literature”, 94, who follows N. Lubomierski, Die Vita Sinuthii: Form- und Überlieferungsgeschichte der hagiographischen Texte über Schenute den Archimandriten (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 205–11, in using the term ‘living literature’, adopted from P.F. Bradshaw, The search for the origins of Christian worship. Sources and methods for the study of early liturgy (Oxford: OUP, ²2002), in part. 5, 91–92. 18 See J.H.F. Dijkstra & J. Van der Vliet, “The earliest manuscript”, 385–88.

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creating a false opposition between philosophy, on the one hand, and monasticism, on the other. Actually, as monastic sources like to underscore, the ascetic lifestyle is simply the philosophia par excellence.19 The second factor is the Council of Nicaea (325) and its aftermath, with its ensuing closer definition of orthodoxy and doctrinal authority. One of the best known Egyptian expressions of this demarcation process is undoubtedly the thirty-ninth Festal Letter of Athanasius, written for the year 367. It is also for our present purposes the most relevant, since it couples a narrow definition of the Christian canon and a rejection of non-canonical apocryphal works with anti-­heretical polemics, targeting competing groups, most notably Arians and Melitians.20 The third factor to be considered is the first Origenist controversy of about the year 400. Its importance for Egypt resides in particular in its monastic focus.21 With the Origenist controversy, orthodoxy became an issue within Egypt’s variegated ascetic communities. Much more than external pressure, the inner-monastic debate must have contributed to marginalizing the Manichaean and Gnostic communities of Upper Egypt that we know through their discarded manuscripts. Within the later literature of Christian Egypt, the controversy knew a long echo, resounding in particular in polemic themes concerning the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist and the resurrection of the body.22 These three historical strands come together in one of the better known texts by Shenoute of Atripe, a fifth-century archimandrite from the region of Panopolis, present-day Achmim, in Upper-Egypt. This homily, fragmentarily preserved in Coptic only, is still often quoted under its modern title, Contra Origenistas. On account of its broader anti-heretical focus, however, it is better to use – as we will do here – its more neutral, medieval title, I am amazed.23 The text can be dated to 19 Research of the past twenty-five years tends to bring out the massive indebtedness of Egyptian monasticism to Alexandrian theology; see e. g. the fine essay by M. Sheridan, “The spiritual and intellectual world of early Egyptian monasticism”, Coptica 1 (2002), 1–51. 20 See D. Brakke, “Canon formation and social conflict in fourth-century Egypt: Athanasius of Alexandria’s thirty-ninth Festal Letter”, HTR 87 (1994), 395–419, and “A new fragment of Athanasius’s thirty-ninth Festal Letter: Heresy, apocrypha, and the canon”, HTR 103 (2010), 47–66. 21 As W. Harmless rightly observes, it was “one of the great crises of Egyptian monasticism”, Desert Christians: An introduction to the literature of early monasticism (Oxford: OUP, 2004), 359 (with my emphasis added); for the various issues at stake, see E.A. Clark’s classic, The Origenist controversy: The cultural construction of an early Christian debate (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). 22 It is one of the great merits of Tito Orlandi to have underscored from an early stage the importance of the Origenist controversy for understanding Coptic sources; see e. g. his essay “Koptische Literatur”, in Ägypten in spätantik-christlicher Zeit: Einführung in die koptische Kultur, ed. M. Krause (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 1998), 117–47: 129–33. 23 This is actually an incipit. Here I use H.-J. Cristea’s edition, Shenute von Atripe: Contra Origenistas (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011); it replaces the earlier one by T. Orlandi (1985), which underlies the discussion of the text in Clark, The Origenist controversy, 151–57. See also H. 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. Studies for Einar Thomassen at sixty, ed. Chr.H.

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somewhere between 431 and 451 and is a passionate refutation of a wide variety of practices, ideas and writings that must have been current in mid-fifth century Panopolis. Shenoute relies for much of his argument heavily on Athanasius’ 39th Festal Letter, which he even quotes at one point (see below). Besides, clear echoes from several other works by Athanasius can be recognized.24 Shenoute moreover incorporated in his text a long quote from Theophilus’ 16th Festal Letter of 401, a text that marked a decisive stage in the Origenist controversy.25 Following his illustrious models, Athanasius and Theophilus, Shenoute makes frequent use of the term apocryphon in negative contexts. In two cases, he uses it as an adjective in the expression ‘apocryphal books’; in all others it is a substantive noun, as in English ‘apocryphon’. I will illustrate his use of the term, which is otherwise rather rare in Coptic, with a few examples. In the – regrettably damaged – first extant chapter of the sermon, he quotes a number of statements about the creation of man by the Father and the Son and their distinctive roles in his creation. It is extremely doubtful that the background of these statements is Gnostic, as has been assumed, but due to the incomplete preservation of the text it is difficult to be more specific. Shenoute comments on his quotes by addressing his audience with these caustic remarks: “Listen so that you will discover that those who write apocrypha are blind and blind are those who accept them and believe them, and together they lie down prostrate in pits (cf. Matt. 15:14)” (Cristea, p. 138, par. 101). Then he continues with further quotes of a more cosmological and angelological nature, likewise focused on the creation. Chapter 3 maintains the exclusive authority of the four canonical Gospels against those who claim that others exist – beside these four – that are not rejected by the Church as heretical. The author goes on to cite the title of an unknown Gospel that reads: “The Gospel of Jesus, the Son of God, who is born from the angels” (Cristea, p. 141, par. 309). After some discussion of what this implies in terms of God the Son as an angel and God the Son as a creature, Shenoute concludes, following a quote from 2 Cor. 11:4: What did the apostles lack? And the prophets and all the saints? What is it that fails in the Scriptures, graced by the Holy Spririt who speaks through them that we should look expectantly towards apocrypha? Or don’t you see that they are demonic teachings? (Cristea, p. 142–143, par. 311–312).

Shenoute follows this up with a discussion of the idea of a Pascha celebrated in

Bull, L.I. Lied & J.D. Turner (NHMS 76; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2012), 259–85: 261–76. It is important to realize the extremely fragmentary state of the text (common to many Coptic manuscripts), which obviously complicates its interpretation. 24 See H.-J. Cristea, Shenute von Atripe: Contra Origenistas, 66–81. 25 H.-J. Cristea, Shenute von Atripe: Contra Origenistas, 99–108 (discussion), 215–28 (text), 231–40 (Coptic-Latin synopsis), and S. Emmel, “Theophilus’s Festal Letter of 401 as quoted by Shenute”, in Divitiae Aegypti: Koptologische und verwandte Studien zu Ehren von Martin Krause, ed. C. Fluck et al. (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 1995), 93–98.

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heaven by God and the angels, attributed to an again unknown apocryphal source. This allows him to remark: He who says: ‘I see the light!’ because he reads apocrypha is super stupid and he who considers himself a teacher since he accepts apocrypha is even more stupid – indeed, due to obscure knowledge and such counsel and such thought all heretics went astray. For all creatures who live in darkness, up to the smallest, darkness is necessarily more delectable than light. Thus it is with those who rely upon apocrypha, in which they crave to read, rather than in the true Scriptures and the sources of life (Cristea, p. 144, par. 317–318).

Shenoute concludes this passage with a quote from Athanasius’ 39th Festal Letter in which the latter states to have written “on account of the heresies, in particular the wretched Melitians, who are boasting of what are called ‘apocrypha’”.26 Shenoute joins in by highlighting the role of the devil, who snares the heretics through self-styled teachers who derive their obscure knowledge from apocryphal books (Cristea, p. 144–146, par. 319–324). In a following passage, in chapter 14, it is again the inspired nature of the Scriptures that is opposed to the inherently perverted nature of the apocrypha. Interestingly, Shenoute here uses 1 Cor. 12:3 to argue that: It is impossible that somebody who speaks in the Holy Spirit ever says that the Holy Mystery is not the body and the blood of Christ, and nobody is able to say that the Holy Mystery is the body and the blood of Jesus Christ, the son of God, unless through a holy spirit.

He then goes on: For in all books that are outside of the Scriptures, be it those of the pagans, or of whatever godless gentiles, or those of the heretics, deceitful spirits are dwelling – and this includes also the apocrypha: Even when the name of God is pronounced in them or when they say things that are correct, all the evil things that are written in them pervert the remainder that is good (Cristea, p. 164, par. 383–384).

Shenoute immediately joins to this passage another example of demonic inspiration, attributing to (unspecified) apocryphal books the point of view that the celestial bodies such as the sun and the moon possess a power that is independent of God. Finally, the end of Shenoute’s long citation from Theophilus’ 16th Festal Letter, which leads up to the conclusion of Shenoute’s own text, is precisely a passage where Theophilus closely links Origen and apocryphal scripture. In the Coptic

26 From par. 32 (Brakke, “New fragment”, 65); for the form of Shenoute’s quote, see H.-J. Cristea, ­Shenute von Atripe: Contra Origenistas, 70–74.

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translation, Shenoute’s quote ends thus: “Let us therefore abandon the evils of Origen and turn away from what are called ‘apocrypha’” (Cristea, p. 228, par. 1035).27 Shenoute’s treatment of the apocrypha leaves little room for shades, while his approach to the Bible is close to being fundamentalist. Following Athanasius, Shenoute intimately links apocrypha and heresy as well as canonicity and doctrinal authority.28 Heretics both write and read apocrypha, and even indulge in their readings. From the apocrypha, considered to be a source of higher knowledge, they derive status as teachers. In fact, Shenoute points out, apocrypha are not only ridiculous, in that they contain preposterous statements about God and the universe, they are outright dangerous. Just as Scripture is inspired by the Holy Spirit, falsehood is inspired by the devil. Through the apocrypha and the “deceitful spirits” that inhabit their pages, the devil blinds the heretics and keeps them blind. If apocrypha, that is anything outside of canonical Scripture, contain any good, it is marred by the part of falsehood in it. For his view of apocryphal writings, Shenoute had faithfully digested the heresiological arguments of Athanasius and Theophilus, shaped in the great controversies of the period, while at the same time assigning the apocrypha a place in his own specifically monastic and highly dualistic demonology.29 The debate about apocryphity in late-antique Egypt II: Pseudo-Evodius of Rome Shenoute’s point of view was not the only option open to late-antique orthodox Christians. I would like to confront it with a different source, likewise surviving only in Coptic. It is a homily On the Passion and the Resurrection attributed to the shadowy figure of Evodius of Rome, who – according to a belief popular in late-antique and medieval North East Africa – was the successor of Saint Peter as bishop of Rome.30 The homily, attested in various Sahidic manuscripts, goes back to a late-antique original, undoubtedly in Greek.31 27 Cf. H.-J. Cristea’s Coptic-Latin synopsis, Shenute von Atripe: Contra Origenistas, 240, and S. Emmel, “Theophilus’s Festal Letter”, 95–97. 28 See D. Brakke, “Canon formation”, partly re-stated in idem, “New fragment”, 51–56. 29 For which, see D. Brakke, Demons and the making of the monk: Spiritual combat in early Christianity (Cambridge, Mass. & London: Harvard University Press, 2006), 97–124. 30 On Pseudo-Evodius as an author: M. Sheridan, “A homily on the death of the Virgin Mary attributed to Evodius of Rome”, in Coptic studies on the threshold of a new millennium, vol. I, 393–405: 396–97 and 402–403; cf. T. Orlandi, Coptic texts relating to the Virgin Mary, 86. 31 I use the edition by P. Chapman, in L. Depuydt (ed.), Homiletica from the Pierpont Morgan Library: Seven Coptic homilies attributed to Basil the Great, John Chrysostom, and Euodius of Rome (CSCO 524; Leuven: Peeters, 1991), 79–106, even though it is based on a single manuscript only (cf. ibid., x–xiv); for an English translation of the entire homily, see the accompanying volume CSCO 525, 81–114. The intrinsic interest of the passage discussed here was brought to my attention by the unpublished doctoral dissertation of Alin Suciu, Apocryphon Berolinense-Argentoratense

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In the course of his homily, the pseudonymous author presents his audience with a lengthy paraphrase of the story of the trial of Jesus, adding various fantastic and – indeed – apocryphal details. He clearly indulged in the kind of story-telling that is a hallmark of much of Christian Egyptian literature. In the middle of his narrative he interrupts himself. Using a well-known rhetorical device, he gives voice to an imaginary opponent: “But surely – he says – some scrupulous brother will tell me: ‘You have added to the words of the Holy Gospels!’” (Chapman, p. 90, par. 40). He then answers this objection by a comparison that I quote here at some length (par. 41–44). 41. Even before it is exposed to the proper tinctures in which it will be dyed, the wool that is used for the purple of the emperor is suitable for being manufactured into clothes and be worn as one likes. Yet when it is processed and dyed in colored tinctures it will become more luminous and make splendid dress, worthy to be worn by the emperor. Thus it is with the Holy Gospels. When he who will be appointed as a shepherd acts according to their words and explains them, they will become more luminous and shine brighter in the hearts of the audience. 42. The emperor, indeed, will blame no one when elaborate embroideries are stitched onto his clothes. Rather he will pay homage to those who applied them, all the more since everybody will bless the garment because of the embroideries that it bears. Similarly, the Lord Jesus will not blame us for applying embellishments (κόσμησις) to the Holy Gospels. He will rather pay homage to us all the more and bless those who derive benefit from them. 43. For there are many things that the Gospels have left unmentioned and that have been established by the laws (θεσμός) of the Church. Thus they have not told us the day on which he (i. e. Jesus) was born. Likewise, again, custom (συνήθεια) determined the celebration of these two catholic feasts.32 Rightly the beloved of Christ, John, said in the Holy Gospel: “There are many other signs that Jesus worked before his disciples, which are not written in this book” (John 20:30) – “If these, he said, were written down, the world would not be able to contain the books in which they would be written” (John 21:25). 44. Just as gold when it is combined with topaz becomes more luminous so that in the place where it is deposited it will not become dark at all, similarly when the embellishment (κόσμησις) of the words of the Holy Spirit through the teachers comes to bedeck the Holy Gospels, these will shine more brightly and start to beam. As for anybody who will rent the garment of a poor man, let alone the purple of an emperor, the latter will be wroth with him. Likewise as for anybody who will play havoc with the words of the Holy Gospels, God will destroy his (previously known as the Gospel of the Savior). Reedition of P. Berol. 22220, Strasbourg Copte 5–7 and Qasr el-Wizz Codex ff. 12v–17r with introduction and commentary (Québec, Université Laval, 2013), 109. 32 Text slightly unclear.

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soul and his body in the fiery Gehenna. The house whose foundations are not firmly established, even if it is being adorned with all kinds of beauties, is destined to fall down (cf. Matt. 7:24–27/Luke 6:47–49). Similarly, also every church where the Four Gospels are not present in order to proclaim and preach the unity of the Trinity, even if its people are numerous as the stars in the sky (cf. e. g. Gen. 15:5), is destined to fall down and is endangered (Chapman, p. 90–91). This somewhat pompous simile may seem insipid at first sight. In my opinion it is not. It rather strikes some very modern tones. It underlines the (literally) fundamental importance of the Four Gospels, but it also leaves room for custom (συνήθεια) and embellishment (κόσμησις). The author’s argument is basically a reflection upon the rhetorical efficacy of his text. It distinguishes two ways of enhancing it, by coloring (i. e. explanation) and by embroidery (i. e. embellishment). Of course, both should be anchored in orthodoxy, the fundament of the Four Gospels and the belief in the Trinity, but also in the person of the preacher. Personally, I find this social aspect most interesting. The preacher should be a “shepherd” who acts in conformity with the words of the Gospels and explains them so that “they will become more luminous and shine brighter in the hearts of the audience.” The embellishment of the text with which the authoritative teacher, the “appointed” shepherd, is credited, becomes a blessing for his followers. Apocryphity is not merely or not even primarily about doctrine, but about the interaction between (legitimate) teachers and their audiences. In a negative sense, Shenoute, following Athanasius, likewise highlights the teacher who derives authority from the apocrypha, but that in his case such a teacher is a heretic and his teaching a demonic trap.

3. Apocrypha in defense of orthodoxy I: The Apocalypse of Paul (CANT 325) Arguing that apocryphity is not primarily about doctrine does not mean that actual apocrypha are doctrinally neutral or would even pretend to be so. In what follows I will briefly discuss two well-known examples of doctrinal demarcation strategies in two very different apocrypha, each deriving from a different ascetic background. One of the most influential apocrypha from late antiquity is undoubtedly the Apocalypse of Paul, already mentioned earlier. Through the historian Sozomen we know that it enjoyed considerable popularity in monastic circles around the middle of the fifth century (Hist. Eccles. VII, 19, 10–11).33 In spite of its likely Egyptian origin, it is preserved in (Sahidic) Coptic, barring fragments, in only one late manuscript that is not even complete, but nevertheless of great importance for 33 For further details, see The Visio Pauli and the Gnostic Apocalypse of Paul, ed. J.N. Bremmer & I. Czachesz (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), and J.N. Bremmer’s 2009 article, cited below (n. 35).

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the history of the text.34 The Apocalypse of Paul had a predecessor in the Apocalypse of Peter (CANT 317), likewise of Egyptian origin, and sharing with the later text a lively interest in the fate of sinners in hell.35 As was noted above, another Coptic version of the same text attributes it to Saint Athanasius. As is well known, the Apocalypse of Paul contributed significantly to the creation of the Western image of hell. The tours of hell found in this and similar texts are basically about sin, sinners and their punishment and may be said to have a didactic function. Recent studies have underlined the ecclesiastical character of the sins in the Apocalypse of Paul. Different than the earlier Apocalypse of Peter, Paul’s vision of hell presupposes well developed forms of monastic life and a fully fledged parish life. Its description of the punishment undergone by the sinners in hell is actually a way of plotting correct and incorrect Christian behavior onto the ecclesiastical landscape of its time, presumably the late fourth-early fifth century.36 For our purpose it is interesting to notice, as others did before, that several of the sins thus denounced do not concern ethics but dogma. Accompanied by an angelus interpres, Paul gets a guided “tour of hell,” with due explanations being offered of all the scenes of torment that are described. Thus Paul arrives at “the pit of the abyss”, where the tortures are more horrible than anywhere else. Following the Sahidic Coptic version: The angel told me (i. e. Paul): “Stand back a little for you will not be able to bear the evil stench.” And at the very moment that he (scil. a guardian) uncovered the pit of the abyss, a thick evil smelling smoke rose from the pit, far worse than all other tortures. I looked down into it and found that it was entirely jammed with lumps of fire that blazed in all directions. Hardly a single man could with difficulty descend into it. (…) And I said to the angel: “Who are they who are thrown down into this pit?” He told me: “Everybody who says that Jesus did not come in the flesh nor was born from the Holy Virgin Mary, and those who say that the bread and the wine over which the name of God is pronounced are not the flesh of Christ and his blood, and also all who have renounced their baptism so as to malevolently destroy their seal. This is their dwelling place till eternity” (ch. 41, Budge, p. 546). 34 Ms. British Library Or. 7023 (Layton no. 158), written in 960. See L. Roig Lanzillotta, “The Coptic ms. Or 7023 (partly, Layton 158): An assessment of its structure and value”, Le Muséon 119 (2006), 25–32, and, more extensively, “The Coptic Apocalypse of Paul in ms Or 7023”, in The Visio Pauli and the Gnostic Apocalypse of Paul, ed. J.N. Bremmer & I. Czachesz (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 158– 97; for the ‘bibliological unit’ to which the manuscript belonged, see now J. van der Vliet, “Nubian voices from Edfu”. Here the very imperfect edition by E.A. Wallis Budge, Miscellaneous Coptic texts in the dialect of Upper Egypt (London: British Museum, 1915), 534–74, is used; a new edition of the Coptic is in preparation by Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta and the present author. 35 See, in particular, J.N. Bremmer, “Christian hell: From the Apocalypse of Peter to the Apocalypse of Paul”, Numen 56 (2009), 298–325. 36 Thus I. Czachesz, “Torture in hell and reality: The Visio Pauli”, in The Visio Pauli and the Gnostic Apocalypse of Paul, ed. J.N. Bremmer & I. Czachesz (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 130–43: 130–134; J.N. Bremmer, “Christian hell”, 307–14.

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Paul’s next stop is a place with “men and also women staying in the freezing cold and the gnashing of teeth.” And pseudo-Paul asks the angel again: “My lord, who are those that live in those harsh places?” He told me: “These are those who say that Christ has not risen from the dead and that this flesh will not resurrect” (ch. 42, Budge, p. 546).

The sinners in these various uncomfortable positions are clearly heretics, and the description of their tortures – which I will not quote in further detail here – are nothing less than anti-heretical warnings. Interestingly, the errors enumerated by the angel are the very heresies that played such an important role in the monastic controversies of the fourth-fifth century. The reality of the Incarnation, the denial of the resurrection of the body and the realis presentia in the Eucharist are major issues in the polemics of Shenoute and other Egyptian authors in the wake of the Origenist controversy.37 In spite of very different literary means, therefore, the polemics of Shenoute and the visions of Paul are targeting very similar unorthodox positions. Moreover, whereas Shenoute situates error in a demonological perspective, the Apocalypse of Paul opts for an eschatological perspective. In both instances, the invoked images of the supernatural have a similar function, not to convert heretics, but to constitute the audiences that are addressed as orthodox bodies.38 Apocrypha in defense of orthodoxy II: The Apocalypse of Adam (CAVT 12; NH V, 5)39 The wish to reproduce a community is likewise at the core of the last text that will be discussed here, the Gnostic Apocalypse of Adam, preserved in a single, damaged Sahidic manuscript from the Nag Hammadi find.40 The Nag Hammadi 37 Witness, for instance, Shenoute’s I am amazed, discussed above; cf. H.-J. Cristea, Shenute von Atripe: Contra Origenistas, 50–57. 38 Thus also I. Czachesz, “Torture”, 134; J.N. Bremmer, “Christian hell”, 314. 39 For what follows, see the more detailed account in my paper “Voice of Jacob”, written from a slightly different angle; I briefly discussed the text’s picture of Solomon in “Solomon in Egyptian Gnosticism“, in J. Verheyden (ed.), The figure of Solomon in Jewish, Christian and Islamic tradition: King, sage and architect (TBN 17; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2013), 197–218: 211–14. 40 The manuscript is reproduced in The facsimile edition of the Nag Hammadi codices: Codex V (Leiden: Brill, 1975), 64–85. The text is easily accessible in editions cum translations by G.W. MacRae, in Nag Hammadi Codices V, 2–5 and VI with Papyrus Berolinensis 8502, 1 and 4, ed. D.M. Parrott (NHS 11; Leiden: Brill, 1979), 151–96, and F. Morard, L’Apocalypse d’Adam (NH V, 5) (Québec: Université Laval, 1985). Here the references are after page and line numbers of the codex, as is habitual in Nag Hammadi studies. The text is mentioned several times in D. Brakke’s essay The Gnostics: Myth, ritual, and diversity in early Christianity (Cambridge, Mass. & London: Harvard University Press, 2010), 62–78; older literature should be used with caution (see below).

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hoard can be dated roughly to the second half of the fourth or the beginning the fifth century. The text itself must be older and conceived originally in Greek, but hypotheses about its high antiquity and pre-Christian character must be considered with caution. The text is clearly a Christian Gnostic text; analogies with for instance the better known Apocryphon of John could suggest a tentative date in the latter half of the second century. Also theories about its compositional history must be considered obsolete. In spite of some obscurities, the text betrays a clear unity of purpose and composition. The Apocalypse of Adam presents itself as a spoken testament left by Adam to his son Seth. It is one of the few texts preserved in Coptic that describe its contents, not only as an apocalypse (a revelation, as in the title), but in a positive sense as an apocryphon. More precisely, the word apocryphon is used as an adjective, as it is in Shenoute’s I am amazed, to qualify Adam’s revelation as ϯⲅⲛⲱⲥⲓⲥ ⲛ̄ⲛⲁⲡⲟⲕⲣⲩⲫⲟⲛ, “apocryphal (or, secret) knowledge” (85, 22–23). It is tempting to detect in this qualification the author’s awareness of the text’s controversial intent.41 For the text is a very polemical one, not merely non-canonical, but – one might say – anti-canonical, in that it deliberately aims at the inversion of hegemonic discourse, while at the same time using it as its point of departure. The Apocalypse of Adam can be described as a diptych. The first part (64, 2–76, 7) is clearly dependent on the biblical book of Genesis but, in particular for its literary form, also on non-canonical Adamic literature, foremost the wellknown Life of Adam and Eve. It recounts from a Gnostic bias the sad adventures of the first human couple and then predicts, in the form of a prophecy, the Flood and the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. The second part (76, 8–85, 31) continues Adam’s prophecy, but bears a stronger apocalyptic character. It predicts the arrival of “the Illuminator”, whose power is superior to that of “the God of the powers”, the biblical god, and the final triumph of the “undominated race” of the true Gnostics. The whole set-up of the work, which for obvious reasons cannot be analyzed in any detail here, is marked by a deliberate effort to employ traditional literary means and sources with an overt polemic intent. The first part is a narrative modelled after both biblical and extra-biblical sources, but in which the traditional roles are inverted. The god of the Old Testament, the inferior “god of the powers”, is the evil persecutor of those among men who succeed in preserving the link with their pre-cosmic, spiritual origins. Adam and Eve are merely the first of his victims, whom he infected with sexual desire. The Flood and the destruc41 Here I take a somewhat different stand than A. Marjanen, “Sethian books of the Nag Hammadi library as secret books”, in Mystery and secrecy in the Nag Hammadi collection and other ancient literature: Ideas and practices. Studies for Einar Thomassen at sixty, ed. C.H. Bull, L.I. Lied & J.D. Turner (NHMS 76; Leiden & Boston: Brill, 2012), 87–106: 98–101. In two other occurrences at Nag Hammadi, the title of the famous Apocryphon of John (various versions) and the presentative epistolary frame of the Apocryphon of James (NH I, 2, 1), the substantive noun apocryphon is used in a more conventional manner, as denoting a (written) extra-canonical revelation.

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tion of Sodom and Gomorrah are later attacks aimed at the race of the Gnostics, who trace their pedigree to a pre-existing, transcendental world. The apocalyptic second part is devoted for a considerable part to the refutation of incorrect ideas about the Christ-like Illuminator. His arrival has created confusion and error among the powers of evil and their henchmen, which in turn engendered mistaken ideas about his origins and identity. The Apocalypse of Adam lists these erroneous views in the form of thirteen divergent statements (77, 27–82, 19). Each of these is attributed to a different ‘kingdom’ or ‘empire’. The thirteen empires give the passage an apocalyptic ring, suggestive of a succession in time. Yet they are not primarily conceived as historico-political units. On a cosmological level they correspond to the thirteen lower eons (often split up into twelve plus one) that are found in various other Gnostic writings. At the same time, the term is expressive of an important ontological distinction. The true Gnostics are called “the undominated race” and not therefore subject to any form of kingship or empire (82, 19–20). The passage about these empires and their respective views of the Illuminator has a hymn-like structure with thirteen stanzas. Each stanza gives a different account of the miraculous origin of the Illuminator, who is endowed with glory and power and finally “comes to the water”. The latter statement, which is repeated at the end of each of the thirteen stanzas, is clearly modelled on the theophany of Christ at the river Jordan as found in the Gospels, as is formally proven by a covert echo of Matt. 3:15 (in 82, 17–19) and by the characterization of the Illuminator as “the man upon whom the Holy Spirit had come” and who as a result of the hostility of the powers of evil will be punished in the flesh (77, 16–18). In the end, these thirteen accounts, each introduced as an opinion (“the such-and-such kingdom says …”), are confronted with the superior point of view of the true Gnostics (82, 19–83, 4). The sequel of the text then predicts their imminent victory over their opponents. Whereas the thirteen earlier accounts state that the Illuminator “came to the water”, the Gnostics are praised for having not been “corrupted by their lust (for intercourse) with the angels nor accomplished the works of the powers” (83, 15–19). As it turns out, water is a negative leitmotiv throughout the text. The Apocalypse ends with an overt baptismal polemic, accusing three of the angels presiding over the Gnostic (spiritual) baptism to have “defiled the water of life” (84, 17–18). As in other Gnostic writings, water is associated with sexuality and water baptism is rejected in favor of a purely spiritual sacrament. The polemics of the author focus, therefore, in a negative sense on the status of the demonized powers of the lower world, in particular the god of the Old Testament and his hostility vis-à-vis Adam and his Gnostic heirs, on false conceptions of the nature and origins of the Illuminator (who can be identified as Christ) and on the rejected practice of baptism by water. These subjects are thematized to mark the position of the author’s group vis-à-vis others and, each in its own way, show that these others must have been fellow-Christians. In a positive way, the text can be said to reproduce the orthodoxy of the author’s community by emphasizing its spiritual roots in an angelical world that is situ-

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ated beyond the domain of the material and not subject to the rule of sexuality. Throughout, the text focuses on what distinguishes the community from others, as a group that – from Adam and Eve onwards – suffers persecution. The final redemption of the Gnostics is assured by their purity and their unfailing adherence to the Illuminator-Christ, conceived as a messenger from the divine world, and to a baptism that is seen a process of spiritual regeneration. In spite of – or rather – precisely because of its polemical character the text is a narrative about election and redemption. In sketching a vivid and gruesome history of persecution, doctrinal error and sacramental impropriety, the ancestral voice of Adam delineates an enlightened and immaculate ‘we’-group of elect. Conclusions and … some agenda By way of conclusion, I would like to return to Pseudo-Evodius and his simile about the embroidered garments of the emperor. In my opinion, Pseudo-Evodius is witness to a conception of apocryphity that is highly relevant for present discussions. Apocryphity functions in the relationship between teachers and their audiences. Similar to other so-called literary texts from Christian antiquity, apocrypha were meant for public reading within the communities that transmitted them. They are, in other words, part of the shared practices of these communities, practices that aim to reproduce these communities. In this respect too, the role of apocrypha does not differ from that of other so-called literary texts. In the Apocalypse of Paul, the authoritative voices of Saint Paul and his angel delimit the communities for which the text was written in terms of both dogma and practice. This applies a fortiori to strongly polemical texts like the anti-heretical homily of Shenoute, directly inspired by Athanasius’ rejection of apocryphal teaching, or the much older Apocalypse of Adam, written for a community of Gnostic Christians. Apocryphity, to return once more to Pseudo-Evodius, is not a quality, but a tool; an instrument, not a property. To this I would like to add some words by way of a modest agenda. Much of older and current research on the apocrypha is still dominated by a historicizing approach. Texts preserved in tenth-century Coptic manuscripts are called to witness for earliest Christianity, not to mention Second Temple Judaism. The curiosity for origins is a human universal and the quest for the roots of things entirely legitimate. Yet I would like to argue for a closer attention to the apocrypha as liturgical texts, produced and transmitted within communities of practice. Such an approach involves a closer attention to literary and rhetorical strategies and to matters of genre. Situating the texts within the interaction between teachers and audiences is the only means to obtain an idea of how their meaning was construed in past centuries.

Jan Dochhorn (University of Durham)

Menschenschöpfung und urzeitlicher Teufelsfall in Überlieferungen der Falascha Der erste Teil von Teezâza Sanbat in der von Halevy veröffentlichten Version 1. Einleitung Die Forschung zu der äthiopischen Apokryphenüberlieferung hat sich in der letzten Zeit durch Handschriftenfunde dynamisch entwickelt, bedingt nicht zuletzt durch die fortschreitende Aufbereitung der Bestände aus der „Ethiopian Manuscript Microfilm Library“ (EMML).1 Die Überlieferungssituation ist entscheidend durch folgende Merkmale gekennzeichnet: 1. Mehrere Werke, die in anderen christlichen Kontexten als apokryph gelten, sind in Äthiopien kanonisch oder zumindest bibelaffin. Dies gilt etwa für den 1 Henoch, das Jubiläenbuch (Lib Jub), den vierten Baruch (= Paralipomena Jeremiae), und eingeschränkt auch für die Ascensio Isaiae.2 Für den Bereich der neutestamentlichen Apokryphen, der hier weniger thematisiert werden wird, kommt kanonische Geltung pseudo-apostolischen Schriften zu, die interessanterweise im besonderem Maße grundlegend oder verstärkend wirkten für den jüdischen Einschlag in der äthiopischen Kirche, etwa ihre Sabbatheiligung.3 1 Zu neuaufgefundenen Textzeugen vgl. beispielhaft T.M. Erho & L.T. Stuckenbruck, „A Manuscript History of Ethiopic Enoch“, Journal for the Study of Pseudepigrapha 23 (2013), 87–133; T. Erho, „New Ethiopic Witnesses to Some Old Testament Pseudepigrapha“, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies (2013), 1–23. 2 Zum äthiopischen Bibelkanon vgl. P. Brandt, „Geflecht aus 81 Büchern. Zur variantenreichen Gestalt des äthiopischen Bibelkanons“, Aethiopica 3 (2000), 79–115. Die älteren Kanonlisten enthalten tendentiell nicht viel, was über die griechische Bibel hinausgeht, zuweilen aber Lib Jub und pseudo-apostolische Schriften in unterschiedlicher Anzahl (S. 82–88). In Handschriften, die durchgängig nur Teile der Bibel bieten, erscheint Lib Jub, 1 Hen aber häufiger, oft an prominenter Stelle (vor der Orit = dem Oktateuch), vgl. S. 100. In Handschriften begegnen auch die Asc Isa als Appendixbuch zu Jesaja (eher selten, S. 102) und der 4 Baruch sowie die Pashurweissagung als Appendixbuch zu Jeremia (S. 103). In einer vollständigen altäthiopisch-amharischen Bibeldiglotte aus dem Jahre 1927 äthiopischer Zeitrechnung und in einer amharischen Vollbibel aus dem Jahre 1953 äthiopischer Zeitrechnung begegnen 1 Hen und Lib Jub, nicht aber das pseudo-apostolische Schrifttum (S. 111–112). Dieses fehlt auch sonst in Bibelhandschriften (S. 92–93), was aber auch für die Psalmen gilt, die als liturgische Bücher reproduziert wurden (S. 100). 3 Vgl. E. Hammerschmidt, Stellung und Bedeutung des Sabbats in Äthiopien (Studia Delitzschiana 7; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1963), 35–48.

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2. Zu unterscheiden ist zwischen Überlieferungsbeständen aus der Spätantike bzw. der aksumitischen Zeit, die meistens Übersetzungen aus dem Griechischen sind und vielfach kanonisch oder bibelaffin wurden (z. B. 1 Henoch; Jubiläenbuch; Ascensio Isaiae), und andererseits Überlieferungsbeständen aus dem Mittelalter, die aus dem christlich-arabischen Bereich stammen (mit koptischen oder syrischen Hintergründen) oder aber in der mittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen äthiopischen Kirche entstanden sind.4 Ein prominentes Beispiel für ursprünglich koptisch-arabisches Schrifttum sind die Testamente der drei Patriarchen (Test III), ein Beispiel für syrisch-arabisches die Historia Joseph und der Tod Josephs.5 Als Eigenprodukt der äthiopischen Kirche kann etwa ein anderweitig unbekanntes Baruchbuch gelten, das wir herkömmlich aus der Überlieferung der Falascha kennen (s. Anm. 15). 3. Damit sind wir bei dem hier entscheidenden Thema: Es gibt in Äthiopien (heute überwiegend in Israel) eine kuschitisch-jüdische Volksgruppe, die gewöhnlicherweise Falascha genannt wird; geläufig ist jetzt auch die Eigenbezeichnung Bêta Esrâêl.6 Deren Schrifttum besteht zu einem ganz wesentlichen Teil aus Apokryphen. Meistens handelt es sich dabei, wie noch ausgeführt werden wird, um Werke, die der äthiopischen Kirche entstammen, und durchgängig sind sie in vergleichsweise späten Handschriften überliefert (gewöhnlich aus dem 19. Jahrhundert), deren Text erheblich verderbt ist. Die Grenzen zwischen apokrpyphem und allgemein religiösem Schrifttum verschwimmen bei den Falascha. Dies betrifft etwa das vergleichsweise prominente Werk Teezâza Sanbat, in dem sich mythische Traditionen parabiblischen Inhalts finden, wie wir sie aus Apokryphen gewohnt sind. Ich kann das somit umrissene Forschungsfeld hier nicht abdecken, ohne das Risiko der Oberflächlichkeit einzugehen. Deswegen beschränke ich mich auf einen Teilbereich. Und da erscheint es mir sinnvoll, einmal nicht über die alten aksumitischen Bestände zu handeln, die mir als Neutestamentler und Judaist normalerweise näher liegen, sondern den Komplex von der genau entgegen­gesetzten Richtung aus zu betrachten. Wenden wir uns der Schrift Teezâza S­ anbat zu. Ich lege im Folgenden eine Einzeluntersuchung über eine satanologische Überlieferung vor, die sich in Teilen der Teezâza Sanbat-Überlieferung findet. Ich hoffe, dass in diesem Rahmen auch Einblicke in Bewegungsgesetze und den kulturellen Kontext der apokryphischen Literatur des äthiopischen Christentums und später (!) auch Judentums möglich sind. Ein vergleichsweise umfangreicher Fußnoten­apparat dient nicht zuletzt diesem Anliegen. Er wird unter anderem einen Eindruck davon vermitteln, was sich editionsphilologisch in diesem Bereich anbahnen dürfte. 4 Vgl. P. Piovanelli, „Les Aventures des Apocryphes en Èthiopie“, Apocrypha 4 (1993), 197–224. 5 Zu den Test III vgl. Anm. 16 ; zur Historia und zum Tod Josephs vgl. K.S. Heal, „Identifying the Syriac Vorlage of the Ethiopic History of Joseph“, in Malphono w-Rabo d-Malphone, Studies in Honor of Sebastian P. Brock, ed. G. Kiraz (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2008), 205–10. 6 Zu den Falascha vgl. S. Kaplan, Les Falāshās (Fils d’Abraham) (Turnhout: Brepols, 1990).

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Ich werde mit isagogischen Fragen zu Teezâza Sanbat beginnen, mit denen auch Prozesse von Literaturproduktion und -transmission bei den Falascha zur Sprache kommen werden (§ 2). Es folgt ein Inhaltsüberblick über den satanologischen Mythus und seinen Kontext; er findet sich in den Einleitungskapiteln einer durch mindestens drei Textzeugen überlieferten Rezension von Teezâza Sanbat, aber nicht in allen Handschriften (§ 3). Das anschließende Kapitel wird erörtern, ob die betreffenden Einleitungskapitel und speziell der satanologische Mythos ursprünglich zu Teezâza Sanbat gehörten oder nicht (§ 4). Darauf wird speziell der satanologische Mythos traditionsgeschichtlich analysiert (§ 5). Ein Abschlusskapitel widmet sich der historischen Bedeutung der erhobenen Befunde (§ 6). Eine der leitenden Fragen des vorliegenden Sammelbandes betrifft das Verhältnis von Apokryphizität und Häresie bzw. Orthodoxie. Die Frage lohnt sich, aber eine Antwort wird gerade mit Hinblick auf die äthiopische Überlieferung schwer fallen, allein schon angesichts der Fülle des Materials. Eine vorläufige Antwort sei dennoch gewagt: Apokryphen wurden von allen gerne gelesen, von den Guten wie von den Bösen. Doch werde ich nachfolgend die Wörter „apokryph“ oder „Apokryphen“ nur noch selten verwenden und stattdessen die Bezeichnungen Parabiblica/parabiblisch gebrauchen. Der Vorteil besteht darin, dass ich damit kanontheoretische Implikationen vermeiden kann.

2. Teezâza Sanbat: Zum Stand der Forschung und zum Inhalt 2.1. Zur Editionsgeschichte Teezâza Sanbat ist im Jahre 1901 durch Halévy veröffentlicht worden7, der Entscheidendes dafür leistete, die Falascha bzw. die äthiopischen Juden der jüdischen Welt bekannt zu machen.8 Seine Edition beruht auf einem Codex, den er auf seiner äthiopischen Exkursion erworben hat und den ich bisher nicht identifizieren konnte.9 Teezâza Sanbat steht in der Publikation von Halévy an der Spitze von mehreren Werken der Falascha-Literatur; er hat sie in der von seinem 7 Vgl. J. Halévy, Tĕ’ĕzâza Sanbat (Commandement du Sabbat). Accompagné de six autres écrits pseudo-épigraphiques admis par les Falachas ou Juifs d’Abyssinie (Paris: É. Bouillon, 1902), III–XIII (Einleitung); 1–40 (Text); 133–164 (französische Übersetzung). 8 Vgl. S. Kaplan, „Art. Halévy, Joseph“, Encyclopaedia Aethiopica 2 (2005), 976–77. 9 Halévy teilt auf S. III mit, dass er die Handschrift 1867 bei einem Debtera (Dabtarâ) der Falascha in Qabta (Distrikt Walqajt) erworben habe. Walqajt liegt im Osten der Provinz Tigre, vgl. die Karte Nr. 23 in Encyclopaedia Aethiopica 5 (2014), 632. Die Handschrift dürfte damit einer Gegend entstammen, die eher durch Tigriña geprägt ist als durch das Amharische, vgl. die Karte Nr. 3a, ebenda S. 598. Bei A.Z. Aešcoly (ed. and trans.), Recueil de textes falachas. Introduction, Textes ­éthiopiens (édition critique et traduction), Index (Travaux et Mémoires de l’Institut d’Ethnologie 55; Paris: Université de Paris, 1951), 12 findet sich der Hinweis, dass eines der von Halévy benutzten Manuskripte in der Bibliothek der Alliance Israélite in Paris liege. Ist das eine Spur zur Handschrift?

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Codex gebotenen Reihenfolge abgedruckt – unter Mitteilung der Seitenzahlen des Codex im laufenden Text, nach denen hier auch zitiert wird (mit Angabe der Seitenzahl in der Ausgabe Halévys, unter anderem deswegen, weil es im Codex von Halévy Seitenvertauschungen gibt, die Halévy entwirrt hat). Der betreffende Band ist die zweite Publikation in einer Reihe von drei Sammeleditionen, in denen Halévy Literatur der Falascha veröffentlicht hat; nach wie vor sind diese Editionen der wichtigste Beitrag zur textlichen Erschließung der Falascha-Literatur.10 Die Sprachgestalt des Textes in der betreffenden Ausgabe ist durchweg schlecht; neben den üblichen Konsonanten­verwechslungen bei Laryngalen und Sibilanten sowie Verwechs­lung von und bei Laryngalen sind Unschärfen in der Morphologie zu beobachten, indem etwa sehr oft der Nominativ für den Akkusativ steht, und vielfach scheint der Text durch Omissionen entstellt, ganz abgesehen davon, dass viele Partien in der Handschrift für Halévy nicht zu entziffern waren.11 Es steht außer Zweifel, dass die Forschung eine neue Textgrundlage gut gebrauchen könnte, aber für keine der von Halévy in Tĕĕzâza Sanbat (1902) veröffentlichten Schriften, zumeist sind es Parabiblica, daneben vor allem Gebete und magische Texte, gibt es bisher eine solche. Aešcoly hat 1951 bekannt gemacht, dass auch die Handschrift Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, d’Abbadie 107 eine 10 Die anderen Veröffentlichungen: J. Halévy, ‫סדר תפלות הפלשים‬. Prières des Falachas ou Juifs d’Abyssinie (Paris: É Bouillon, 1877); Idem, „Nouvelles prières des Falachas“, Revue sémitique d’épigraphie et d’histoire ancienne 19 (1911), 96–104; 215–18; 344–64. 11 Beispielhaft für den verderbten Zustand des Textes sei hier eine Passage auf fol. 3r (Halévy, 2) zitiert, die allerdings insofern weniger katastrophal ist, als sie sich reparieren lässt: ወይቤሎ ፡ እግዚአብሔር ፡ ለመኑ ፡ ዘአይድዓከ ፡ ስምየ ፡ መኑሂ ፡ አልቦ ፡ ዘነገረኒ ፡ ስምከ (wajebêlo ’egzi’abh êr lamannu za’ajde ‘âka semeja mannuhi ’albo zanagaranni semeka; „Und Gott sagte wem, der dir kundgetan hat meinen Namen? Keiner ist, der mir gesagt hat deinen Namen“). Zu lesen ist wohl ወይቤሎ ፡ እግዚአብሔር ፡ ለ[መልአክ] ፡ መኑ ፡ ዘአይድዓከ ፡ ስምየ ፡ [ወይቤሎ] ፡ መኑሂ ፡ አልቦ ፡ ዘነገረኒ ፡ ስምከ (wajebêlo ’egzi’abh êr la [mal’ak] mannu za’ajde ‘âka semeja [wajebêlo] mannuhi ’albo zanagaranni semeka; „Und Gott sagte [zu dem Engel]: ‚Wer hat dir meinen Namen kundgetan?‘ [Und der sagte]: ‚Keiner ist, der mir deinen Namen gesagt hat‘“). Zwei haplographisch bedingte Textausfälle haben eine ganze Dialogstruktur zerstört. Die Nominativ-Form semeka steht agrammatisch für einen Akkusativ semaka; es dürfte sich um eine unwillkürliche Analogiebildung nach vorhergehendem semeja handeln, das regulär ist (Nominativ und Akkusativ sind bei dem Possessiv­ suffix der 1. P. Sg. formidentisch). Solche Analogiebildungen kommen in unserem Textzeugen auch anderswo vor, vgl. ወወሀቦ ፡ ጽጋሁ ፡ ወኃይሉ ፡ ለሚካኤል (wawahabo segâhu wahâjlu lamikâ‘êl; ˘ „Und er gab seine Gnade und Kraft Michael“) auf fol. 5r (Halévy 4). Die Form segâhu kann Nominativ und Akkusativ sein; sie steht hier für einen Akkusativ. Die nachfolgende Form hâjlu kann nur noch Nominativ sein, steht aber für einen Akkusativ. Wir haben es hier mit einem˘ Kopisten zu tun, der unwillkürlich Fehler macht, aber mit der Sprache noch vertraut ist. Nur nebenbei sei darauf verwiesen, dass in der Form hâjlu genauso wie bei za’ajde ‘âka im zuvor zitierten Textaus˘ (dadurch bedingt, dass in der traditionellen Aussprache schnitt das irregulär für steht nach Laryngalen genauso wie als /a/ realisiert wird, während es sonst /ä/ oder / / lautet). Solche Schreibungen begegnen in Handschriften und Druckausgaben derart häufig, dass es Interpretationssache beziehungsweise Konsequenz eines tendentiell normativen Grammatikverständnisses ist, sie als irregulär anzusehen.

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Version von Teezâza Sanbat enthält, die allerdings unvollständig ist; er erwähnt, ohne besonders präzise zu werden, weitere Handschriften in Paris und Rom.12 Wurmbrand notiert in einem Aufsatz, von dem noch die Rede sein wird, zwei Textzeugen in der Sammlung Faïtlovitch (Tel Aviv; Souraski Central Library), in der sich wohl aber drei Textzeugen finden.13 Aber von keinem dieser Textzeugen ist der äthiopische Text bisher bekannt geworden.

12 Zu Paris, BNF, d’Abbadie 107 vgl. Aešcoly, Recueil de textes falachas, 13; C. Conti Rossini, „Notice sur les manuscrits éthiopiens de la collection d’Abbadie“, Journal Asiatique 10. série 19 (1912), 551–78; 20 (1912), 5–72, 449–94; Journal Asiatique 11. série 2 (1913), 5–64; 4 (1915), 189–238; 6 (1915), 445–93 und speziell 4 (1915), 201–204; M. Chaîne, Catalogue des Manuscrits Éthiopiens de la collection Antoine d’Abbadie (Paris: E. Renoux, 1912), 67 sowie Catalogue raisonée de manuscrits éthiopiens appartenant a Antoine d’Abbadie (Paris: Imprimerie Imperiale, 1859), 119–21. Laut Aešcoly und Chaîne müsste sich Teezâza Sanbat auf foll. 75v–119v befinden, aber diese Angabe ist missverständlich. Auf fol. 75 dürfte d’Abbadie zufolge, der mangels Paginierung nur zählt, aber nicht numeriert, ein Traktat beginnen, der folgenden Titel trägt: ትእዛዘ ፡ ሰንበት ፡ ዘተረክበ ፡ በ፩መጸሐፍ (lege በ፩መጽሐፍ) ፡ እምብሔረ ፡ ፈላሲያን („Gebot des Sabbats, das in einem Buch aus dem Lande der Falascha gefunden wurde“); diesen hat Aešcoly wohl fälschlich Teezâza Sanbat zugerechnet. Auf fol. 105 dürfte laut d’Abbadie ein Schöpfungstraktat anfangen, und ebenda beginnt Leslau zu übersetzen. Vgl. Leslau (transl.), Falasha Anthology. Translated from Ethiopic Sources (Yale J­ udaica Series 6; New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 1951). Es handelt sich um den in § 3–5 dieses Artikels eingehender diskutierten Einleitungsteil von Teezâza Sanbat. Auf fol. 110 beginnt d’Abbadie zufolge dann ein „Livre d’Israël sur la grandeur du sabbat“ – das entspricht der nach dem Einleitungsteil folgenden Zwischenüberschrift, die d’Abbadie dann als Beginn eines neuen Traktats gewertet hat (so auch Conti Rossini, der aber den auf foll. 75–104 vorhergehenden Sabbattraktat als eigenständig wahrnimmt). Zu der Handschrift BNF, d’Abbadie 107 gibt es jetzt ein Digitalisierungsprojekt, vgl. Ch. Touati, The Falasha Memories Project. Digitalization of the Manuscript BNF, Éthiopien d’Abbadie 107 (ohne Ort und Jahr im Netz; geplant sind auch eine Geez-Transkription sowie eine Übersetzung. Der Text soll anscheinend optimal durchsuchbar sein, aber soll er auch wirklich gelesen werden? Eine Buchpublikation für Kundige, die nicht nur getaggte Texte durchsuchen, sondern Originalsprachliches ganzheitlich lesen, wäre dringend zu empfehlen. Abgesehen davon scheint mir das analytische Niveau einer klassischen Textausgabe, die Textzeugen entweder nach methodisch stringenten Prinzipien zu elektischen Editionen verarbeitet oder aber Textzeugen synoptisch erschließt, nach wie vor höher als bei einem Digitalisierungsprojekt). Die Hinweise zur Handschrift in der Collection Griaule und zur römischen Handschrift (eine von dreien, die 1937 von Viterbo nach Rom verbracht wurden), finden sich bei Aešcoly auf S. 12. Mir sind folgende Handschriften in Paris bekannt (mit freundlicher Hilfe von B. Burtea): 1. Paris, BNF, d’Abba­die 107, foll. 105–119 (s. o.); 2. Paris, BNF, Éthiopien 395 (Griaule 91), foll. 51r–74r, vgl. S. Strelcyn, Catalogue des manuscrits éthiopiens (Collection Griaule), Tome IV: Éthiopien 373 (Griaule 69) – éthiopien 674 (Griaule 366); nouvelles acquisitions: éthiopien 301–304, 675–687; Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1954), 29–31, speziell 30. 13 Vgl. M. Wurmbrand, „Le ‚Dersâna Sanbat‘. Une homélie éthiopienne attribuée a Jacques de Saroug“, L’Orient Syrien 8 (1963), 343–94: 349 (Anm. 19). Die drei Textzeugen sind: 1. Tel Aviv, Faïtlovitch 13, foll. 69r–76v; 2. Tel Aviv, Faïtlovitch 27, foll. 2r–48r; 3. Tel Aviv, Faïtlovitch 28, foll. 1r–39r, vgl. die Angaben auf den Internetseiten des EMML-Projektes: http://www.vhmml.us/research2014/catalog/detail.asp?MSID=116202; http://www.vhmml.us/research2014/catalog/de­tail. asp?MSID=116235; http://www.vhmml.us/research2014/cata­log/detail.asp?MSID=116236.

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Immerhin aber hat Leslau für die Übersetzung von Teezâza Sanbat in seiner Falasha Anthology die Handschrift d’Abbadie 107 zugrundegelegt (unter Zuhilfe­ nahme von Halévys Text)14; damit ist ein beträchtlicher Fortschritt erreicht worden. Die Übersetzung Leslaus wird bei den nachfolgenden Zitaten aus Teezâza Sanbat jeweils zu den Angaben aus Halévys in Parallele aufgeführt (mit dem Zeichen //), so dass damit indirekt neben dem Textzeugen von Halévy auch der Abbadianus 107 zum Zuge kommt (allerdings nur bis zu S. 25 bei Leslau). 2.2. Wie originär ist die Falascha-Literatur? Doch was ist von Teezâza Sanbat eigentlich an religionshistorisch Aufschlussreichem zu erwarten, und was von der Falascha-Literatur überhaupt? Für einen Judaisten wie mich, der von der Frage fasziniert war, ob die Falascha mit ihrer eigentümlichen Halakha und ihrer völligen Unkenntnis der jüdischen Traditionsliteratur Ausläufer eines vorrabbinischen Judentums sein könnten, stamme es nun aus Ägypten oder Südarabien, stellte sich die Falascha-Literatur zunächst schnell als eine Enttäuschung hinaus: Fast durchweg erwies sich, sieht man einmal von ihren Gebeten ab, dass sie aus der Literatur des äthiopischen Christentums übernommen wurde, mehr oder minder unverändert.15 Ein bekannter Fall sind die Testamente der drei Patriarchen, die über die christlich-äthiopische und christlich-arabische Überlieferung auf ein bohairisches Manuskript aus dem 10. Jahrhundert zurückgehen16; sie firmieren dort genauso wie auch 14 Vgl. W. Leslau (trans.), Falasha Anthology, 10 (Hinweis auf die Handschrift); 11–39 (Übersetzung). 15 Zu der von Halévy zusammen mit Teezâza Sanbat veröffentlichten Gorgorios-Apokalypse und ihren christlichen Hintergründen vgl. S. Kaplan: „Art. Gorgorios, Apocalypse of “, Encyclopaedia Aethio­pica 2 (2005), 857; zu der im betreffenden Band ebenfalls edierten Baruchapokalypse, die nichts mit dem 2. Baruch zu tun hat und Ereignisse der äthiopischen Landesgeschichte prophezeit (in christlicher Perspektive!), vgl. W. Witakowski, „Art. Baruch, Apocalypse of “, Encyclopaedia ­Aethiopica 1 (2003), 487–88. Vgl. auch den Überblick bei Aešcoly: Recueil, 4–11 sowie bei S. Kaplan, The Beta Israel (Falasha) in Ethiopia. From Earliest Times to the Twentieth Century, New York: New York University Press, 1992), 73–77. Es fällt auf, welch geringe Rolle die Falascha-Literatur in der Gesamtdarstellung von Kaplan spielt. Vielleicht hat das etwas mit der Enttäuschung weitergehender Erwartungen an diese Literatur zu tun (Revision von Frühdatierungen wirkt sich oft sehr dämpfend auf die Erforschung von Literatur aus, die an sich nach wie vor interessant sein müsste, wie etwa das Beispiel des Corpus Hermeticum zeigt). Bei der Falascha-Literatur wäre aber durchaus noch einiges zu tun: Mehrere der Texte in Paris, BNF, d’Abbadie 107 sind meines Wissens weitgehend unerschlossen, vgl. die Angaben im Katalog von d’Abbadie. Und dass bei Teezâza Sanbat einiges zu ergründen bleibt, wird hoffentlich dieser Artikel andeuten. 16 Zum Text von Test III (ar; aeth) vgl. M. Heide (ed. und trans.), Die Testamente Isaaks und Jakobs. Edition und Übersetzung der arabischen und äthiopischen Versionen (Aethiopistische Forschungen 56; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2000); M. Heide (ed. und trans.), Das Testament Abrahams. Edition und Übersetzung der arabischen und äthiopischen Versionen (Äthiopistische Forschungen 76; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2012), 29–34. Zur Abhängigkeit der arabischen und äthiopischen Überlieferung inklusive derjenigen der Falascha von dem einzigen Codex, der uns von Test III

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noch in Falascha-Textzeugen als Werk des Athanasius von Alexandrien.17 Die Falascha waren pragmatisch in der Übernahme von christlichen Traditions­ beständen, wie es sich auch an ihrem biblischen Schrifttum zeigt, das sie ebenfalls aus dem äthiopischen Christentum bezogen haben18: Halévy inspizierte in einer Falascha-Synagoge ein Orit (einen Octateuch), das zu seinem Erstaunen anders als die Thora keine Rolle war und zu dem ihm die Falascha berichteten, sie kauften ihre Orit-Rollen bei Christen. Pankhurst fand im Januar 1990 in einer Synagoge (Masgid) der Falascha bei Gondar ein Exemplar des Octateuch (Orit), das eindeutig christliche Illustrationen enthielt (u. a. drei Kreuze).19 Zu den Bibeltexten dürfte dabei auch der in der äthiopischen Kirche kanonische 1 Henoch gehören, der sich laut EMML-Internetkatalog in der Handschrift Tel Aviv, Faïtlovitch 5 neben dem Hiobbuch und dem Buche Daniel findet, zusammen mit dem, wie es im Katalogeintrag heißt, apokryphen Esrabuch der Falascha, womit wohl das bei Halévy, Tĕĕzâza Sanbat, 57–69 veröffentlichte Werk gemeint ist (nicht der 4. Esra!). Dieselbe Handschrift enthält aber auch einen Brief des Met(boh) erhalten ist, vgl. J. Dochhorn, Testament Jakobs (JSHRZ.NF 1/7; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2014), 34–36. Zur Textüberlieferung der Test III vgl. ibidem 10–34, zu derjenigen speziell der Falascha ibidem 31–34 (nach der erstgenannten Ausgabe von Heide sind neue Textzeugen entdeckt worden, und dies geschieht fortwährend, wie Ted Erho mir mitgeteilt hat). Zur Rezeption der Text III bei den Falascha vgl. J. Dochhorn, Testament Jakobs, 73–76. Eine Textausgabe zur ­Falascha-Überlieferung bietet M. Gaguine, The Falasha Version of the Testaments of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. A Critical Study of Five Unpublished Ethiopic Manuscripts with Introduction, Translation and Notes (Diss. masch. Manchester 1965); vgl. daneben die Ausgabe des Texts von Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, d’Abbadie 107 bei Aešcoly, Recueil, 50–77. Freilich sind inzwischen auch einige neue Falascha-Textzeugen bekannt geworden, vgl. J. Dochhorn, Testament Jakobs, 32–33. Hinzuweisen ist hier auf ein Exzerpt aus Test Abr (III/aeth) in einem mir erst kürzlich bekannt­ gewordenen Falascha-Textzeugen, vgl. Hamburg, Ethio-SPaRe, SDM-021, 85v–88r (einsehbar im Internet), das ich momentan editorisch bearbeite. 17 Zur Beibehaltung der Athanasius-Pseudepigraphie in Falascha-Textzeugen zu den Test III vgl. den Text bei Aešcoly, Recueil, 50–51 sowie bei Gaguine, The Falasha Version of the Testaments of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Part I, 1 (dort heißt es: … ወከሠተ ፡ ለነ ፡ አቡነ ፡ አትናቴዎስ ፡ ሊቀ ፡ ጳጳሳት ፡ ዘእሉ ፡ እስክንድርያ = … wakaśata lana ’abuna liqa pâpâsât za’ellu ’eskendreyâ). 18 Zur Übernahme äthiopischer Literatur bei den Falascha vgl. den Überblick bei R. Pankhurst, „The Falashas, or Judaic Ethiopians, in their Christian Ethiopian Setting“, African Affairs 91 (1992), 567– 82, speziell 577–82. 19 Zum Bericht von Halévy vgl. Pankhurst, „The Falashas, or Judaic Ethiopians, in their Christian Ethiopian Setting“, 577–8, zu seinem eigenen Erlebnis vgl. ibidem 581–2. Wenn die beiden Forscher eine Orit gesehen haben, dann handelte es sich nicht um eine Thora im üblichen Sinne, sondern um einen Octateuch (Gen – Dtn + Jos, Jud, Ruth). Dies ist die in der Äthiopischen Kirche durchgängig übliche Überlieferungseinheit für die genannten Bücher. Orit (ኦሪት) ist ein aramäisches Lehnwort, das auf die Thora hindeutet, vgl. jüdisch-aramäisch ‫ אוריתא‬für „Thora“ und „Thora­ rolle“ bei J. Levy, Wörterbuch über die Talmudim und Midraschim. Nebst Beiträgen von Heinrich Leberecht Fleischer und den Nachträgen und Berichtigungen zur zweiten Auflage von Lazarus Goldschmidt (Darmstadt: WBG, 1963 (Nachdruck der Ausgabe Berlin & Wien 1924)), I, 46–47, aber das Konzept ist eben doch ein anderes geworden in der äthiopischen Kultur. Vgl. U. Pietruschka, „Art. Octateuch“, Encyclopaedia Aethiopica 4 (2010), 6–7.

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ropoliten Salâmâ (1841–1868) zum Unktionistenstreit, dessen christologischer Inhalt die Falascha kaum interessiert oder erfreut haben dürfte. Vielleicht haben sie auch diese Handschrift nur von den Christen gekauft – mit selektivem Interesse an einzelnen Traktaten (womit eine christliche Provenienz des FalaschaEsra impliziert wäre). 20 Nur Autopsie kann hier zu weiterer Klärung führen; es wäre zu prüfen, ob sich Spuren einer redaktionellen Tätigkeit der Falascha in der Handschrift finden lassen. Eine solche kommt nämlich vor, bleibt aber an der Oberfläche. Die Falascha beschränken sich üblicherweise darauf, in den von ihnen übernommenen christlichen Texten trinitarische Formeln und Anspielungen auf die Gottesmutter zu streichen oder durch entsprechend Jüdisches zu retuschieren.21 Insgesamt sind damit die meisten Werke der Falascha-Literatur, betrachtet man sie mit den Augen des Textforschers, der nach Originärem oder gar Altem sucht, nicht sehr viel mehr als schlechte Textzeugen christlich-äthiopischer Schriften. Ihr Wert liegt wohl eher darin, dass sie gleichwohl das Weltbild der Falascha repräsentieren mögen. Da ein sehr großer Teil der Falascha-Literatur den Parabiblica zugerechnet werden kann, wäre eine Erkundung, inwieweit das Weltbild der Falascha durch diese Schriften geprägt sei, ein Beitrag zur rezeptionsgeschichtlichen Erforschung von Parabiblica. 20 Hierzu mögen Nachrichten Halévys passen, denen zufolge sich bei den Falascha auch vielfach die Schrift Weddasê Mârjam finde, vgl. die Angaben bei Pankhurst, „The Falashas, or Judaic Ethiopians, in their Christian Ethiopian Setting“, 580. 21 Zu dieser Praxis vgl. Pankhurst, „The Falashas, or Judaic Ethiopians, in their Christian Ethiopian Setting“, 580–581; Aešcoly, Recueil, 5–6. Als Beispiel mag hier das Incipit der Test III gelten. Die Test III setzen in der christlichen Überlieferung mit einer trinitarischen Eulogie ein (በስመ ፡ አብ ፡ ወወልድ ፡ ወመንፈስ ፡ ቅዱስ ፡ አሐዱ ፡ አምላክ = basema ’ab wawald wamanfas qedus ’ah adu ’amlâk). In der Falascha-Überlieferung steht dafür die Formel ይትባረክ ፡ እግዚአብሔር ፡ አምላከ ፡ እስራኤል = jetbârak ’egzi‘abh êr ’amlâka ’esrâ‘êl („Gepriesen sei der Herr, der Gott Israels“). Schon die nachfolgende Athanasius-Pseudepigraphie (inklusive des Hinweises auf dessen Bischofsamt) bleibt dann unangetastet. Zu den Zitaten vgl. M. Heide, Testament Abrahams, 93 und M. Gaguine, Falasha Version, Part I, p. 1. Die Eulogie auf den Gott Israels ist typisch für Falascha-Manuskripte, sie findet sich auch mehrfach zu Beginn von Traktaten in der Handschrift Hamburg, Ethio-SPaRe, SDM-021. In SDM-021 ist noch ein weiterer interessanter Fall von Falascha-Revisionstätigkeit zu beobachten. Die Handschrift enthält auf den Folia 67v–78v einen weiteren Textzeugen des Mashafa Malâekt (Buch der Engel), des zweiten bei J. Halévy, Tĕ’ĕzâza Sanbat, 51–56 veröffentlichten Traktates, zum Teil mit einem Text, der besser ist als der von Halévy. An einer Stelle, zu der es keine Parallele bei Halévy gibt, wird einer Seele post mortem folgender Vorwurf gemacht (foll. 73v/74r): አቅደምኪ ፡ ከሂዶቶ ፡ ለክርስ ስ ፡ አምላክኪ („Du hast zuvor verleugnet Chris s, deinen Gott“). Der Christusname ist absichtlich entstellt; damit scheint für die Judaisierung des Manuskripts genug getan. Im Grunde ist es zu wenig, gerade hier, da ja eine Entstellung des Christusnamens und damit Leugnung Christi genau das ist, was die Seele dem weiterhin erahnbaren Ausgangstext zufolge besser unterlassen hätte. Für eine tiefgehende Zensorenmentalität spricht ein solches Vorgehen nicht. Gesichert ist damit aber eine christliche Provenienz des Mashafa Malâekt, die Kaplan eher dekretiert als begründet, vgl. S. Kaplan, „Art. Mäla’ kt, Mäshafä Mäla’ kt“, Encyclopaedia Aethiopica 3 (2007), 688.

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Doch wie kommt man in dieser Frage weiter? Zunächst einmal bietet es sich an, in den Falascha-Gebeten Parallelen zu den Falascha-Parabiblica zu suchen (und zu anderen äthiopischen Parabiblica, die vielleicht in den erhaltenen Falascha-Handschriften zufällig nicht mehr repräsentiert sind). Eine solche Parallele mag vorliegen in einem Gebetstext aus der Handschrift Tel Aviv, Faitlovitch 681–3, der passagenweise wie die meisten Falascha-Parabiblica das postmortale Ergehen der Seele in den Blick nimmt.22 Auch Varianten in den Handschriften, insoweit sie Verstehensprozesse andeuten, können hier von Belang sein. Ein prägnantes Beispiel findet sich in der bereits erwähnten Handschrift Hamburg, Ethio-SPaRe, SDM-021, die auf den Folia 85v–88r ein Exzerpt aus dem Testament Abrahams bietet – eine Szene, in der eine Seele sich nach dem Tod vor Gott verantworten muss. Das Exzerpt ist mit einer Einleitung versehen, die Sondergut dieses Textzeugen ist und folgendermaßen lautet: ይትባረክ ፡ እግዚአብሔር ፡ አምላከ ፡ ሻዔል ፡ ስምዑ ፡ ፍቁራን ፡ ዘንተ ፡ ነገረ ፡ መፍርህ ፡ ወመደንግጽ ፡ አኮኑ ፡ አብዳንኬ ፡ ማእዜ ፡ ይጠቡ ፡ እምድህረ ፡ ሞት ፡ አልቦ ፡ ንስሐ ። ወይእዜ ፡ ፈጽሙ ፡ በሠናይ ፡ ምግባሪክሙ ፡ በሕይወትክሙ ፡ወትነውሙ ፡ በሰላም ፡ ኢሰማዕኪኑ [lege ኢሰማዕክሙኒ] ፡ ዘይቤ ፡ አብርሃም ፡ በገድሉ ፡ እምቅድመ ፡ እግዚአብሔር („Gepriesen sei der Herr, der Gott Israels! Höret, ihr Lieben, dieses Wort von Furcht und Schrecken! Seid ihr etwa Toren? Wann werdet ihr weise? Nach dem Tod gibt es keine Buße! Und nun, führt im Guten eure Werke aus, solange ihr lebt, und entschlafet in Frieden! Habt ihr nicht gehört, was Abraham sagt in seiner Vita vor dem Herrn?“). Hier ist klar: Einem parabiblischen Text, der wieder einmal das Schicksal der Seele nach dem Tode behandelt, wird ein moralischer Appell entnommen. Er ist nicht besonders originell – und höchstwahrscheinlich überwie­gend abgekupfert, denn ähnlich lautende Wendungen begegnen in der weiter unten zu besprechende Schrift Dersâna ­Sanbat;23 sie begegnen dort im Zusammenhang mit Passagen, die eine synoptische Parallele zu dem Mashafa Malâekt darstellen, der ja ebenfalls in Ethio-SPaRe, SDM-021 bezeugt ist (s. Anm. 21).

22 Die Gebete in der Handschrift Tel Aviv, Faïtlovitch 68 sind in Quareña oder Quaräsa, einer AgawSprache, verfasst, derer sich die Falascha bedient haben, bevor Amharisch oder Tigriña ihre Umgangssprachen wurden (neben Geez gibt es also noch mindestens eine zweite Falascha-Altsprache). Zu den Sprachen der Falascha vgl. W. Leslau, „A Falasha Religious Dispute“, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 16 (1946–1947), 71–95, speziell 94, wo er (für seine Zeit!) die Angabe macht, dass die Falascha in Semien noch Quara „zu sprechen scheinen“ und anderenorts „vielleicht“ noch andere Agaw-Sprachen (er war also wohl nicht Augenzeuge). Wohl bedingt durch den Verlust der Sprachkompetenz sind die Agaw-Gebete in der Handschrift partienweise amharisch glossiert, und das erleichtert ihre Erschließbarkeit. Faïtlovitch 681 und 683 sind editorisch bearbeitet, übersetzt und sprachlich erschlossen bei D.L. Appleyard, „A Falasha Prayer in Agaw“, in Semitic and Cushitic Studies, ed G. Goldberg & Sh. Raz (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1994), 206–51. Passagen, die dem postmortalen Ergehen der Seele gewidmet sind, finden sich in englischer Übersetzung bei Appleyard 244. 23 Vgl. Codex Endangered Archives Programme 286/1/1/117, fol. 23r, col. 1.

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Zu beachten ist freilich, dass die meisten Varianten in den Falascha-Textzeugen, soweit sie mir bekannt wurden, weniger Verstehensprozesse als Sinnverlust andeuten: Die meisten Varianten sind Fehler, nicht selten sinnentstellende oder sinnvernichtende Fehler. Bei dem soeben erwähnten Exzerpt aus dem Testament Abrahams tritt dieses Moment nach der zitierten Passage überdeutlich zutage. Doch auch dieses Phänomen lässt sich auswerten – vermittels einer Methode, die speziell für stark verderbte Textzeugen geeignet erscheint und meines Wissens bisher noch nicht ausprobiert wurde: Der Textzeuge ist zu edieren, mit sinnverbessernden Leseangeboten (idealerweise aus anderen Textzeugen) im Apparat, und im Haupttext sind diejenigen Passagen gesondert zu markieren, die ohne weiteres verständlich erscheinen. Diese Passagen dürften wohl das wiedergeben, was mit einiger Sicherheit im Weltbild – zumindest des Kopisten – angekommen ist, vielleicht auch bei dem Publikum des Textes.24 Man beachte übrigens, dass die oben zitierte Einleitung – neben zahlreichen phonetisch bedingten Orthographica – nur einen einzigen Fehler aufweist, der den Sinnbestand angreift, von den Lesern aber wohl automatisch korrigiert werden kann. Sie steht eben für das Weltbild des Kopisten und seines Milieus. Was das Publikum der Texte betrifft, so wird zu beachten sein, dass ihre Sprache nur den Priestern verständlich war; wurden sie verlesen, so wurden sie Auskünften von Augenzeugen zufolge simultan in die Alltagssprache übersetzt.25 Dies aber wird bedeuten, dass die Fehlerhaftigkeit der Textzeugen durch Inszenierung ausgeglichen werden konnte. Freilich können wir damit auch noch weniger ermessen, was beim Publikum schließlich ankam.

24 Diese Methode lässt sich nahezu beispielhaft auch auf die Assumptio Mosis anwenden, die uns – abgesehen von Kirchenschriftstellerexzerpten – uno codice in einem verstümmelten Palimpsest auf Latein erhalten ist; vgl. C. Clemen, The Assumptio Mosis (Materials for the Use of Theological Lecturers 10; Cambridge: CUP, 1904). Der lateinische Text des Manuskripts ist aufgrund von Schreiberfehlern weitgehend unverständlich, und zwar vor allem in den Passagen, in denen Geschichte Israels prophezeit wird – unter konsequentem Verzicht auf Klarnamen, weil es so wohl besonders prophetisch wirkt. Nur konjekturaler Scharfsinn vermag etwa die Prophezeiungen über Herodes und seine Söhne in Ass Mos 6 wiederzu­erkennen. Ganz anders aber verhält sich das in Ass Mos 10, wo vom Anbruch des Gottesreiches die Rede ist, wo der Teufel entmachtet, ein Bote im Himmel erhöht und Israel auf einem Adler in den Himmel erhoben wird, um sich von dort allerlei Katastrophen und den Untergang seiner Feinde ansehen zu können. Hier geht der Text glatt; man spürt poetische Qualitäten; der Herausgeber Clemen druckt ihn, beschwingt von der Größe dessen, was er da liest, in Sinnzeilen ab. Wir haben hier ein klares Indiz dafür, dass die Assumptio Mosis auch um ihrer Reich Gottes-Botschaft willen geschätzt wurde, womit das Manuskript zur Rekonstruktion ihres Rezeptionsprofils einen wichtigen Beitrag leistet, denn die Kirchenväterexzerpte betreffen überwiegend den im Manuskript verlorengegangenen Schlussteil, wo es um den Tod des Mose geht. Wäre die Handschrift durchgehend besser enthalten, hätten wir dieses Indiz nicht. 25 Vgl. hierzu J. Halévy, Tĕ’ĕzâza Sanbat, II; W. Leslau, Religious Dispute, 94.

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2.3. Wie originär ist Teezâza Sanbat? Mit mehr Eigenproduktivität der Falascha ist zu rechnen bei den Gebeten26, und ähnlich verhält es sich – vielleicht – bei Teezâza Sanbat. Teezâza Sanbat ist von Conti Rossini, der die Falascha-Literatur in der Regel kaum für eigenständig hielt, als eines der wenigen sicher originären Werke der Falascha-Literatur angesehen worden27, und es hat denn auch in der Judaistik durchaus Versuche gegeben, Teezâza Sanbat mit Quellen des antiken Judentums zu korrelieren, etwa mit dem Damaskus-Dokument, das mit der Qumran-Gemeinschaft zusammenhängt.28 Auch Max Wurmbrand, der Wesentliches zur Erforschung der Falascha-Literatur beigetragen hat (u. a. mit der Katalogisierung der Faïtlovich-Bestände), scheint an die Anciennität von Teezâza Sanbat geglaubt zu haben; er vertritt die These, dass von dieser Schrift ein unter dem Namen des Jakob von Sarug überlieferter christlicher Traktat namen Dersâna Sanbat über den Sabbat der Christen (ሰንበተ ፡ ክርስቲያን = Sanbata Krestijân), also den Sonntag, abhängig sei.29 Doch genau hier liegt nun der Ausgangspunkt für eine Enttäuschung, die Steven Kaplan der Forschung zum Teezâza Sanbat bereitet hat. Kaplan weist darauf hin, dass derselbe Wurmbrand anderenorts die Abhängigkeit einer Erzählung der Falascha vom Tod des Aaron von einer christlich-arabischen Erzählung über den Tod des Aaron erwiesen habe, und zwar handelt es sich dabei um eine Erzählung, die unter dem Namen des Jakob von Sarug umherlief. Kaplan sieht es als unwahrscheinlich an, dass einmal jüdische Literatur zu Jakob von Sarug zuge­schriebener Literatur wurde und das andere Mal umgekehrt Literatur unter dem Namen des Jakob zu jüdischer Literatur; eher sei es wahrscheinlich, dass auch im Falle des Teezâza Sanbat das übliche Traditionsgefälle vorliege, dass also der Dersâna Sanbat nicht von Teezâza Sanbat abhängig sei, sondern dessen Vorlage oder Ausgangspunkt darstelle.30 Zu beachten ist in diesem Zusammenhang, dass Dersâna Sanbat auch sonst als Spendetext für Falascha-Literatur in Frage zu kommen scheint, wie sich oben anhand des Sonderguts der Falascha-Handschrift Ethio-SpaRe, SDM-021 zu den Test III gezeigt hat; diskutiert wird Dersâna Sanbat auch als Quelle des­ Mashafa Malâekt (vgl. § 3). Und was nun Teezâza Sanbat anbetrifft, so sind christliche Spuren tatsächlich kaum zu übersehen, etwa wenn auf fol. 17r (= Halévy 12 // Leslau 18) „die Priester des Himmels“ (ካህናተ ፡ ሰማይ) erwähnt 26 Zu diesen vgl. J. Halévy, Prieres; Idem, Nouvelles Priéres und zahlreiche Texte bei Aešcoly, Recueil, sowie ferner Anm. 22 über Falascha-Gebetstexte in Agaw. 27 Vgl. C. Conti Rossini, „Notice sur les manuscrits éthiopiens de la collection d’Abbadie“ (Extrait du Journal Asiatique 1912–1914; Paris: Société Asiatique; 1914), 28. 28 Vgl. L. Ginzberg, An Unknown Jewish Sect (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1970) (Übersetzung der deutschen Ausgabe von 1922), 58. 29 Vgl. M. Wurmbrand, „Le ‚Dersâna Sanbat‘. Une homélie attribuée a Jacques de Saroug“, L’Orient Syrien 8 (1963), 343–94. 30 Vgl. S. Kaplan: „Te’ezáza Sanbat. A Beta Israel Work Reconsidered“, in Gilgul. Essays on Transformation, Revolution and Permanence in the History of Religions Dedicated to R.J. Zwi Werblowsky, ed. S. Shaked et al. (Leiden: Brill, 1987), 107–24.

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werden; so heißen in der äthiopischen Literatur die 24 Presbyter der Johannesoffenbarung, für die man eine jüdische Parallele bisher nicht hat ausfindig machen können.31 Man wird also wohl auch bei Teezâza Sanbat anderes als nur genuin jüdisches Traditionsmaterial vermuten müssen. Schon Leslau konstatiert Einfluss von christlich-arabischer Überlieferung und datiert das Werk nicht früher als das 14. Jahrhundert32, und der Folklorist Haim Schwarzbaum sieht in den anthropogonischen Überlieferungen, die hier vor allem untersucht werden sollen, Reflexe muslimischer Überlieferungen zur Erschaffung Adams.33 2.4. Zur Frage der Autorschaft In dieselbe Richtung weist – eine für mich allerdings schwer greifbare – mündliche Falascha-Überlieferung, die Teezâza Sanbat einem Abbâ Sâbrâ zuschreibt34, ihrem vielleicht wichtigsten Kulturheros, der nach allerdings nicht ganz eindeutiger Überlieferung zur Zeit des Kaisers Zar’a Jâeqob im 15. Jahrhundert nach Christus ihre Lebensweise entscheidend bestimmt haben soll, unter anderem 31 Vgl. hierzu J. Dochhorn: Die Presbyter in der Johannesoffenbarung: Endzeitlicher Tempelkult im Himmel unter dem Vorzeichen der Gottesherrschaft, ed. J. Frey, Kap. II [erscheint demnächst]. 32 Vgl. W. Leslau: Falasha Anthology, 10; 143–44 (Anm. 20; 22; 34); 150–51 (Anm. 189). In den Anmerkungen verweist Leslau indes hauptsächlich auf Tabari, also eine muslimische Quelle. Die Parallelen finden sich vor allem in den Partien über Menschenschöpfung und Teufelsfall, die nachfolgend diskutiert werden. 33 Vgl. H. Schwarzbaum, „Jewish and Moslem Sources of a Falasha Creation Myth“, in Jewish Folk­ lore between East and West. Collected Papers of Haim Schwarzbaum, ed. E. Yassif (Beer Sheva: Ben Gurion University of the Negev Press, 1989), 15–30. 34 Entsprechende Hinweise finden sich bei S. Kaplan, „Art. Sabra“, Encyclopaedia Aethiopica 4 (2010), 438; M. Wurmbrand, Dersâna Sanbat, 37, 349. Beide Autoren kommen ohne Quellenbelege aus. Etwas besser informiert wird man bei J. Quirin, „Oral Traditions as Historical Sources in Ethiopia: The Case of the Beta Israel (Falasha)“, African Studies Association 20 (1993), 297–312, der auf S. 301 von Falascha-Überlieferungen über Abbâ Sâbrâ und Saggâ Amlâk referiert, die sie unter anderem als Autor religiöser Schriften ausweisen (es wird aber nicht mitgeteilt, um welche Schriften es sich handelt). In Anm. 28 (310) nennt Qurin seine Quellen (drei Interviews, die er im Jahre 1975 durchgeführt hat). Abbâ Sâbrâ soll auch ein Werk mit starkem Bezug zur Schöpfungsgeschichte verfasst haben, von der sich zwei Textzeugen in der Sammlung Faitlovitch (Tel Aviv) erhalten haben; es trägt den Titel Baqadâmi gabra Egzi’abh  êr, vgl. hierzu M. Wurmbrand, „Fragments d’anciens écrits juifs dans la littérature Falacha“, Journal asiatique 242 (1954), 83–100, speziell 83 (Wurmbrand nennt auch hier keine Quellen, und er weist den beiden Handschriften, die er nachfolgend beschreibt, keine Nummern zu). Man kann diesen – freilich kaum zufriedenstellend dokumentierten – Befund dahingehend deuten, dass Abbâ Sâbrâ sich für protologische Überlieferungen interessiert habe und daher auch der Autor von Teezâza Sanbat sein könne, speziell der unten diskutierten protologischen Überlieferungen, aber denkbar ist auch die Schlussfolgerung, dass Rezipienten ihm gerne literarische Werke zugewiesen hätten, speziell solche, denen eine Autoren­konstruktion nicht inhäriert habe (die meisten Falascha-Werke haben eine – pseudepigraphe – Autorenkonstruktion, vgl. die Test III [Athanasius] oder die in Anm. 15 besprochenen Apokrypha).

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durch die Einführung des Mönchtums. Abbâ Sâbrâ soll ein ehemaliger Christ gewesen sein, der nach einem Mord Mönch und schließlich Falascha geworden sei und einen Sohn des Kaisers Zar’a Jâeqob, den die Falascha Saggâ Amlâk nannten, zum Judentum bekehrt habe.35 Vielleicht ergibt auch die Beziehung von Teezâza Sanbat zum Dersâna Sanbat in diesem Kontext einen Sinn: Es hat den Anschein, als vertrete der Dersâna Sanbat die von Zar’a Jâeqob verfochtene Heiligung des jüdischen wie des christlichen Sabbats (mit der Konsequenz, dass der äthiopische Sabbat auf 1 + 48 Stunden kam)36 mit nur wenig Nachdruck. Der Sanbata Krestijân steht eindeutig im Vordergrund; vielleicht hat der Dersân in seinem Grundtext ausschließlich ihm gegolten.37 Sicher kann man hier freilich kaum sein, denn auch der Dersâna Sanbat bedarf dringend der editorischen Aufarbeitung: Es existiert lediglich eine französische Übersetzung von Wurmbrand nach einem Faïtlovich-Zeugen, aber die Zahl der Textzeugen ist schier unüberschaubar; allein im Internet sind gleich mehrere Handschriften einzusehen (die Ethio-SPaRe- und Endangered Archive Programme-Bestände).38 Vielleicht entstammt der Dersân einer Richtung, die Za’ra Jâeqob zumindest distanziert gegenüberstand, auch wenn dann 35 Zu Abbâ Sabrâ vgl. S. Kaplan: Sabra; Š. Ben-Dor, ‫המקומות הקדושים של יהודי אתיופיה‬, Pe‘amim: Studies in Oriental Jewry 22 (1985), 32–52: 41–45; W. Leslau, „Taamrat Emanuel’s Notes on Falasha Monks and Holy Places“, in Salo Wittmayer Baron Jubilee Volume on the Occasion of his Eightieth Birthday, ed S. Lieberman & A. Hyman (New York: Columbia University, 1974), Vol. II, 624–37: 624–25; J. Quirin, „Oral Traditions“, 301; 310. Speziell die Nachrichten von Taamrat Emanuel scheinen mir ziemlich stark von dem oben gezeichneten Bild abzuweichen; ich sehe nicht, dass sie notwendig auf eine Datierung von Abbâ Sâbrâ in die Zeit Zar’a Jâeqobs hinausliefen. 36 Zur Sabbat-Politik des Zar’a Jâeqob vgl. die Referate aus dem von diesem verfassten Mashafa Ber­ hân bei A. Dillmann, Über die Regierung, insbesondere die Kirchenordnung des Königs Zar’a-Jacob (Abhandlungen der Königlich Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin vom Jahre 1884; Berlin: Akademie, 1884), 47–50. 37 Zu dieser Annahme vgl. G. Haile, „The Forty-Nine Hour Sabbath of the Ethiopian Church“, Journal of Semitic Studies 33 (1988), 233–54: 244. 38 In der Dokumentation zur Handschrift Hamburg, Ethio-SPaRe, AP-020 werden allein aus den EMML-Beständen folgende Zeugen aufgeführt (mit nützlichen Angaben zur Provenienz, die hier ausgelassen werden): 1. EMML 378 (1959/70), foll. 1r–23v; 2. EMML 400 (spätes 19. Jh.), foll. 3r–36v; 3. EMML 624 (1908), foll. 3r–36v; 4. EMML 885 (1916/30), foll. 3r–19r; 5. EMML 1512 (18. Jh.), foll. 1r–4v, 71rv, 100v–107r; 6. EMML 1589 (19th cent.), foll. 1r–30v; 7. EMML 1656 (19th cent.), foll. 2r–22v; 8. EMML 1672 (20 Jh.), foll. 1r–66r; 9. EMML 2190 (1779/1800), foll. 124r–137v; 10. EMML 2323 (1923/24), foll. 3r–27r; 11. EMML 2392 (18./19. Jh.), foll. 222r–228r; 12. EMML 2726 (1775–1809), foll. 4r–5r; 13. EMML 3200 (17th cent.), foll. 2r–4v, 5r–6v, 15rv, 17rv, 18rv, 20r–21r, 22r–23v; 14. EMML 3341 (1755/69, 1769/96), foll. 48v–63v; 15. EMML 3472 (18. Jh.), foll. 146rv, 135r–145v, 147r–149v; 16. EMML 3965 (20. Jh.), foll. 2r–3v; 17. EMML 4017 (18./19. Jh.), foll. 122r–147v; 18. EMML 4362 (19. Jh.), foll. 1r–15r; 19. EMML 4435 (1891), foll. 182r–186r. Weitere Textzeugen (nicht immer mit Seitenangaben): 19. Endangered Archives Programme 286/1/1/117 (aus Addis Abeba); 20. Hamburg, Ethio-SPaRe, MY-016 (19. Jh.); 21. AP-020 (19. Jh.); 22. MR-009 (1850–1900); 23. FBM-020 (19. Jh.); 24. QSM-035 (1978–1979); 25. MR-012 (19. Jh.); 26. MHG-018 (1850–1950); 27. WQ-002 (18. Jh.); 28. EHPP-016 (19. Jh.); 29. UM-032 (15. Jh.); 30. MKL-021 (1850–1900); 31. London, British Library, Add. 16,222; 32. Manchester,

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seine weite Verbreitung einer Erklärung bedürfte. Zwischen der Opposition gegen Zar’a Jâeqob und jüdischen Gruppen könnten durchaus Beziehungen existiert haben: Für die Zeit nach Zar’a Jâeqob gibt es eine Erzählung über Kontakte eines Mönches namens Abbâ Masih, der den kaiserkritischen Stephaniten angehörte, mit einem Juden; in dieser Erzählung taucht erstmalig der Terminus „Falascha“ auf.39 Söhne Zar’a Jâeqobs gehörten ebenfalls zur Opposition gegen den Kaiser; berichtet wird von einer etwas unklaren Affäre um religiöse Vergehen, aufgrund derer sie von ihrem Vater grausam behandelt wurden.40 Die Falascha-Überlieferungen über Saggâ Amlâk als Sohn des Kaisers könnten andeuten, dass auch dieser Teil der Opposition das Potential hatte, sich mit jüdischen Gruppen anzufreunden. Überhaupt wurde dem Judentum auch sonst Zuspruch vonseiten mönchischer Oppositioneller zuteil: Schon für die Zeit des König Dâwit im 14./15. Jahrhundert ist der Fall eines Mönches Qozmos bekannt, der zu den Juden (Ajhud) überlief, für diese ein Orit abschrieb (also ihnen christlich-äthiopische Literatur verschaffte!) und schließlich einer ihrer militärischen Führer wurde.41 Es scheint mir durchaus vorstellbar, dass Abbâ Sâbrâ, wenn denn die Traditionen über seine Verfasserschaft zutreffen, wie schon vorher Qozmos Jude wurde, seinen neuen jüdischen Kontext geistig entscheidend prägte und sich für seine weltanschauliche Arbeit auch christlich-äthiopische Literatur zunutze machte, und zwar im gegebenen Falle Literatur, die vielleicht eine gewisse Distanz zur dominierenden Richtung im zeitgenössischen äthiopischen Christentum aufwies. 2.5. Zum Inhalt von Teezâza Sanbat Bevor wir nun übergehen zum Hauptthema dieses Beitrages, nämlich den einleitenden Partieen von Teezâza Sanbat, werden einige Bemerkungen über den Inhalt dieses Buches zur Orientierung nötig sein. Das Werk ist mit seinem Titel John Rylands University, aeth. 7, foll. 44v–49v (Strelcyn); 33. Oxford, Bodleian Library, aeth. 18 (Dillmann); 34. Paris, d’Abbadie 247 (19. Jh.); 35. Rom, Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana, Borgianus aeth. 2, foll. 170 ff.; 36. Tel Aviv, Faïtlovitch 34; 37. Tübingen, aeth. 2. 39 Vgl. S. Kaplan, „The Fälasha and the Stephanite: An Episode from Gädlä Gäbrä Mäsih“, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 48 (1985), 278–82. Zu den Stephaniten vgl. Dillmann, 44–45; G. Haile, „The Cause of the Stifanosites. A Fundamentalist Sect in the Church of Ethiopia“, Paideuma. Mitteilungen zur Kulturkunde 29 (1963), 93–119. Die Stephaniten haben offenbar die Proskynese Gott alleine vorbehalten wollen (womit auch der Kaiser ausgeschlossen war), übten Zurückhaltung bei dem exzessiven Marienkult des Kaisers und lehnten wohl auch seine Trinitätslehre ab, welche die Dreieinigkeit mit drei Sonnen sowie mit den drei Gästen Abrahams verglich, während sie selber Gleichnisse wie Mensch/Wort/Atem oder Sonnenscheibe/Licht/Hitze bevorzugten. 40 Vgl. das Quellenreferat bei A. Dillmann, Über die Regierung, insbesondere die Kirchenordnung des Königs Zar’a-Jacob, 32–33. Die historiographischen Quellen Dillmanns finden sich in Paris, BNF, aeth. 105 (Zotenberg Nr. 142) und Oxford, Bodleian Library, aeth. 29 (nach dem Katalog von Dillmann). 41 Der Bericht findet sich in der Vita des Jâfqeranna Egzi, vgl. Text und Übersetzung bei I. Wajnberg, Das Leben des Hl. Jâfqerana ’Egzi’ (Orientalia Christiana Analecta 106; Rom: Pontificio Istituto Orientale, 1936), 50–59.

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von Halévy durchaus zutreffend bezeichnet worden (im Kodex fehlt ein Titel, und es beginnt dort mit einer Eulogie des Gottes Israels): In der Tat ist es um das Thema Sabbat zentriert; immer wieder begegnet in ihm die Gestalt der Frau Sabbat, die am Freitag vom Himmel durch das Paradies auf die Erde hinabsteigt und am Sonntag morgen wieder in den Himmel zurückkehrt, die als Fürsprecherin für die Frommen agiert und mit ihrer Fürsprache Menschen der Hölle (Si ’ol) entreißt, speziell von der neunten Stunde des Freitags bis zum Morgen des Sonntags, wobei etwas unklar bleibt, wer von dieser Wohltat betroffen ist und wer nicht.42 Passend zur Konzentration auf den Sabbat ist es dann zuerst eine ausgeprochen strenge Sabbathalakha, die in Teezâza Sanbat eingeschärft wird43, und mehrfach wird das Gebot der Sabbatheiligung hervorgehoben.44 Aber damit ist das Werk noch nicht hinreichend beschrieben, denn es enthält abgesehen von der Sabbatheiligung im Grunde genommen – alles. Geboten wird nichts weniger als ein Panoptikum des Religions­wissens der Falascha, und dies ohne wirklich klare kompositorische Struktur: Mehrfach ist von Menschenschöpfung und dem Sündenfall Adams die Rede45, ausführlich wird erzählt, wie Abraham sich vom Götzendienst abwandte

42 Am ausführlichsten wird diese Szenerie auf foll. 12v–18v vor Augen geführt (= Halévy 9–13 // Leslau 16–19), nur dass der Text hier wie auch anderswo ziemlich amorph erscheint. Bei der Herausführung von Sündern aus der Si’ol spielt Michael eine Rolle: Er lässt die Si’ol leer wie eine verlassene Frau zurück (foll. 14v–15r = Halévy 10–11 // Leslau 17–18). Aber anschließend ist wieder von Menschen die Rede, die in der Si’ol verbleiben (fol. 15r = Halévy 11). Bei Leslau 17 sind es solche, die den Sabbat missachten, aber auch „(the other) sinners“. Das müssten ziemlich viele sein. Sie bitten Michael um Hilfe (ibidem), antworten dann aber auf die Frage Michaels, wo sie seien, dass die Si’ol ihnen die Kehle verschnüre, so dass sie nicht reden könnten (ibidem // Leslau 18). Besonders logisch erscheint das alles nicht; die narrativen Bauelemente sind je für sich genommen recht ansehnlich, aber zusammengefügt ergeben sie kein stimmiges Bild. Auch mit Textkritik wird man hier wohl kaum zu einer klaren Szenerie kommen. 43 Vgl. v. a. foll. 18v–20v (= Halévy 13–15 // Leslau 19–21). Die Sabbathalakha ist mit folgenden Worten eingeleitet: ወናሁ ፡ ትእዛዘ ፡ ሰንበት ፡ ጸሐፍኩ ፡ ለከ („Und siehe, das Gebot des Sabbats habe ich dir aufgeschrieben“). Diese Einleitung grenzt die Sabbathalakha deutlich vom vorhergehenden Kontext ab. Den Titel Teezâza Sanbat wird Halévy wohl von hier haben. Dieses Incipit, eines von mehreren in Teezâza Sanbat, erinnert an die Zwischenüberschrift auf fol. 11v (= Halévy 8 // Leslau 16): ወዝንቱ ፡ ውእቱ ፡ መጽሐፈ ፡ እስራኤል ፡ ወበእንተ ፡ ዕበያ ፡ ወክብራ ፡ ለሰንበተ ፡ እስራኤል ፡ እግዚአብሔር („Und dies ist die Schrift Israels, und zwar über die Größe und Herrlichkeit des Sabbats von Gottes Israel“). 44 Vor allem auf fol. 29v (Halévy 20) wird das Sabbatgebot hervorgehoben; nur bei Leslau 24 scheint sich ein Satz zu finden, der den Sabbat allen anderen Geboten überordnet: „The Sabbath is better than all commendments“. 45 An erster Stelle ist hier natürlich die nachfolgend genauer erörtete Tradition auf foll. 1v–6v (= ­Halévy 1–5 // Leslau 11–13) zu nennen. Diese findet eine Parallele auf fol. 31v (= Halévy 22 // Leslau 25), wo unvermittelt berichtet wird, dass Gott Lehm von Dudâlêm, dass er Feuer, Wind, Wasser und Steine nahm und Adam schuf (zu den Elementen vgl. fol. 6r = Halévy 4 // Leslau 13); der Staub von Dudâlêm ist das bestimmende Motiv auf den vorhergehenden Seiten. Anscheinend ist die Erzählung auf fol. 31v eine Kurzfassung zu narrativem Material auf foll. 1v–6v. Von ihrer längeren Parallele her wird deutlich, dass die Erschaffung Adams aus Staub von Dudâlêm und die

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und mit Nimrod aneinandergeriet46, auch die Geschichte vom goldenen Kalb wird detailliert und mit interessanten Abweichungen vom Bibeltext geboten.47 Die Halakha umfasst weit mehr als nur die Sabbatheiligung; markante Züge sind etwa die Empfehlung des Eheverzichts – hier deutet sich wohl eine monastische Tendenz an48 – und die Weisungen zur 40- bzw. 80-tägigen Reinigungsphase der Wöchnerin, die dem Jubiläenbuch entnommen sein dürften, dessen Einfluss in Teezâza Sanbat man schon länger wahrgenommen hat.49 Selbst ein kleines apokalyptisches Fragment wird geboten, in dem Gabra Masqal erwähnt wird, ein Sohn des Kaisers Kâlêb im 6. Jahrhundert nach Christus.50 Es bleibt unklar, ob Teezâza Sanbat ihn negativ wertet oder nicht; im 5. Baruchbuch, das die Falascha von der äthiopischen Kirche übernommen haben, ist die positive Sicht der kirchlichen Tradition auf diesen Kaiser stehen geblieben.51 Wie dem auch sei – wir haben hier einen Terminus post quem, der wohl eine Spätdatierung von Teezâza Sanbat stützt, zumal in dem angesprochenen apokalyptischen Fragment von vielen Kaisern nach Gabra Masqal die Rede ist. Mit einem eher disparaten Überblick über die biblische Geschichte von Adam bis Abraham schließt das Werk; es sind Erschaffung Adams aus mehreren Elementen ursprünglich wohl eher nebeneinanderstanden als wirklich harmonierten (s. u.). Kurz erwähnt wird die Menschenschöpfung dann erneut auf fol. 47r (= Halévy 38 // Leslau 38). 46 Vgl. foll. 32v–36r (= Halévy 23–25 // Leslau 26–28); es folgt die Geschichte von der Opferung Isaaks. Die Geschichte Abrahams stimmt nicht mit derjenigen des Jubiläenbuches überein, vgl. Lib Jub 11 ff. 47 Vgl. foll. 37v–39r (= Halévy 26–27 // Leslau 29). Es folgt eine merkwürdige Geschichte über abtrünnige Israeliten, die sich in der Ebene ኢያሬዎስ = Iyârêwos (*ΙΑΡΑΙΟΣ oder ΙΑΡΕΟΣ?) bis auf den heutigen Tag niedergelassen haben (fol. 39r = Halévy 27 // Leslau 29–30). 48 Vgl. etwa fol. 16v (= Halévy 12 // Leslau 18), wo das Paradies für Männer und Frauen reserviert erscheint, die ihren Körper rein gehalten und jungfräulich gelebt haben. 49 Vgl. fol. 47r–v (= Halévy 28 // Leslau 38) und dazu Lib Jub 3,8–14 sowie W. Leslau, Anthology, 155 (Anm. 304). Zum Einfluss des Jubiläenbuchs in Teezâza Sanbat vgl. ibidem 9 und 146 (Anm. 66; 67; 71; 81); 148 (Anm. 111; 112; 118; 123; 127); 152 (Anm. 230); 153 (Anm. 244; 251; 256; 258; 260); 155 (Anm. 299; 304 [wie oben]; 305; 313; 315). 50 Vgl. fol. 45v (= Halévy 32 // Leslau 34). Das apokalyptische Fragment enthält folgende Informationen: 1. Am Anfang schuf Gott Himmel und Erde. 2. Nach 912 Wochen (ሱባዔ) wird Gabra Masqal herrschen. 3. In seinen Tagen werden 4 Sektionen (ቀመር) hinzugefügt werden. 4. Danach wird es gute und schlechte Könige geben. Im Vorkontext des Fragments finden sich Notizen, die disparat erscheinen und „statistisches Material“ bieten (fol. 49 = Halévy 32 // Leslau 34): 12 Häupter hatte die Menschheit von Adam bis Mose; 22 Werke wurden zwischen dem ersten und dem siebten Tag geschaffen. Und dann heißt es, sowohl jener wie dieser sei heilig, was sich am besten in einem christlichen Kontext erklären ließe, in dem der Sanbata ’Ajhud (der Sabbat der Juden) und der Sanbata Krestijân gleichermaßen gefeiert werden; der Kommentar bei W. Leslau, Anthology, 153 (Anm. 261) ist sicher irreführend. Es sieht so aus, als hätten wir es an dieser Passage mit losen Wissensfragmenten zu tun, die christlicher Herkunft sind. Zu Gabra Masqal vgl. St. Munro-Hay et al., „Art. Gäbrä Mäsqäl“, Encyclopaedia Aethiopica 2 (2005), 623–24. 51 Vgl. fol. 107r (= Halévy 94 und Leslau 75). Es heißt dort über Gabra Masqal, dass er König von Axum gewesen sei und dass ihm 530 Jahre hinzugefügt worden seien wegen seiner Rechtgläubigkeit. Die Hinzufügung von Zeitspannen haben beide Texte gemeinsam, nur dass in Teezâza ­Sanbat, vielleicht nicht zufällig, der Hinweis auf die Rechtgläubigkeit des – christlichen – Königs unterbleibt.

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immer wieder die ersten Kapitel der Genesis, mit denen Teezâza Sanbat einsetzt, ohne dass klar wird, was diese Wiederholungen bezwecken sollen (s. Anm. 45; 50). Offen muss hier bleiben, was es mit dem Material auf sich hat, dass bei Halévy auf diesen Abschluss folgt. Es findet keine Parallelen bei Leslau und setzt sich aus einem anscheinend in Halévys Codex fehlplazierten Folium 120 und dem Anfang von fol. 53 zusammen.

3. Menschenschöpfung und Teufelsfall im Einleitungsteil von Teezâza Sanbat Wenden wir uns nun dem Einleitungsteil von Teezâza Sanbat zu, der – wie es scheint – weniger mit dem Sabbat zu tun hat, dabei indes durchaus Affinität zu diesem Thema aufweist. Er ist nicht in allen Handschriften von Teezâza Sanbat bezeugt (s. § 4). Es handelt sich um eine Nacherzählung der biblischen Urgeschichte bis zur Entrückung Henochs. Ihr Schwerpunkt liegt eindeutig auf der Menschenschöpfung und dem mit ihr verbundenen Teufelsfall. Sie setzt ein mit einer Paraphrase der biblischen Schöpfungsgeschichte, die nach dem Sechstagewerk auch die Sabbatruhe Gottes erwähnt (fol. 1r–v = Halévy 1 // Leslau 11). An ihr fällt allenfalls die – textkritisch freilich unsichere – Aussage auf, dass Gott den Himmel „mit dem Wasser seiner Weisheit“ erschaffen habe.52 Es folgt ein Menschenschöpfungsbericht, der dem vorhergehenden Abschnitt nicht ganz widerspruchsfrei angefügt erscheint, da ja zuvor schon die Sabbatruhe Gottes erwähnt worden war. Es sind hier vielleicht Nähte zu erkennen, die Traditionsübernahme andeuten. Der Menschenschöpfungsbericht zerfällt in folgende Sequenzen: Sequenz 1 (foll. 1v–4v = Halévy 1–3 // Leslau 11–12). Gott gedenkt, Adam als einzigen selber zu formen (ወሐለየ ፡ እግዚአብሔር … ከመ ፡ ይልሐኮ ፡ ለአዳም ፡ እግዚአብሔር ፡ ባሕቲቶ). Zu diesem Zwecke schickt er den Engel Aksâêl zur Erde, der in Dudâlêm der Erde Staub entnehmen soll. Die Erde aber nimmt gegen diesen Gewaltakt Zuflucht beim Gottesnamen, und so kehrt der Engel zurück. Er steht von Kopf bis Fuß zitternd vor Gott, da er dessen Befehl nicht ausgeführt hat, wird aber ob seiner Ehrfurcht vor dem Gottesnamen von Gott gestärkt. Alsdann schickt Gott einen weiteren Engel aus, Germâêl, der ebenfalls ergebnislos zurückkehrt. Gott fragt ihn, wer ihm eigentlich seinen Namen bekannt gemacht habe, und der Engel antwortet, das habe niemand getan, aber die Erde habe ihn verwendet, und er sei „furchterregend“; das äthiopische Wort hierfür lautet 52 Vgl. fol. 1r (Halévy 1): ፈጠረ ፡ ሰማያተ ፡ በማይ ፡ ጥ[በቢ]ሁ. Die zwei eingeklammerten Buchstaben sind in der Handschrift unleserlich (vgl. Halévy 1, Anm. 7). በማይ ist agrammatisch (በማየ wäre besser gewesen). Vielleicht ist በማይ dittographisch aus dem vorhergehenden ሰማያተ entstanden. W. Leslau, Falasha Anthology, 11 hat: „The Second day He created Heaven and water showing His wisdom“; Leslau greift hier aber auch – partiell – auf Halévys Text zurück (vgl. ebenda S. 141, Anm. 14).

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ግሩም (gerum); es liegt erkennbar ein Spiel mit dem Namen des Engels vor.53 Gott spricht diesem Engel und jedem, der seinen Namen fürchtet und nicht bei ihm schwört, Segen zu. Anschließend erhebt sich ein dritter Engel namens Bernâêl, der die beiden anderen Engel tadelt, da sie Gottes Anordnung nicht ausgeführt hätten. Gott zürnt „deswegen“ (በእንተ ፡ ዝንቱ – wohl wegen dieser tadelnden Worte) über Bernâêl, und er sendet ihn zur Erde. Bernâêl fürchtet sich nicht vor dem Gottesnamen, entreißt der Erde den Staub, hinterlässt an der betreffenden Stelle eine abgrundartige Schlucht und bringt den Staub zu Gott. Sequenz 2 (foll. 4v–5r = Halévy 3 // Leslau 12): Gott reagiert sowohl auf den vor ihm stehenden Bernâêl als auch auf den Zustand der Erde. Nach Leslaus Text sieht Gott, dass die Erde sieben Jahre lang zittert und sagt voraus, dass sie es bis zum Ende der Zeiten tun werde, während er Bernâêl im Zorn gebietet, dass er Feuer werden solle. Bei Halévy steht etwas Ähnliches, aber der Text ist entstellt und nur partiell lesbar. Sequenz 3 (fol. 5r = Halévy 4 // Leslau 12–13): Auf Befehl Gottes packt Michael Bernâêl am Fuß und wirft ihn auf die Erde. Bernâêl wird ganz Feuer wie ein Ofen. Sequenz 4 (fol. 5r–5v = Halévy 4 // Leslau 13): Auf Bitte Bernâêls sichert Gott diesem zu, dass ein jeder, der nicht gottwohlgefällig lebe, zusammen mit Bernâêl bestraft werde. Ein wesentlicher Grund für eine Nichtbestrafung ist Furcht vor dem Namen Gottes. Sequenz 5 (fol. 6r–6v = Halévy 5 // Leslau 13): Gott fügt Feuer, Wasser, Wind, Steine und Staub zu einem Menschengebilde zusammen (bei Leslau fehlt der Staub). Gott wartet sieben Tage und bläst dem Menschen erst dann eine Seele ein, wie er das Gericht über die Werke eingerichtet hat, weil der Mensch von Grund auf böse ist. Anschließend freut er sich über Adams Gehversuche und versetzt ihn in den Garten Êlśâ (= *Êldâ, s. u.).54 Sequenz 6: (foll. 7r–8r; Halévy 5–6 // Leslau 13–14): Bernâêl erhebt Anspruch auf Adam. Adam lobt Gott und bittet ihn, dass er ihm seinen Sabbat gebe. 53 Vgl. fol. 3r (= Halévy 2 // Leslau 12). Das Wortspiel ist in Leslaus Text (= Abbadianus 107) nicht möglich, weil die Namen der Engel Aksâêl und Germâêl dort vertauscht erscheinen. 54 Statt ኤልሣ (Êlśâ) hat der Abbadianus offenbar ኤልያስ, vgl. Leslau, Anthology, 15 und 145. Leslau liest Ēlyās und denkt an das Elysium (ibidem), aber eher wird wohl Ēleyās bzw. Êlejâs zu lesen sein und wird eine Assoziation an den Propheten Elias vorliegen, dessen Name genau so lautet. Zudem dürfte die ursprüngliche Lesart wohl ኤልዳ (Êldâ) gewesen sein. So heißt der Ort, an dem Adam Lib Jub 3,32 (äth) zufolge nach seiner Vertreibung aus dem Paradies wohnte, und so heißt dieser auch fol. 11r (= Halévy 8 // Leslau 15). Wie aus der oben nachfolgend zitierten Stelle aus p. 9v hervorgeht, wird im Hintergrund wohl eine Konfusion zwischen den Namen ኤዶም (Êdom) und ኤልዳ (Êldâ) vorliegen, die beide in Lib Jub 3,32 vorkommen, ersterer als Name des Paradieses, letzterer als Name des Landes der Geburt Adams, in dem Adam nach seiner Vertreibung wohnte und das in der Nähe des Paradieses lag. Die Konfusion besteht in der Passage aus fol. 9v darin, dass ኤልዳ (Êldâ) fälschlich „Garten“ genannt wird, eine Bezeichnung, die in Lib Jub 3,32 (äth) ኤዶም (Êdom) zukommt. All dieses Durcheinander setzt voraus, dass in dem – etwas löchrigen – Gedächtnis derer, die für den bei Halévy vorliegenden Text zuständig sind, Lib Jub 3,32 (äth) eine nicht ganz unprominente Rolle gespielt hat; vgl. den Text bei J.C. Vanderkam (ed.), The Book of Jubilees. A Critical Text (CSCO 510; Scriptores Aethiopici 87; Leuven: Peeters, 1989), 21.

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Es folgt die Erschaffung der Frau, die Übertretung von Gottes Gebot und die Ausweisung aus dem Paradies; im äthiopischen Text steht „Und er ließ sie ausziehen im Garten Êldâ, und er wohnte vor Êdom“ (ወአውፅኦሙ ፡ ውስተ ፡ ገነተ ፡ ኤልዳ ፡ ውኃደረ ፡ ቅድመ ፡ ኤዶም – fol. 9v = Halévy 7 // Leslau 14–15). Danach wird erzählt, wie Gott die Erde auf die Bitte der Engel bewässert. Den Abschluss bildet eine Reihe der Patriarchen bis Henoch. Der nachfolgende Teil von Teezâza Sanbat wird eingeleitet mit einer Überschrift, die folgendermaßen lautet: „Und dies ist die Schrift Israels, und zwar über die Größe und Herrlichkeit des Sabbats von Gottes Israel“ (ወዝንቱ ፡ ውእቱ ፡ መጽሐፈ ፡ እስራኤል ፡ ወበእንተ ፡ ዕበያ ፡ ወክብራ ፡ ለሰንበተ ፡ እስራኤል ፡ እግዚአብሔር – fol. 11v = Halévy 8 // Leslau 16). Es ist diese Überschrift und der nachfolgende Inhalt, die den Namen Teezâza Sanbat für die Gesamtkomposition im Wesentlichen rechtfertigen.

4. Gehört dieser Abschnitt ursprünglich zu Teezâza Sanbat? Es ist bereits angedeutet worden, dass dem Einleitungsteil von Teezâza Sanbat nach dem Text von Halévy und dem des Codex Abbadianus 107 eine Sonderstellung zukommt, insofern dort nicht so viel wie sonst in Teezâza Sanbat vom Sabbat die Rede ist. Gehört dieser Text überhaupt ursprünglich zu Teezâza Sanbat? Es gibt mehrere Punkte, die für eine Klärung dieser Frage zu berücksichtigen sind: 1. In den von Wurmbrand erwähnten Zeugen aus der Sammlung Faïtlovitch fehlt laut Wurmbrand der Einleitungsabschnitt.55 Er ist aber sowohl im Codex von Halévy als auch im Abbadianus 107 bezeugt, den Leslau seiner Übersetzung zugrundeliegt, und offenbar auch in BNF, Ethiopien 395 (Griaule 91), wie man dem Incipit im Katalog von Strelcyn (s. Anm. 12) entnehmen kann. Es ist bei der Transmission von Parabiblica unzulässig, grundsätzlich die kürzere Version eines Parabiblicums für die ursprüngliche zu halten; es kann auch Kürzungen oder Extrahierungen geben. Übrigens kommt es auch vor, dass Kurztexte anhand von Binnenüberschriften erstellt werden; eine solche Binnenüberschrift begegnet im Text von Halévy und im Codex Abbadianus 107 unmittelbar nach den Einleitungskapiteln (s. Anm. 43). Die in der Sammlung Faïtlovitch bezeugte Rezension ohne Einleitungs­kapitel kann als ein solcher Kurztext gelten. Ein einschlägiges Beispiel für derartige Kurztexte ist die auf slavisch und lateinisch überlieferte Vision des Jesaja, die Ascensio Isaiae 6–11 entspricht und eine Überschrift hat, die mit der Binnenüberschrift von Asc Isa 6–11 im Gesamttext übereinstimmt.56 55 Vgl. M. Wurmbrand, Dersâna Sanbat, 348–349 (Anm. 13). 56 Für den Nachweis, dass die Vis Isa ursprünglich ein Bestandteil der Asc Isa und keine ursprünglich selbständige Quellenschrift der Asc Isa ist, vgl. J. Dochhorn, „Die Ascensio Isaiae (JSHRZ II,1: Martyrium Jesajas)“, in Unterweisung in erzählender Form. Mit Beiträgen von J. Dochhorn, B. Ego, M. Meiser und O. Merk, ed. G.S. Oegema (Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistisch-römischer Zeit VI,1,2; Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 2005), 1–48: 16–20.

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2. Zweifellos aber können Zwischenüberschriften auch Indizien sein, die auf sekundäre Hinzufügung eines Textstückes zu einem Werk im Verlaufe von dessen Transmissions­geschichte hindeuten. Im gegebenen Falle könnte dann die Zwischenüberschrift nach den Einleitungskapiteln auf eine nachträgliche Interpolation der Einleitungskapitel deuten. Freilich scheint eine solche Argumentation gerade im Falle von Teezâza Sanbat nur sehr wenig zugkräftig zu sein, denn Teezâza Sanbat hat auch sonst eine Zwischenüberschrift (als Einleitung zu einer Serie von Sabbathalakhot, s. Anm. 43), lässt aber umgekehrt am Ende alles vermissen, was dem Text einen vernünftigen Abschluss gibt (er läuft mit Erzählungen über Abraham und Isaak aus, die partiell eine Wiederholung von Gesagtem darstellen, unabgeschlossen wirken und offenbar nur wenig mit den Hauptgedanken von Teezâza Sanbat zu tun haben). Ein Sinn für Anfang und Ende scheint dem Verfasser dieses Werkes zu fehlen, während er umgekehrt neues Material mit Überschriften ankündigt. Das kann man als stilistisches Ungeschick auffassen, mag aber auch auf Quellenbenutzung seitens des Autors hindeuten, nicht aber darauf, dass sein Werk im Verlaufe der Transmissionsgeschichte erweitert wurde (es handelt sich also eher um literarkritische als textkritische Indizien). 3. Den Einleitungspassagen scheint der Sabbatbezug zu fehlen, was sie als sekundär ausweisen könnte. Freilich fehlt ein Sabbatbezug nicht ganz: Im Dialog zwischen Gott und Bernâêl, bei dem es um Bernâêls Anspruch auf Adam geht, spielt es wohl eine positive Rolle für Adam, dass Adam Gott darum bittet, ihm seinen Sabbat zu geben (vgl. Sequenz 6). Das passt strukturell zu den später – nach dem Einleitungsteil – folgenden Aussagen über die Fürsprechertätigkeit des Sabbats. Der Sabbat ist, wie es scheint, in den Eingangskapiteln ein Remedium gegen Bernâêl, und nachfolgend ist er ein Remedium gegen die Si ’ol, mit der Bernâêl sowohl in den Einleitungskapiteln als auch einmal danach assoziiert erscheint (vgl. fol. 43r = Halévy 30–31 // ­Leslau 32). Ein Sabbatbezug deutet sich im Einleitungsteil auch an der Nahtstelle zwischen der Paraphrase des Schöpfungsberichts und dem darauf folgenden anthropogonischen Mythos an (vor Sequenz 1). Der Übergang zwischen beiden Passagen gestaltet sich etwas holprig (s. § 3) – und zwar deswegen, weil der Erzähler erkennbar bemüht erscheint, Gottes S­ abbatruhe angemessen zu erwähnen, bevor er dann auf die – der Sabbatruhe eigentlich vorausgehende – Menschenschöpfung zu sprechen kommt. Die Nahtstelle befindet sich innerhalb der Einleitungskapitel, ist also gerade kein Indiz dafür, dass diese als Ganzes ein Interpolat wären. 4. Bernâêl spielt sicher die zentrale Rolle im Einleitungsabschnitt, und das findet kaum eine Entsprechung danach. Aber auch danach findet er einmal Erwähnung, nämlich in einem Mythos über den Kampf Michaels mit den Scharen Bernâêls um die Insassen der Si’ol (vgl. fol. 43r–43v = Halévy 30–31 // Leslau 32). Bernâêl scheint an der betreffenden Stelle mit der Si ’ol assoziiert; das passt zu seiner Feuergestaltigkeit nach seinem Fall im Einleitungskapitel (Sequenz 3), und eben dort ist auch schon im Zusammenhang

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mit seinem Fall von einem Kampf mit Michael die Rede. Eher schon ergibt sich eine Spannung dadurch, dass der Name Bernâêl etwas weiter hinten in Teezâza Sanbat (fol. 50v = Halévy 34 // Leslau 35) als Gottesname erscheint. Wahrscheinlich haben wir es hier mit Einflüssen aus dem äthiopischen Kontext von Teezâza Sanbat zu tun; der Name Bernâêl erscheint in Lefâfa Sedq, einem verbreiteten magischen Traktat, nicht mit dem Teufel assoziiert, sondern mit Gott oder einem guten Engel.57 Auf anderes als den Teufel ist auch der mindestens klangähnliche Name Berhânâêl bezogen.58 5. Den Fokus auf den Teufel als Höllenfürsten, der für die schlechten Menschen zuständig ist, hat unsere Passage mit dem Mashafa Malâekt gemeinsam, einer selbständig bisher nur bei den Falascha bezeugten Erzählung, die bei Halévy nach den Werken Teezâza Sanbat und Abbâ Êlejâs an dritter Stelle kommt.59 Sie erzählt von zwei Engeln, die dem Menschen von Geburt an beigesellt sind, einer ein Engel des Lichts und der andere ein Engel der Finsternis, wobei der Vorgesetzte des Finsternisengels der Teufel ist, der ihn schrecklich bestraft, falls er den ihm zugeordneten Menschen nicht hinreichend zum Sündigen verleitet. Der Mashafa Malâekt findet synoptische Parallelen im Dersâna Sanbat. Kaplan sieht ihn deshalb als Derivat des christlichen Dersâna Sanbat an.60 Dies erscheint mir nicht ganz gesichert, denn die zum Mashafa Malâekt parallelen Passagen im Dersâna Sanbat wirken dort wie sekundär eingearbeitete Quellenstücke: Es handelt sich um drei Abschnitte, die durch nicht ganz passendes anderes Material voneinander getrennt sind und deren erster einleitend als ድርሳን (Dersân/Homilie) bezeichnet wird.61 Ich ahne bis jetzt nicht, wie die literargeschichtlichen Verhältnisse hier zu rekonstruieren sind, zumal mir die Theologie des Mashafa Malâekt aufgrund ihrer 57 Vgl. Lefâfa S.edq nach E.A. Wallis Budge (ed.): The Bandlet of Righteousness. An Ethiopian Book of the Dead. The Ethiopic Text of ልፋፈ ፡ ጽድቅ in Facsimile from two Manuscripts in the British Museum, edited with an English translation (Luzac’s Semitic Text and Translation Series 19; London: Kessinger, 1929), 75. Zur Verbreitung des Texts allein in den vatikanischen Beständen vgl. S. Grébaut & E. Tisserant, Codices Aethiopici Vaticani et Borgiani, Barberianus Orientalis, 2 Rossianus 865. Pars Posterior: Prolego­mena, Indices, Tabulae (Rom: L. Vaticana, 1936), 62 sub verbo Fascia Iustificationis (14 Einträge). 58 Lefâfa S.edq führt Berhânâêl als den ersten einer Reihe von Namen Christi auf, vgl. E.W. Budge, The Bandlet of Righteousness, 52. 59 Zum Mashafa Malâekt sind mit bisher folgende Textzeugen bekannt: 1. Halévy: J. Halévy, Tĕ’ĕzâza Sanbat, 51–56; 2. Hamburg, Ethio-SPaRe, SDM-021, foll. 67v–78v; 3. Jerusalem, MLI Or. 67 (enthält ein Fragment vom Anfang des Texts; ca. 1800); 4. Jerusalem, PH 6903, foll. 84r–86r (Photokopien eines Pergament­kodex aus Falascha-Privatbesitz; unvollständig); 5. Paris, BNF, Ethiopien 395 (Griaule 91), foll. 38r–43r; 6. Tel Aviv, Sammlung Faïtlovitch 28, foll. 39a–41b (unvoll­ständig). Informationen zu Nr. 2–4, Photos von Nr. 4 verdanke ich Ted Erho. Ich plane eine Neuausgabe dieses Werkes. 60 Vgl. S. Kaplan, Te’ezáza Sanbat, 121–22. 61 Vgl. die französische Übersetzung bei M. Wurmbrand: Dersâna Sanbat, 381–91, der Dersâna Sanbat und Mashafa Malâekt synoptisch nebeneinanderstellt, vgl. auch den äthiopischen Text in Codex, Endangered Archives Programme 286/1/1/117, foll. 18v–22v (im Netz).

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bemerkenswerten Strukturparallelen zu Überlieferungen aus den QumranFunden durchaus altertümliche Züge aufzuweisen scheint – ein Eindruck, der indes täuschen kann, wie auch sonst bei äthiopischem Schrifttum.62 Wichtig ist im gegebenen Zusammenhang aber etwas anderes: Teezâza Sanbat hat etwas mit dem Dersâna Sanbat zu tun, der Mashafa Malâekt ebenfalls, und die Einleitungspassagen des Teezâza Sanbat wiederum haben etwas mit dem Mashafa Malâekt zu tun. Es ergibt sich eine Dreiecksbeziehung, die eher dafür als dagegen spricht, dass die Einleitungspassagen von Teezâza Sanbat ein genuiner Bestandteil dieses Werkes sind. Rechnen wir also – vorerst – damit, dass die Bernâêl-Erzählung mitsamt ihrem Kontext kein Fremdkörper in Teezâza Sanbat ist, sondern von dessen Verfasser vermutlich intendiert war. Damit ist noch nicht gesagt, dass in den Einleitungspassagen nicht spezifische Traditionshintergründe auszumachen sind, durch die sie sich von anderen Passagen in Teezâza Sanbat unterscheiden. Um die Traditionshintergründe des anthropogonischen Mythos den betreffenden Kapiteln und vor allem der Bernâêl-Erzählung soll es im folgenden Kapitel gehen.

5. Zu den Traditionshintergründen der anthropogonischen und satanologischen Erzählungen im Einleitungsteil von Teezâza Sanbat Es ist bereits jetzt Stand der Forschung und inzwischen geradezu Opinio communis, dass die Einleitungskapitel von Teezâza Sanbat andere als nur jüdische Traditionshintergründe haben. Der Folklorist Haim Schwarzbaum hat eine große Menge an arabisch-islamischen Parallelen zu unserer Geschichte beigebracht, unter denen er zwei Erzähltypen unterscheidet: Erzähltyp Nr. 1 identifiziert den Engel, der das Ausgangsmaterial für Adam gegen den Widerstand der Erde zu Gott bringt, mit dem Todesengel Azrael; dem Teufel, Iblis, kommt in diesem Erzähltyp die Rolle dessen zu, der die Erde zu ihrem Widerstand mit dem Argu62 In 4Q Vision Amrams sieht Amram, wie zwei wohl überirdische Gestalten, eine von ihnen ‫מלכי רשע‬ (Malkiræša‘), über ihn streiten, vgl. 4Q 543, Fragment 6 und 4Q 544, Fragment 1; 2 nach F. García Martínez & E.J.C. Tigchelaar (ed. and trans.), The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition, Volume Two: 4Q274–11Q31 (Leiden et al.: Brill, 1998), 1084–89. Das verlorene Ende der Assumptio Mosis muss eine vergleichbare Tradition enthalten haben, vgl. C. Clemen, Assumptio Mosis, 15–16; von dort stammt auch Judas 9 (siehe ibidem). Traditionsgeschichtlich mit Mashafa Malâekt verwandte Texte finden sich bei K. Berger, „Der Streit des guten und des bösen Engels um die Seele. Beobachtungen zu 4Q AMRb und Judas 9“, JSJ 4 (1973), 1–18 (zu Mashafa Malâekt vgl. dort S. 10–12). Vor allem die syrische Paulusapokalypse scheint Vergleichbares zu bieten, vgl. Berger 6–8, ebenso die Apocalypsis Mariae aethiopica (Titel nach M. Geerard, Clavis Apocry­phorum Novi ­Testamenti [Turnhout: Brepols, 1992], § 330 auf S. 212), vgl. Berger 8–9 und den Text bei M. Chaîne (Hg), Apocrypha de Beata Maria Virgine (CSCO 39; Scriptores Aethiopici 22; Leuven: Peeters, 1962), 54–61. Die letztgenannte Parallele ist wohl vor allem zu vergleichen.

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ment bewegt, dass der Mensch ein Sünder sein werde. Erzähltyp Nr. 2 identifiziert Iblis mit demjenigen, der das Material zu Gott gebracht hatte, und begründet damit den Einwand des Iblis gegen die von Gott befohlene Proskynese vor Adam, die im Koran der Grund für den Teufelsfall ist: Iblis weigert sich, vor jemandem niederzufallen, der aus Lehm erschaffen ist (vgl. Sure 17,63) – das weiß er, so dieser Erzähltyp, weil er für die Herbeischaffung des Rohstoffs verantwortlich gewesen war. 63 Eine eingehendere Analyse des Materials von Schwarzbaum muss hier unterbleiben, aber es kann als einigermaßen gesichert gelten, dass es im islamischen Traditionsbereich noch einen weiteren Erzähltypus gibt, der Nr. 1 ähnelt, aber einfacher gestaltet ist: Laut einer türkischen Legende sandte Allah Gabriel, Michael und Israfil zwecks Herbeischaffung des Rohstoffs aus, die alle mit leeren Händen zurückkamen, bis dann Azrael die Aufgabe erledigte und deshalb zum Todesengel eingesetzt wurde.64 Es ist wohl möglich, dass Falascha-Überlieferung arabisch-islamische Hintergründe hat, für die erstmalig von Faïtlovitch herausgegebene Schrift Mota Musê, eine Erzählung vom Tod des Mose, die von den Falascha beim Tazkar, dem Totengedenken, verlesen wird, hat schon Faïtlovitch arabische Parallelen aus islamischer Überlieferung beigebracht65, und jüngere Sekundärliteratur nimmt erst recht für Mota Musê islamische Traditions­hintergründe an.66 Aber es bleibt zu fragen, wie zwingend eine solche Annahme im gegebenen Falle ist, da unsere Erzählung einige Züge aufweist, die mit den oben aufgeführten Erzähltypen zu disharmonieren scheinen. So fehlt etwa in Erzähltyp 1 der für die Bernâêl-Geschichte typische Teufelsfall, und der Teufel ist dort nicht derjenige, der die Menschenschöpfung ermöglicht, sondern sie vielmehr stört. Erzähltyp 2 wiederum kennt den Kontrast zwischen den vorher entsandten Engeln und dem Überbringer des Materials für die Menschenschöpfung nicht. Die türkische Legende ermangelt des Teufels, kommt ansonsten 63 Zu Erzähltyp Nr 1 vgl. H. Schwarzbaum, Falasha Creation Myth, 18; zu Erzähltyp Nr. 2 vgl. ibidem, 19. Vgl. zu beiden die Anmerkungen weiter oben sowie H. Schwarzbaum, The Angel of Death in Jewish and Islamic Folklore/‫מלאך המות בפולקלור היהודי והמוסלימי‬, Proceedings of the World Congress of Jewish Studies IV/4 (1969), 29–33. Die anderen von Schwarzbaum angeführten Parallelen sind motivisch und historisch distanter (gelehrte Folkloristik vermutet Parallelität zwischen Traditionen wohl noch häufiger als die herkömmliche Traditionsgeschichte in der Exegese). 64 Vgl. P. N. Boratov, „Notes sur ‚Azrail‘ dans le folklore turc“, Oriens 4 (1961), 58–79: 71 nach M. Halit Bayrı: Istanbul folkloru (Istanbul 1947), 119. 65 Vgl. J. Faïtlovitch, Mota Musē (La Mort de Moïse). Texte éthiopien traduit en hébreu et en français, annoté et accompagné d’extraits arabes (Paris: P. Geuthner, 1906), 3 (Verwendung beim Bestattungsritual); 5–6 (Hinweis auf die arabisch-islamische Überlieferungen zum Tod des Mose, u. a. auf bereits publizierte); 29–39 (zwei damals noch unveröffentlichte Erzählungen vom Tod des Mose aus Paris, BNF, ar. 1363, fol. 105v und Paris, BNF, ar. 275, fol. 63r). Vgl. auch ibidem 23 (Anm. 2), wo Faïtlovitch ein mögliches Indiz für einen jüdischen Ursprüng von Mota Musê erörtert, ohne freilich zu einer Entscheidung zu kommen. 66 Vgl. W. Leslau, Falasha Anthology, 105–106 und E. Ullendorff, „The ‚Death of Moses‘ in the Literature of the Falashas“, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 24 (1961), 419–43: 437–43 (es geht eine Textausgabe voraus, die neben dem Faïtlovitch-Text eine Handschrift aus ­Addis Abeba berücksichtigt).

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aber der Grundstruktur unser Erzählung recht nahe, sofern man nur annimmt, dass im äthiopischen Bereich der Teufel an die Stelle des Todesengels getreten sei. Es gibt eine von Schwarzbaum nicht genannte Parallele, die unserer Erzählung zwar nicht gleicht, aber zu vielen ihrer Einzelheiten erstaunliche Übereinstimmungen aufweist, und diese ist christlicher Herkunft; zu prüfen wäre, inwieweit sie auch den muslimischen Erzählungen zugrundeliegen kann, denn sie dürfte wohl älter sein als diese. Es handelt sich um die Grunderzählung des Liber Institutionis Abbaton, des Buches von der Einsetzung des Todesengels Abbaton, der uns in einer sahidischen Handschrift aus dem dem Jahre 982 nach Christus überliefert ist.67 Der Liber Institutionis Abbaton ist eine von mehreren koptischen Engelmonographien. Wie der ihm nahestehende Liber Institutionis Michael, der auf Sahidisch, Fajjumisch, altnubisch und auszugsweise wohl auch äthiopisch überliefert ist68, und der wohl etwas weniger verbreitete Liber Institutionis Gabriel69 erzählt er von der urzeitlichen Einsetzung eines Engels in seine gegenwärtige Herrschaftsposition; alle drei Bücher haben gemeinsam, dass sie diesen Vorgang im Anschluss an Menschenschöpfung und Teufelsfall ansetzen. Beim Liber Institutionis Abbaton ist der betreffende Engel der Todesengel Abbaton; er darf seit dem Sündenfall sein Regiment ausüben, und er erhält genauso wie seine Kollegen Michael und Gabriel einen Festtag (am 30. Hathor), an dem die Menschen einander Gutes tun sollen – im Namen des Abbaton, der ihnen dafür ein gutes Todesschicksal ermöglicht.70 Es sieht so aus, als sei der Liber Institutionis Abba67 Zum Text des Liber Institutionis Abbaton vgl. E.A. Wallis Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms etc. in the Dialect of Upper Egypt, Edited, with English Translation (London: British Museum, 1914), 225–49 (Text); 474–96 (Übersetzung); plate XXVII. Die betreffende Handschrift ist London, British Museum = British Library, or. 7025 und enthält ausschließlich das Abbatonbuch. Ein Kolophon datiert sie in das Jahr 698 der Heiligen Märtyrer = 982 n. Chr., vgl. E.W. Budge (wie oben), 248. 68 Zum sahidischen und fajjumischen Text vgl. C.D. G. Müller, Die Bücher der Einsetzung der Erzengel Michael und Gabriel (CSCO 225; Scriptores Coptici 31; Louvain: Peeters, 1962) (Text), 1–61; idem, Die Bücher der Einsetzung der Erzengel Michael und Gabriel (CSCO 226; Scriptores Coptici 32; Louvain: Peeters, 1962) (Übersetzung), 1–73; zum altnubischen Text vgl. G.M. Browne, „Ad Librum Institutionis Michaelis Archangeli“, Orientalia 65 (1996), 131–33; idem, „A Revision of the Old Nubian Version of the Institutio Michaelis“, Beiträge zur Sudanforschung 3 (1988), 17–24; idem, Literary Texts in Old Nubian (Beiträge zur Sudanforschung; Beiheft 5; Wien: Universität Wien, 1989), 60–61. Zur Orientierung vgl. A. Takos, „The Liber Institutionis Michaelis in Medieval Nubia“, Dotawo 1 (2014), 51–62. Ein äthiopischer Text findet sich A. Suciu zufolge in der Handschrift EMML 4633, vgl. www.academia.edu/8605848/the_place_of_the_apocryphon_berolinense_argentoratense_in_coptic_literature, dort S. 93. Sie enthält laut den im Netz einsehbaren Katalognotizen zur Handschrift auf den Seiten 247b–254b einen Traktat des Evangelisten Johannes über den Erzengel Michael und den Teufelsfall, der in anderen Dersâna Michael-Textzeugen nicht vorkommt. Ich habe den Text noch nicht gesehen; er kann auf einem Exzerpt aus dem Liber Institutionis Michael beruhen, wird aber kaum das ganze Buch bieten. 69 Zum sahidischen Text vgl. C.D.G. Müller, CSCO 225, 61–82; idem, CSCO 226, 74–100 (Übersetzung). Zu einer weiteren sahidischen und einer arabischen Handschrift vgl. Suciu, 94. 70 Vgl. Codex London, British Library, or. 7025, fol. 24a–b; E.W. Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 243; 490–91.

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ton mit seiner Grundkonstruktion von anderen Engelmonographien, vielleicht den genannten, abhängig, denn an einer Stelle lässt er erkennen, dass der Erzengel Michael und Gabriel bereits gedacht werde.71 Vermutlich hat das Buch liturgisch nicht den gleichen Erfolg gehabt wie die beiden anderen; ein Festtag des Todesengels Abbaton hat sich jedenfalls in der koptischen Kirche nicht gehalten. Gleichwohl können wir annehmen, dass seine Erzählungen Anklang gefunden haben, da der koptische Bischof und Theologe Sawîrus ibn al-Muqaffa sich im neunten Kapitel seines bis heute populären Kitâb al-Id.âh. eigens der Mühe unterzieht, den Liber Institutionis Abbaton zu widerlegen (hauptsächlich in der Absicht, den Todesengel als einen Feind Christi darzustellen, der mit dem Teufel identisch ist). Das Werk ist im 10. Jahrhundert anzusetzen, ist also mit dem bisher einzig bekannten sahidischen Textzeugen des Liber Institutionis Abbaton in etwa kontemporär.72 Schauen wir uns an, was der Liber Institutionis Abbaton nun über seinen Hauptakteur erzählt: Der Todesengel Abbaton hieß einstmals Muriel (ⲘⲞⲨⲢⲒⲎⲖ). Er war derjenige, der Gott den Lehmkloß für die Erschaffung Adams brachte, nachdem andere Engel Gottes Auftrag, ihn herbeizuschaffen, nicht ausgeführt hatten – aus Furcht vor dem Gottesnamen, mit dem die Erde sich vor ihnen schützte; die Erde tat es, weil sie um die vielen Sünden und das traurige Geschick des ihr entnommenen Kloßes wusste (fol. 9b–11b). Gott nimmt den Kloß von Muriel entgegen und lässt ihn erst einmal 40 Tage und Nächte liegen, bevor er aufgrund einer Bürgschaft Christi für das zu erschaffende Geschöpf schließlich Adam bildet (foll. 11b–12a). Vor ihm als Gottes Ebenbild sollen die Engel niederfallen. Der Teufel weigert sich mit dem Argument, dass er der ältere sei. Er wird von einem Cheruben gepackt und auf die Erde geworfen (foll. 13a–14b). Nach dem Sündenfall, der vielfach ähnlich wie in der – frühjüdischen – Vita Adae et Evae erzählt wird (foll. 15b–18b)73, welcher auch die Teufelsfallsgeschichte entstammt74, überträgt Gott Muriel die Herrschafts­gewalt, als Todesengel zu wirken; er wird von den Menschen Abbaton genannt (foll. 21b–22a). Die Begründung für die Einsetzung Abbatons wird explizit gemacht. Er war es, welcher der Erde den Lehmkloß entnommen hat, so soll er eben auch für dessen Rückkehr sorgen (fol. 21b). 71 Vgl. Codex London, British Library, or. 7025, fol. 8a; E.W. Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 231; 480. 72 Vgl. M.N. Swanson, „The Specifically Egyptian Context of A Coptic Arabic Text: Chapter Nine of the Kitâb al-Id.âh. of Sawîrus Ibn al-Muqaffa“, Medieval Encounters 2 (1996), 214–27. 73 Zu den Anklängen der Sündenfallgeschichte des Liber Institutionis Abbaton an diejenige der Vita Adae et Evae (die von der Apokalypse des Mose abhängt) vgl. J. Dochhorn, Die Apokalypse des Mose. Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar (TSAJ 106; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 287–88; 308–309; 311–12 (jeweils Anmerkungen). 74 Zur Teufelsfallsgeschichte der Vita Adae et Evae (Vit Ad 11–17) vgl. J. Dochhorn, Apokalypse des Mose, 51–53 (Anm. 39: Dokumentation der Überlieferung außerhalb der Vit Ad, u. a. im Abbatonbuch); 143–144 (Nachweis einer originären Zugehörigkeit der Teufelsfallsgeschichte zur Vit Ad); vgl. ferner idem: „Die Christologie in Hebr 1,1–2,9 und die Weltherrschaft Adams in Vit Ad 11–17“, in Biblical Figures in Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature, ed. H. Lichtenberger & U. MittmannRichert (DCLY 2008; Berlin et al.: De Gruyter, 2008), 281–302.

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Es kann hier nur wenig zu Alter und Provenienz dieser faszinierenden Geschichte mitgeteilt werden; festzuhalten bleibt lediglich, dass kaum etwas auf Abhängigkeit von islamischen Quellen deutet. Die Teufelsfallsgeschichte entstammt nicht dem Koran, sondern der indirekten Vorlage des Koran, der Vita Adae et Evae (s. o.), mit der sie die Begründung des Teufels für seine Proskyneseverweigerung gemeinsam hat: Der Teufel rekurriert in beiden Erzählungen nicht wie im Koran auf die stoffliche Beschaffenheit Adams (vgl. Sure 17,63), sondern darauf, dass Adam jünger sei als er. Auch sonst steht die Vita Adae et Evae ja beim Liber Institutionis Abbaton im Hintergrund (s. o.); dieses Werk weist altertümliche Züge auf. Wichtig ist hier aber vor allem, dass nicht gerade wenige Züge in unserer Bernâêl-Erzählung, auch solche, die in ihr nur noch undeutlich zu identifizieren sind oder sich zum Makrokontext spannungsvoll verhalten, im Liber Institutionis Abbaton eine Parallele finden, so dass dieser – wohl sicher mehr indirekt denn direkt – als Traditionshintergrund der Bernâêl-Erzählung zumindest in Frage kommt. Beide Geschichten handeln in der Hauptsache von der Herbeischaffung des Ausgangsmaterials für die Erschaffung Adams. In beiden bewältigt diese Aufgabe erst ein am Ende ausgesandter Engel, dem nachher eine Rolle zukommt, die beim Teufel wohl eindeutig negativ ist und beim Todesengel zumindest für ambivalent gehalten werden kann; mag er auch im Abbatonbuch eher gut wegkommen, so können doch seine Leser auch andere Gefühle beschlichen haben. Anders als im Liber Institutionis Abbaton wird in unser Geschichte freilich überhaupt nicht klar, warum die Erde die Herausgabe des Materials verweigert; hier könnten Konturen, die einmal schärfer gewesen sind, im Verlaufe des Überlieferungs­prozesses zwischen dem Liber Institutionis Abbaton und der Bernâêl-Erzählung verwischt worden sein. Ein gemeinsamer Zug liegt auch in Gottes Zögern bei der Erschaffung Adams vor: Im Liber Institutionis Abbaton wartet er 40 Tage, in Teezâza Sanbat 7. Bei diesem Motiv lässt die Bernâêl-Erzählung eine deutliche Spannung zum Kontext erkennen, denn dieser datiert die Erschaffung Adams in Übereinstimmung mit der Bibel auf den sechsten Tag. Dies geschieht vor Sequenz 1, also innerhalb des Einleitungsteils, der in einem Teil der Handschriften von Teezâza Sanbat fehlt, so dass die Spannung also nicht als Indiz für einen sekundären Charakter der Einleitung gelten kann, eher dafür, dass diese älteres Traditionsmaterial verarbeitet. Die Datierung der Menschenschöpfung auf den sechsten Tag entspricht der Sabbatfokussierung von Teezâza Sanbat besser als das Zögern Gottes bei der Menschenschöpfung. Eine klare Differenz zwischen der Bernâêl-Erzählung und derjenigen des Liber Institutionis Abbaton besteht darin, dass für den Todesengel des Abbatonbuchs in Teezâza Sanbat die Teufels­gestalt Bernâêl steht. Todesengel und Teufel dürften im Traditions­prozess konfundiert worden sein; ein vergleichbarer Vorgang liegt vielleicht auch dem oben angeführten arabisch-islamischen Erzähltyp 2 zugrunde. Unzweifelhaft wird der Todesengel der ursprüngliche Inhaber dieser Rolle gewesen sein, da diese mit dem Rückkehrmotiv gut begründet scheint (er ist es, der für die Rückkehr des Staubes bzw. des Lehmkloßes zur Erde sorgt). Gemeinsam ist beiden Geschichten wiederum das Motiv des Teufelsfalles; sogar

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das Kampfmotiv haben sie gemeinsam (ein Cherub bzw. Michael wirft den Teufel auf die Erde). In der Bernâêl-Geschichte ist der Teufelsfall allerdings anders datiert, nämlich vor der Menschenschöpfung; auch die Ursache für den Fall ist erkennbar eine andere. Traditionsgeschichtliche Ursache für diese Differenz dürfte die Verdrängung der Teufelsfalls­geschichte aus Vit Ad 11–17 durch andere Erzähltypen in der kirchlichen Tradition sein, die auf eine vor die Erschaffung des Menschen datierte Hochmuts­äußerung des Teufels abheben, ein Vorgang, der auch die koptische Kirche betroffen hat.75 Doch bleibt zu vermerken, dass gerade das Teufelsfallsmotiv in der Bernâêl-Geschichte verundeutlicht erscheint: Es wird im Grunde kaum explizit erzählt, was Bernâêl falsch gemacht hat. Dem Kontext des Motivs ist freilich zu entnehmen, dass sein Fehler gerade in dem bestand, was ihn zur erfolgreichen Ausführung von Gottes Auftrag befähigte, nämlich seine Furchtlosigkeit angesichts des Gottesnamens. Mit diesem Gottesnamensmotiv liegt uns eine weitere Übereinstimmung zwischen der Bernâêl-Geschichte und dem Liber Institutionis Abbaton vor: Auch dort verteidigt sich die Erde mit dem Gottesnamen, und die von Gott zunächst entsandten Engel fürchten sich, während schließlich der spätere Todesengel Abbaton sich nicht fürchtet. Doch im Liber Institutionis Abbaton wird ihm daraus weder implizit noch explizit ein Vorwurf gemacht; im Gegenteil, er wird ja mit der Einsetzung in das Amt des Todesengels belohnt. Anscheinend beruht die Namenstheologie in der Bernâêl-Geschichte auf ererbter Überlieferung, ist dann aber in spezifischer Weise theologisch ausgebaut worden. Dies zeigt sich nicht zuletzt daran, dass um ihrer willen ein Wortspiel mit dem Namen des Engels Germâêl vorgenommen wird, welches nur auf äthiopisch, jedenfalls nicht auf arabisch oder gar koptisch möglich ist (vgl. Sequenz 1). Andere Motive in der Bernâêl-Erzählung dürften ihren Hintergrund anderswo haben als in dem Buch von der Einsetzung des Todesengels Abbaton. So mag eine Reminiszenz an das in der äthiopischen Kirche prominente Jubiläenbuch vorliegen, wenn Bernâêl nach seinem Sturz mit Gott verhandelt und schließ75 Vgl. J. Dochhorn, „Der Sturz des Teufels in der Urzeit. Eine traditionsgeschichtliche Skizze zu einem Motiv frühjüdischer und frühchristlicher Theologie mit besonderer Berücksichtigung des Luzifermy­ thos“, ZThK 109 (2012), 3–47. In der koptischen Literatur spiegelt sich die Verdrängung des älteren Teufelsfallstyps aus der Vita Adae et Evae (der Teufel verweigert die Verehrung Adams) durch Hochmutsmotivik und eine frühere Datierung des Teufelsfalls in Polemiken gegen Traditionen von der Einsetzung Michaels, da die Einsetzung Michaels meistens auf den Teufelsfall nach dem älteren Erzähltyp folgte, vgl. hierzu J. Dochhorn, „Mythen von der Einsetzung Michaels in der koptischen Literatur“, in Christliches Ägypten in der spätantiken Zeit. Akten der 2. Tübinger Tagung zum Christlichen Orient (7.–8. Dezember 2007), ed. D. Bumazhnov (Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 23–42. Hochmutsmotivik ist auch in Teufelsfallsüberlieferungen der äthiopischen Kirche aktiv, zu einer für die äthiopische Kirche typische Traditionsentwicklung vgl. J. Dochhorn, „Eine Textausgabe des And mta-Kommentars zum Buch Genesis und ein amharischer Mythos über den urzeitlichen Teufelsfall. Besprechung von: ‚Mersha Alehegne: The Ethiopian Commentary on the Book of Genesis. Critical Edition and Translation (Aethiopistische Forschungen 73), Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz 2011‘“, Ostkirchliche Studien 63 (2014), 352–71: 362–71.

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lich die Zuständigkeit für die Sünder erlangt (vgl. Lib Jub 10,8–9). Die Reminiszenz ist freilich undeutlich, denn im Jubiläenbuch erhält der „Fürst von Mastêmâ“ (makuannena mastêmâ = መኰንነ ፡ መስቴማ), der Teufel im Jubiläenbuch, eine dementsprechende Zuständigkeit zur Zeit Noahs nach der Sintflut. Eine genauso flüchtige Erinnerung an das Jubiläenbuch wird in dem Namen für das Paradies zu identifizieren sein: Es heißt in unserer Geschichte zuerst Êlšâ und dann Êldâ; der letztgenannte Name bezeichnet in Lib Jub 3,32 den Ort der Erschaffung Adams, einen Ort in der Nähe des Paradieses, aber nicht das Paradies selbst (s. Anm. 54). In anderen Passagen von Teezâza Sanbat sind die Anklänge an das Jubiläenbuch etwas deutlicher und dichter gesät (s. Anm. 49). Zwischen der Bernâêl-Erzählung und ihrem Kontext in Teezâza Sanbat besteht in diesem Falle Übereinstimmung (Kenntnis des Jubiläenbuches) bei gleichzeitiger Nicht-Übereinstimmung (Unterschiede in der Kenntnisdichte). Dies deutet auf eigenständige Traditionshintergründe der Bernâêl-Erzählung (die zu erhellen ich mich ja hier bemühe) und lässt zugleich vermuten, dass sie eine Zeitlang, vor Abfassung des Teezâza Sanbat, in dem Milieu umherlief, von dem der Autor des Teezâza Sanbat geistig abhängt. Nicht vom Jubliläenbuch, sondern vom Henoch-Pentateuch her dürfte der Name zu erklären sein, der in der Bernâêl-Erzählung dem Orte zukommt, von dem der Staub Adams stammt. Er heißt Dudâlêm, und das dürfte dem Dudâêl in 1. Hen 10,4 entsprechen, wohin der frevlerische Wächterengel Azâzêl verbracht wird. Dass tatsächlich an diesen Ort gedacht ist, zeigt auch ein ansonsten schwer erklärbares Detail der Bernâêl-Erzählung: Sie hebt hervor, dass die Erde mit der Entnahme des Staubes eine große Schlucht wurde (vgl. Sequenz 1), und von Ähnlichem ist auch bei der Erwähnung von Dudâêl im Henochbuch die Rede: Rafael setzt Azâzêl dort gefangen, in Finsternis, bedeckt mit Steinen, und bevor er Azâzêl derart festsetzt, spaltet er dort die Erde. Azâzêl ist eine Gestalt, die zumindest an den Teufel gemahnt; beide miteinander zu assoziieren, erscheint denkbar.76 Die Pointe könnte in einer Verbindung der satanischen Katastrophe in der Urzeit mit der ebenfalls urzeitlichen (wenn auch etwas später datierenden) Wächterengelkatastrophe bestehen; zwei böse Urzeitgeschichten, die tendentiell miteinander konkurrieren, erscheinen so miteinander verlinkt: Die Satansgestalt Bernâêl und der Wächterengelfürst Azâzêl haben auf diese Weise etwas miteinander zu tun – von den Anfängen der Menschheit an. Eine andersartige Verlinkung des satanologischen Traditions­feldes mit 76 Identifiziert erscheint Azâzêl mit dem Teufel in der Apokalypse Abrahams, vgl. Apc Abr 14 (Azâzêl als der Verursacher der Wächterengel­katastrophe); 20 (Azâzêl als Engel der Völker?); 23 (Azâzêl in Drachengestalt als Verführer Adams und Evas); 29,6 (Azâzêl mit Judas identifiziert, vgl. Joh 6,70; 13,2); 31,5 (Azâzêl als Höllenwurm). Die Apokalypse Abrahams gehört aber nicht zum äthiopischen Schrifttum, sondern ist slavisch überliefert. Eine Identifikation Azâzêls mit dem Teufel konnte ich in der äthiopischen Literatur nicht finden; die mir zugänglichen And mta-Passagen über die Wächterengel im 1 Henoch verstehen diese nicht satanologisch, vgl. R. Lee, „The Ethiopic ‚Andemta‘ Commentary on Ethiopic Enoch 2 (1 Enoch 6–9)“, Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 23 (2014), 179–200.

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dem Wächterengelmythos findet im Jubiläen­buch statt, wenn dort der Fürst von Mastêmâ der Anführer der Dämonen ist, die zugleich Abkömmlinge der Wächterengelehen sind (vgl. Lib Jub 10, speziell Lib Jub 10,5). Vermutlich legt es unsere Erzählung also darauf an, den Ursprungsort des Menschen und den Strafort des Azâzêl miteinander zu korrelieren. Gleich zweimal hat so der Ursprung des Menschen etwas mit der Bestrafung satanischer Mächte zu tun: Der Mensch ist, was er materiell ist, indem der Teufel genau dadurch, dass er sein Ausgangsmaterial beschafft hat, zum Teufel wurde, und dieses Ausgangsmaterial wiederum kam von dem Gefängnis des mit dem Teufel assoziierten Azâzêl. Dem Schöpfungsvorgang eignet eine satanologische Pointe; es ist möglich, dass dies tatsächlich so zu denken ist, denn die Grundbosheit des Menschen wird bei der Einsetzung des Gottesgerichts vor seiner Behauchung explizit hervorgehoben (vgl. Sequenz 5). Eine ähnlich tiefsinnige Idee mag auch dem merkwürdigen Motiv vom Zittern der Erde zugrundeliegen: Nach der Entnahme des Staubes zittert die Erde mehrere Jahre lang, und Gott ordnet an, dass sie in diesem Zustand bis zum Ende der Zeiten verbleiben solle (vgl. Sequenz 2). Dieser Gedanke könnte Röm 8,20–22 entnommen sein, wo Paulus schreibt, dass die Schöpfung gegen ihren Willen der Nichtigkeit untergeordnet worden sei und zusammen mit den Christen seufze und in Wehen liege – in Hoffnung auf die kommende Verherrlichung der Christen. Paulus deutet dort eine urzeitliche Gottes­verfügung an, derzufolge die Welt aktuell in schmerzhaften Wehen liegt. In unserer Geschichte wird eine solche Gottesverfügung erzählt; sie fand statt, als der Erde der Staub zur Erschaffung des Menschen entnommen wurde, ein Vorgang, der wohl als geburtsaffin angesehen wurde, wenn denn die Paulusstelle im Hintergrund steht. Der Erde geht es also schlecht, weil sie den Menschen hervorgebracht hat. Ein Bezug zu einem Paulustext funktioniert freilich nur in einem christlichen Kontext, dürfte also eher in der christlichen Vorgeschichte unseres Textes bestanden haben als in dem Stadium, das wir nun vor Augen haben. Ein abschließende Erörterung mag nun dem Namen des Teufels in unser Erzählung gelten: Der Teufelsname Bernâêl scheint ein Spezifikum zu sein; er ist ansonsten nur noch einmal in Teezâza Sanbat und dazu im Mashafa Malâekt nach dem Text von Halévy bezeugt. Ich habe im Britischen Museum eine äthiopische Liste von Teufelsnamen eingesehen; es kommen dort viele vor, unter anderem Bêl or aus dem Jubiläenbuch (vgl. Lib Jub [aeth] 1,20) oder Mamt.an’akos (wohl aus Ascensio Isaiae 2,4; 5,3), aber Bernâêl steht dort nicht.77 Die von mir eingesehenen Parallelen zum Mashafa Malâekt im Dersâna Sanbat lesen anstelle von Bernâêl Belejâr (s. Anm. 61); das ist ein aus der Ascensio Isaiae und von Paulus her bekannter Teufelsname, der auch in der Teufelsnamensliste auftaucht. Belejâr begegnet auch einmal im Text des Mashafa Malâekt von Halévy (fol. 64r // S. 52) und es ist durch77 Vgl. British Library, Ms. add. 16211, fol. 55. Der Text ist der folgende: አስማተ ፡ ሰይጣን ፡ ሬፋን ፡ ቤልኆር ፡ ዲያብሎስ ፡ ስብሎንዮስ ፡ አብዶን ፡ አጳይዶን ፡ ብርያል ፡ ሰጣናኤል ፡ ቴጣሪ ፡ ልባ ፡ መማዲስ ፡ መምጠንአኮስ („Namen des Satans: Rêfân, Bêlh ․or, Dijâbelos, Sebelonjos, Abdon, Apâje­ don, Berejâl, Sat․ānāêl, Têt․āri, Lebâ, Mamâdis, Mamt․an’akos“).

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gehend der Name des Teufels in der von Ethio-SPaRe, SDM-021 gebotenen Version. Vermutlich hat der Name Bernâêl also im Mashafa Malâekt ursprünglich nicht gestanden; der Text von Halévy dürfte in dieser Sache von den Einleitungskapiteln des Teezâza Sanbat beeinflusst worden sein, mit denen Mashafa Malâekt im Kodex von Halévy ja zusammensteht (anders als in Ethio-SPaRe, SDM-021). Erneut weist die Bernâêl-Erzählung im Vergleich zu ihrem Falascha-Kontext Eigenprofil auf. Indes ist damit der Teufelsname noch nicht erklärt. Halévy möchte ihn aus Berhânaêl ableiten und als Korrelat zum lateinischen Lucifer sehen (berhân bedeutet „Licht“).78 Wie prominent die Luziferüberlieferung (mit ihrem Leittext Jes 14,12–15) in Äthiopien gewesen ist, kann hier nicht ergründet werden. Möglicherweise ist der Name Bernâêl aber doch einfach nur eine Fortentwicklung von Belejâr. Die soeben erwähnte Teufelsnamensliste hilft auch in einer anderen Hinsicht weiter: Einer der dort aufgelisteten Teufelsnamen ist Abdon, wohl der bereits erwähnte Abbaton. Damit zeigt sich hier eine Konfusion von Todesengel und Teufel, die auch in der Vorgeschichte der Bernâêl-Erzählung stattgefunden haben dürfte. Vielleicht können wir hier eine Rezeptionsspur des Liber Institutionis Abbaton ausmachen. Eine solche mag auch vorliegen, wenn in dem bereits erwähnten Buch Mota Musê der Todesengel Surejâl heißt.79 Ein Engel dieses Namens ist in der äthiopischen Tradition bekannt, aber nicht als Todesengel (vgl. 1. Hen [aeth] 9,1). Der Todesengel könnte im Buch Mota Musê Surejâl genannt sein, weil die Überlieferung aus dem Liber Institutionis Abbaton umherlief, in dem der Todesengel ursprünglich ⲘⲞⲨⲢⲒⲎⲖ hieß; Sawîrus ibn al-Muqaffa kennt ihn unter dem Namen Mûrijâl.80 Möglicherweise hat eine dem Mosebuch zugrundeliegende arabische Tradition (zu dieser s. o.) den Namen Mûrijâl aus der Abbaton-Überlieferung übernommen, der dann bei der Transformation ins Äthiopische nach dem dort bekannteren Engelnamen Surejâl umgestaltet wurde. Es verdichten sich mehr und mehr die Hinweise, die es uns erlauben, das Abbatonbuch im Hintergrund unser Bernâêl-Geschichte zu sehen, undeutlich zwar, aber doch in Konturen wahrnehmbar. Auf entsprechende Handschriftenfunde im christlich-arabischen oder gar äthiopischen Bereich bleibt zu hoffen; es ist ja noch lange nicht alles bekannt.

6. Schlussbemerkungen Es war eingangs von Enttäuschungen die Rede, speziell im Hinblick auf die Falascha-Literatur und ebenso Teezâza Sanbat, die wohl doch nicht so alt und originär sind wie man es vielleicht wünschen mag. Doch meine Untersuchungen zur Bernâêl-Geschichte zeigen hoffentlich, dass die Übernahme von Traditions78 Vgl. J. Halévy, Tĕ’ĕzâza Sanbat, 4 (Anm. 1). 79 Vgl. J. Faïtlovitch, Mota Musē, 13. 80 Vgl. H.N. Swanson, Sawīrus ibn al-Muqaffa, 218.

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material durch die Falascha zumindest im Fall von Teezâza Sanbat auch ein kreativer Akt gewesen sein konnte. Aufgrund von christlichen Überlieferungen ist ein jüdischer Text entstanden, der eigene Akzente setzt, von denen freilich nicht alle erst im jüdischen Kontext hinzugekommen sein werden – wie etwa das Motiv vom Zittern der Erde. Gleichwohl: Es liegt ein Prozess kreativer jüdischer Identitätsfindung vor, dessen Ausgangsmaterialien dem Kontext der Falascha entstammen, also der christlich-äthiopischen Literatur, die auf einem ursprünglich griechischsprachigen Kernbestand aufruht, sich dann aber im Mittelalter vor allem aus christlich-arabischen Überlieferungen speiste; gelegentlich mögen bei den Falascha auch islamisch-arabische Überlieferungen vorausliegen. Das ist es, was man zur Verfügung hatte. Und genau mit diesem übernommenen Material hat man – Opposition gemacht. Kehren wir noch einmal zu Abbâ Sâbrâ zurück, der vielleicht der Verfasser von Teezâza Sanbat war (laut eher unsicherer mündlicher Überlieferung, vgl. § 2.4): Ein Christ wird Jude und setzt seinem neuen Kontext den Stempel seiner Persönlichkeit auf. Er geht eigene Wege, führt andere auf neue Wege – aber das mit Hilfe von christlich geprägtem Kontextwissen, das er sich kreativ aneignet. Sei nun Teezâza Sanbat sein Werk oder nicht, bei ihm wie bei Teezâza Sanbat haben wir es mit einem faszinierenden Emanzipationsprozess im Kontext von Tradition zu tun. Ein solcher Emanzipationsprozess ist nicht untypisch für die äthiopische Kultur zur Zeit der salomonischen Dynastie; wir hatten schon den Mönch ­Qozmos erwähnt, der sich zum Führer von Juden aufwarf, dazu monastische Oppositionsbewegungen, die den Juden hier und da nahestanden. Konversion und Emanzipation scheinen miteinander verwandt zu sein, und beides geschieht im Kontext von Tradition. Ein Vorgang, der dazu passt, hat sich vielleicht auch einige Jahrhunderte später ereignet: Ein Mann, der sich Zar’a Jâeqob nennt, fällt angesichts der theologischen Streitigkeiten zwischen Franken (= Portugiesen, Katholiken) und Äthiopisch-Orthodoxen vom christlichen Glauben ab, lehnt jeglichen Offenbarungs­anspruch ab und beruft sich auf einen vernunftmäßigen Schöpfungs­glauben. Gleichwohl belegt er fast alles, was er denkt, mit Psalmenzitaten, und dies nicht ohne ein Wissen darum, dass auch David irren kann. Enno Littmann hat diese Geschichte und die im Ich-Bericht gehaltenen Gedanken des Zar’a Jâeqob ähnlich bewegend gefunden wie ich, aber Carlo Conti Rossini hat sie für eine Fälschung des Giusto da Urbino gehalten, eines Äthiopisten und Priesters, der mit d’Abbadie zusammenarbeitete, in dessen Sammlung die zwei Textzeugen der Vita des Zar’a Jâeqob überliefert sind. Ich kann mir inzwischen vorstellen, dass Zar’a Jâeqob doch echt ist.81 Offenbar war es in Äthiopien nicht ganz unüblich, einen eigenen Kopf zu besitzen. 81 Eine Edition und Übersetzung der Schriften Zar’a Jâeqobs und seines Schülers Walda H ․ ajwat bietet E. Littmann (ed. und trans.), Philosophi Abessini (CSCO 18–19; Scriptores Aethiopici 1–2; Paris 1904) (2 Bände; Nachdruck: Louvain: Peeters, 1961–1962). Vgl. die Kurzdarstellung bei J. Dochhorn, Amharischer Mythos, 364–66 (Anm. 20). Im Übrigen würde ich, wenn ich es darauf anlegte, einen äthiopischen Ketzer zu fälschen, diesen nicht gerade Zar’a Jâeqob nennen.

Basil Lourié (St. Petersburg)

Slavonic Pseudepigrapha, Nubia, and the Syrians

1. Introduction The following study is a response to the unique event: the identification of the so-called “Slavonic” 2 Enoch in a Coptic manuscript found in Nubia.1 This discovery of Joost Hagen demonstrated in 2009 that there existed a network of ecclesiastical movements connecting, at its extremities, Nubia and the Slavs, but apparently skipping Byzantium. We will try to sketch an outline of the relevant connections. Some Slavonic pseudepigrapha have left no trace in Byzantium; the most famous among them are 2 Enoch,2 the Apocalypse of Abraham, and the Ladder of Jacob, but the full list could reach a dozen (if not dozens).3 Nevertheless, some of these works were considered as highly authoritative in early Slavonic writings, judging from such evidence as the number of manuscript copies, the amalgamation into the Slavonic version of the Byzantine Old Testament midrash-like commentary Palaea Interpretata, and a long quotation (of 2 Enoch) in the important Russian legislative document The Just Balance (Mĕrilo pravednoje, 2nd half of the 13th cent.). 1 J.L. Hagen, “No Longer ‘Slavonic’ Only: 2 Enoch Attested in Coptic from Nubia”, in New Perspectives on 2 Enoch: No Longer Slavonic Only, ed. A.A. Orlov & G. Boccaccini (Studia Judaeoslavica, 4; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 7–34. I am very grateful to Joost Hagen for sharing with me his still unpublished materials. 2 The overlaps between 2 Enoch (longer recension only) and the 13th-cent. Byzantine Disputation between Panagiotes and Azymites go back to an unknown Byzantine source with a completely different calendar (the 28-year cycle of the sun’s movement mentioned in 15:4 is a feature proper to the Canopic and the Julian calendars, whereas 2 Enoch elsewhere follows the 364-day calendar(s)). This source ultimately has a Jewish background (and contains important overlaps with 3 Baruch), but it is already Christianised in 2 Enoch and even more Christianised in the Disputation. For more details (including the implausibility of Vaillant’s idea that the longer recension of 2 Enoch borrowed from the Disputation, without, however, necessarily returning to the earlier idea of Sokolov, arguing for borrowing the other way), see F.I. Andersen, “The Sun in 2 Enoch, Book of the Secrets of Enoch”, Христианский восток [Khristianskij Vostok “Christian Orient”] 4/10 (2002) [published in 2006]: 380–412, reprinted in L’Église des deux Alliances. Mémorial Annie Jaubert (1912–1980), ed. M. Petit, B. Lourié & A. Orlov (Orientalia Judaica Christiana 1; Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2012), 1–38. 3 Cf. an evaluation in B. Lourié, “Direct Translations into Slavonic from Syriac: a Preliminary List”, in ΠΟΛΥΙΣΤΩΡ. Scripta slavica Mario Capaldo dicata, ed. C. Diddi (Moscow–Rome: Indrik, 2015), 161–168.

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Apparently, to gain such a success in the Slavia Orthodoxa, these Slavonic translations would have originated in the principal Slavic translation schools, such as the circle of Constantine – Cyril and Methodius with their direct disciples or the Preslav and Ochrid literary schools. But this is hardly the case. All these translation schools were oriented to literature widespread in the contemporary Byzantium.4 We can suppose, for the sake of the argument, that the Greek originals of our group of Slavonic pseudepigrapha were still available in the ninth- or tenth-century Byzantium.5 However, even this supposition is of little help when we try to explain why such works were chosen for translation, and especially why the resulting translations (at least, some of them) became so highly esteemed. Our present knowledge of the availability of pseudepigrapha in Byzantium from the ninth to the twelfth century is certainly incomplete,6 but our current knowledge of the standard repertories of the Church literature, which were relevant in Byzantium for different audiences, is normally taken to be representative enough. Therefore, either our knowledge of middle Byzantine culture has a blatant blind spot and needs to be radically reconsidered in the light of these allegedly relevant Slavonic sources or – what seems a priori to be much more realistic – it is our knowledge of the early history of Slavonic writing that has blind spots of a similar scale. Some source(s) of a non-Byzantine and non-Western influence on the earliest Slavic Christian culture is (are) to be detected. A number of Slavists in the first half of the twentieth century have recognised this problem, at least in part. The problem becomes all the more acute the more our knowledge of Middle Byzantine literature and culture in general increases, because our feeling of a gap between early Slavic Christianity and its Byzantine counterpart strengthens.

4 The contents of the corpus of translations made in Bulgaria in the “Golden Age” of Slavic literature (especially in the 10th century) and available to Russian learned men in the 10th to 13th cent. is similar to that of the library of a contemporary important Byzantine monastery; cf. F.J. Thomson, “The Nature of the Reception of Christian Byzantine Culture in Russia in the 10th to 13th Centuries and Its Implications for the Russian Culture”, Slavica Gandensia 5 (1978), 107– 139; repr. in idem, The Reception of Byzantine Culture in Mediaeval Russia (Variorum Collected Studies Series, CS 590; Aldershot: Ashgate & Variorum, 1999), ch. I, with Addenda, p. 1–4; cf. also other papers of this volume. For a discussion and further bibliography, see, first of all, the Russian translation of G. Podskalsky, Christentum und Theologische Literatur in der Kiever Rus’ (988–1237) (Munich: Beck, 1982): Герхард Подскальски, Христианство и богословская литература в Киевской Руси (988–1237 гг.). Издание второе, исправленное и дополненное для русского перевода. Пер. А. В. Назаренко под ред. К. К. Акентьева (Subsidia Byzantinorossica 1; St. Petersburg: Byzantinorossica, 1997), 110–127, where the text of Podskalsky is expanded in many respects by A.V. Nazarenko and C.K. Akentiev. Cf. also G. Podskalsky, Theologische Literatur des Mittelalters in Bulgarien und Serbien, 865–1459 (Munich: Beck, 2000). 5 Cf. S. Gero, “Jannes and Jambres in the Vita Stephani iunioris (BHG 1666)”, Analecta Bollandiana 113 (1995), 281–92. 6 Cf. B. Lourié, “Le second iconoclasme en recherche de la vraie doctrine”, Studia Patristica 34 (2001), 145–69: 168–69 (Annexe II: Qu’est-ce que l’Hylilas?).

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The same feeling is also reinforced with studies in other fields, especially in the Syrian and Armenian roots of the earliest Bulgarian architecture etc.7 So far, the hypotheses proposed by Slavists about the non-Byzantine and non-Western influences on early Slavic Christianity involve two approaches (paradigms): either Syrian influence (implying an impact of literary traditions in two languages, Syriac and Greek) or Jewish (also bilingual, in rabbinic Aramaic and Hebrew). Both paradigms presupposed an intensive non-Byzantine influence on some important centre(s) of early Slavic Christian culture. For both of them, the most important Slavonic pseudepigrapha among those unknown in Greek – especially the three mentioned at the beginning of the present article – create a real stumbling block. Now, with the identification of the Coptic fragments of 2 Enoch a chance has appeared that the stumbling block may be eventually removed. I hope to be able to sketch out, even though still not in full detail, the Syrian (bilingual Greek-Syriac) literary tradition that influenced earliest Slavic Christianity so much. Before tracing this tradition, I will recall very briefly the previous studies in the field. I will start from the “Jewish” paradigm whose explanatory power I consider to be minimal but still not negligible, then, pass to the “Syrian” paradigm in its original version by Vaillant and Jakobson, and, finally, to my own approach within the “Syrian paradigm” developed in my previous publications. After having discussed the problems left unresolved in all the three approaches I will propose a fresh look at the form of transmission of 2 Enoch and, probably, some other Slavonic pseudepigrapha.

2. Possible Non-Byzantine (and non-Western) Sources of the Slavonic Pseudepigrapha: a Review of the Existing Hypotheses 2.1. The “Jewish” Paradigm The “Jewish” paradigm has been first proposed by Nikita Alexandrovich Meshchersky (1906–1987) in his 1956 paper mostly dedicated to the so-called “Russian” version of the book of Esther that represents a recension unknown in any other language.8 Meshchersky proclaimed it a direct Slavonic translation from a lost 7 Cf. esp. А.Л. Якобсон, К изучению раннесредневековой болгарской архитектуры (армянские параллели) [A.L. Yakobson, Toward the Study of the Early Mediaeval Bulgarian Architecture (Armenian Parallels)], Византийский временник [Vizantijskij vremennik] 28 (1968), 195–206; cf. his summarising monograph: А.Л. Якобсон, Закономерности в развитии средневековой архитектуры IX–XV вв. [A.L. Yakobson, Trends in Development of the Mediaeval Architecture of the 9th–15th cent.] (Leningrad: Nauka, 1987). 8 Н.А. Мещерский, “К вопросу об изучении переводной письменности Киевского периода” [N.A. Meshchersky, “Toward the Question of the Study of the Translation Literature of the K ­ ievan Period”], Ученые записки Карельского педагогического института [Memoirs of the P ­ edagogical

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Hebrew original, performed in the Kievan Rus’ (before 1237). In the 1980s, ­Horace Lunt and Moshe Taube took issue with Meshchersky’s argument and argued for Greek as the original language, without however resolving the problem of the Sitz im Leben of this text.9 The dispute is still unsettled, because more recently Irina Lycén put forward a completely new form of argument for Hebrew as the original language.10 Be that as it may, the so-called “Russian” Slavonic version of Esther most likely preserves a Jewish text (written in either Greek or Hebrew/ Aramaic) that goes back to the Second Temple period. In the same 1956 article, Meshchersky formulated the main idea of his “Jewish” scholarly paradigm covering an imprecise but great number of other works of translation known in the Russian manuscripts: “… this rich and varied stream of Old Russian writing can be explained only under the condition that we acknowledge the possibility of direct translation from Hebrew in the Kievan Rus’.”11 The real scale of Meshchersky’s idea was revealed in his 1964 paper dedicated mostly to 2 Enoch. He argued that even this work was composed in Hebrew and translated into Slavonic directly from the original. In the final passage of the paper he enumerates other pseudepigrapha that, according to him, have passed through a similar trajectory before reaching “Slavic-Russian” literature (does this term mean here that Meshchersky believed them to be translated also in the Kievan Rus’?): “the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, the Apocalypse of Abraham, the Visions of Isaiah, and others”.12 In his argumentation for a Hebrew original of the Slavonic translation of 2 Enoch, Meshchersky pointed to a number of Semitisms in the Slavonic text but without even an attempt to demonstrate that they do not belong to either a possible Semitic Urtext lying behind the possibly lost Greek original of the Slavonic Institute of Karelia], vol. II, issue 1 (1956), 198–219; repr. in Н.А. Мещерский, Избранные статьи. Ред., сост. Е. Н. Мещерская [N.A. Meshchersky, Collected Papers, ed. E.N. Meshcherskaya] (Наследие ученых; St. Petersburg: St. Petersburg State University Press, 1995), 271–99.   9 H. Lunt & M. Taube, “Early East Slavic Translations from Hebrew?”, Russian Linguistics 12 (1988), 147–87; eidem, “The Slavonic Book of Esther: Translation from Hebrew or Evidence for a Lost Greek Text?”, HTR 87 (1994), 347–62. 10 И. Люсен, Книга Есфирь: К истории первого славянского перевода [I. Lycén, The Book of E ­ sther: A Contribution to the History of the First Slavonic Translation] (Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis. Studia Slavica Upsaliensia, 41; Uppsala: University, 2001) (in Russian, with a summary in English); cf. A. Kulik, “Judeo-Greek Legacy in Medieval Rus’”, Viator 39 (2008), 51–64: 58–62.The latter paper by A. Kulik provides the basic bibliography of discussions related to the question of direct Russian translations from Hebrew. 11 “Эта богатая и разнообразная еврейская струя древнерусской письменности может быть объяснена только при том условии, что мы признаем возможность непосредственного перевода с еврейского в Киевской Руси”; Мещерский, К вопросу …, 298 (quoted from the 1995 reprint). 12 Н.А. Мещерский, “К истории текста славянской книги Еноха (Следы памятников Кумрана в византийской и славянской литературе)” [N.A. Meshchersky, “Toward the History of the Text of the Slavonic Book of Enoch (Traces of the Monuments from Qumran in the Byzantine and Slavic Literature”], Византийский временник [Vizantijskij vremennik] 24 (1964), 91–108:108.

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version, or even to the Greek language written by a Jewish Greek-speaking author of the (in this case Greek) original 2 Enoch. The very act of pointing out quite a few Semitisms in 2 Enoch was nothing more than breaking through an open door. Meshchersky’s project as a magnificent whole failed but some of his particular ideas were more successful. Thus, his disciple Anatoly Alekseev substantiated Meshchersky’s 1956 claim that the Slavonic cycle of the ten stories about Solomon13 goes back directly to a Jewish original (in Hebrew, according to Alekseev).14 Some other scholars, including Meshchersky’s and Alekseev’s staunch opponent Moshe Taube, pointed out some other, mostly pseudepigraphic texts that were, according to them, translated directly from Hebrew in an early period (before the 15th cent.).15 I agree that, in all these cases, we are in presence of direct translations into Slavonic from a Semitic (Hebrew and/or Aramaic) original. Some of these Slavonic texts have close parallels in the Jewish literary tradition (the Baby­ lonian Talmud and midrashic collections for the Solomon cycle,16 the Yosippon for some chronicles’ fragments pointed out by Taube), even though these parallels are substantially different from the lost originals of the Slavonic versions; moreover, the Solomon cycle as a whole is unknown in Jewish literature, and the Yosippon is a 10th-century Jewish work composed as a digest of exclusively Christian sources17 (and it therefore most likely shared some common sources with these Slavonic fragments). 13 The cycle has recently been published in a critical edition by Constantine Bondar’: К.В. Бондарь, Повести Соломонова цикла: из славяно-еврейского диалога культур [C.V. Bondar’, The Narrations of the Solomon Cycle: from the Slavic-Jewish Dialogue of Cultures] (Khar’kiv: Novoe slovo, 2011). 14 А.А. Алексеев, “Русско-еврейские литературные связи до 15 века” [A.A. Alekseev, “Russian-Jewish Literary Connexions up to the 15th century], Jews and Slavs 1 (1993), 44–75: 67–70; idem, “Апокрифы Толковой Палеи, переведенные с еврейских оригиналов” [“Apocrypha of the Palaea Interpretata Translated from the Hebrew Originals”], Труды Отдела древнерусской литературы (ТОДРЛ) [The Proceedings of the Department of the Old Russian Literature (TODRL)] 58 (2007), 41–57: 47–53. For one of the ten stories, Alekseev refers to the Babylonian Talmud as if the relevant part were in Hebrew, whereas it is in Aramaic; he then constructs on this “fact” some of his proofs that the Semitic original behind the Slavonic text was in Hebrew and certainly not in Aramaic. Cf. B. Lourié, “The Courts of Solomon. A Jewish Collection”, Scrinium 5 (2009), 353–63. 15 Such as fragments within different Russian chronicles interpreted by Taube as direct translations from the mediaeval Jewish book Yosippon – despite their divergences with the text of the latter [e. g., those studied in G. Lunt & M. Taube, “Early East Slavic Translations from Hebrew?” and M. Taube, “On Certain Unidentified and Misidentified Sources of the Academy Chronograph”, in Russian Philology and Literature: In Honour of Prof. Victor D. Levin on His 75th Birthday, ed. W. Moskovich et al. (Jerusalem: Hebrew UP, 1992), 365–75]. Cf. also L. Navtanovich, “The Slavonic Apocryphon of Zorobabel”, in The Old Testament Apocrypha in the Slavonic Tradition, ed. L. ­DiTommaso & C. Böttrich (TSAJ 140; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 303–35. 16 B. Lourié, “The Courts”. 17 Cf. S. Dönitz, “Historiography among Byzantine Jews: the Case of Sefer Yosippon”, in Jews in Byzantium: dialectics of minority and majority cultures, ed. R. Bonfil et al. (Jerusalem Studies in Religion and Culture; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 951–68; eadem, Überlieferung und Rezeption des Sefer Yosippon (Texts and Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Judaism 29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013).

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One can see that the situation is not as simple as one might think. It is even less simple: in the unique case when I was able to undertake a study distinguishing between Hebrew/rabbinic Aramaic and Syriac as the possible languages of the original (for the Solomon cycle), it turned out that the language of the original was Syriac.18 For the remaining Slavonic texts of this series, such a differential diagnosis is either not performed or impossible, because Syriac, being also a dialect of Aramaic, is too close to the Aramaic of the rabbis. To sum up: there are certainly texts that were translated into Slavonic in an early epoch directly from Semitic originals. One cannot then exclude the possibility that the originals of some of them were Jewish (in Hebrew, rabbinic Aramaic or both). Nevertheless, in all these cases, a hypothesis of an original in Syriac is, at the very least, equally possible. 2.2. The “Syrian” Paradigm-1: Vaillant and Jakobson The problem posed by the discrepancy between the earliest literature in Slavonic and the repertory of the contemporaneous Byzantine libraries goes beyond the limits of the pseudepigrapha. Its most discussed part is that of the earliest Slavonic Gospel translation that contains some non-Byzantine readings, known however from some Oriental and especially Syriac versions. The first hypothetical way out of this problem was put forward shortly after 1935, when André Vaillant proposed a partial “de-byzantinization” of Cyril and Methodius.19 According to his hypothesis, often called that of Vaillant – Jakobson (because Roman Osipovich Jakobson soon became its second main proponent and the first who started the discussion on the possible Oriental readings in the Slavonic Gospels20), Constantine-Cyril made his Gospel translation from Greek into Slavonic keeping an eye on a Syriac version. According to Jakobson, this hypothesis could be corroborated 18 A Slavonic hapax legomenon in the phrase мечь прудѧнъ“sword prudjan”, with the parallel from the Hebrew text “sword (made) from tin/plumbum” (‫)מן הבדיל‬. I proposed (B. Lourié, “The Courts”, 357–58) that the Slavonic hapax must be explained as a transliteration from Syriac ‫ ܦܪܝܕܐ‬pridā “fragile, putride” misunderstood by the translator into Slavonic as a noun signifying some material suitable for the situation. The conjectural reading прутянъ (“made from a wooden stick”), absent in the manuscripts, proposed by H. Lunt & M. Taube in “Early East Slavic Translations from Hebrew?” (p. 159) would hardly fit with the plot, where the wife seriously intends to kill her husband with this sword; such an intention implies that the sword was apparently not a toy. 19 In his seminal paper A. Vaillant, “Les ‘lettres russes’ de la Vie de Constantin”, Revue des études slaves 15 (1935), 75–77. 20 See R. Jakobson, “Saint Constantin et la langue syriaque”, Annuaire de l’Institut de philologie et d’histoire orientales et slaves, 7 (1939–1944), 181–186 [repr. in idem, Selected Writings, vol. VI: Early Slavic Paths and Crossroads. Part 1: Comparative Slavic Studies. The Cyrillo-Methodian Tradition, ed. S. Rudy (Berlin & New York: De Gruyter; Amsterdam: Mouton, 1985), 143–85] and idem, “Minor Native Sources for the Early History of the Slavic Church”, Harvard Slavic Studies 2 (1954), 39–73 [repr. in R. Jakobson, Selected Writings, VI, 1, 159–89].

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with at least one instance of a direct translation into Slavonic from Syriac (Jakobson meant François Nau’s (1909) and Alexander Grigoriev’s (1913) hypothesis on the origin of the Slavonic Ahiqar).21 Thus, according to Jakobson, the brothers of Thessalonica and the first generations of their followers were influenced by the Syriac literary culture, and this influence was predefined by Constantine-Cyril personally. The core of Vaillant – Jakobson’s hypothesis consists in attributing to Constantine-Cyril the role of being the first channel of Syrian cultural influence on the Slavs. This idea is now shared, though to a different extent, by an important number of Slavists. Let us suppose – again for the sake of the argument only – that such a hypothesis is enough to explain the peculiar readings in the Slavonic biblical trans­ lations and even for the occurrence of the occasional direct translations from Syriac into Slavonic. However, the Slavonic presumably non-Byzantine pseudepigrapha, with the single exception of Ahiqar, are unknown in Syriac traditions which are available to us.Thus the Vaillant-Jakobson hypothesis on the origin of the earliest Slavonic translation literature is not sufficient to explain the origin of the non-Byzantine group of the Slavonic pseudepigrapha. However, the main difficulty of Vaillant-Jakobson’s hypothesis is its very core – its peculiar understanding of the personal activity of Constantine-Cyril. The very idea of Constantine’s knowledge of Syriac is based on one conjecture in one early Slavonic source (the long Slavonic Life of Constantine-Cyril) and one misinterpretation of another. The latter source (the so-called Macedonian leaflet22) is of special interest to us, being a preface to the earliest Slavonic Gospel translation written by either Constantine-Cyril himself or somebody from his or his brother Methodius’ close entourage. Its author justifies himself for making use in his translation of some texts written by heretics, although without containing any heresy. As I have argued elsewhere, these texts must have been certainly Slavonic and already known to the audience – thus, nothing other than a pre-Cyrillian Slavonic Gospel translation that should have had a bad reputation due to its known “heretical” provenance.23

21 R. Jakobson, “Saint Constantin”, 157. For the full bibliography on the Slavonic Ahiqar, see B. Lourié, “The Syriac Ahiqar, Its Slavonic Version, and the Relics of the Three Youths in Babylon”, Slověne 2 (2013), 2.64–117. 22 Introduced into the discussion on the possible Syriac connexions of the Cyrillo-Methodian mission by A. Vaillant, “La préface de l’Évangéliaire vieux-slave”, Revue des études slaves 24 (1948), 5–20. 23 B. Lourié, “Syrian Shadows behind the Back of Cyril and Methodius: Vaillant – Jakobson’s hypothesis revisited” [forthcoming].

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2.3. The “Syrian” Paradigm-2: Lourié My own explanation of different Syrian connections of the earliest Slavonic writing consists in acknowledging the existence of a Slavonic Christian culture before Cyril and Methodius. It can be summarised as follows.24 The brothers of Thessalonica were walking in the footsteps of “unorthodox” (from their viewpoint) Syrian missionaries and submitted themselves to many constraints imposed by the already existing corpus of translations (mostly from Greek but also from Syriac for the texts unavailable in Greek) and several cults of saints with their corresponding hagiographical literature. The earliest witness of a Syrian mission to the Slavs and the Proto-Bulgarians of the Byzantine seventh-century thema of Thrace (encompassing the eighth-century themata of Thrace and Macedonia) is contained in the acts of the Sixth Ecumenical council and is dated to 9 August, 681.25 This witness is corroborated with the Slavonic hagiographical legend (the so-called Legend of Thessalonica, a short history of the mission to the Slavs and the Bulgarians of some Cyril different from the brother of Methodius) that dates the beginning of the mission to the three-year siege of Thessalonica by the joint forces of the Proto-Bulgarians and the neighbouring Slavs in 676–678. I consider this document to be a direct translation from Syriac; its lost Syriac original is datable to c. 700. These two documents provide us with two portraits of the first Syrian missionaries: an absolutely historical one of a Syrian Constantine of Apamea26 with his very limited knowledge of Greek, and a legendary image of a Cyril who originated from Cappadocia but was educated in Damascus and came to the Slavs from Alexandria; according to the legend, he completely forgot Greek after having learned Slavonic. This view on the origins of Slavic Christianity removes some old problems but poses some new ones. Among the momentarily resolved problems is that 24 Cf. Now, first of all, B. Lourié, “The Slavonic Solunskaja Legenda (‘The Thessalonican Legend’) and Its Syriac Original”, in The Syriac Voice in the Dialogue of Cultures: Syriac, Persian, Caucasian, and Slavonic Interlocutors, ed. C.B. Horn & C. Villagomez (Eastern Mediterranean Texts and Contexts; Warwick: Abelian Academic) [forthcoming]; this paper is intended to replace my first publication on the topic: В. Лурье, “Около ‘Солунской легенды’. Из истории миссионерства в период монофелитской унии” [B. Lourié, “Around the Thessalonican Legend: from the History of the Missionary Activity in the Period of the Monothelite Union”], Славяне и их соседи [Slavjane i ikh sosedi] 6 (1996), 23–52. 25 R. Riedinger, Concilium universale Constantinopolitanum tertium: Concilii actiones XII–XVIII, Epistolae, Indices (Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum, Ser. II, vol. II, pars II; Berlin: De Gruyter, 1992), 682–705: 702–5. 26 The Fathers of the Council eventually agreed to hear Constantine of Apamea only at the insistence of a high Byzantine military official Theodore who was responsible for the whole war seat of the on-going war with the joint forces of the Proto-Bulgarians and the Slavs. Constantine promised that his plan of unification of the Church would prevent their military attacks. Thus, the Byzantine governor-general took quite seriously Constantine’s influence on the symbiotic Proto-Bulgarian and Slavic tribes. (In the seventh century, the Turkic Proto-Bulgarians and the Slavs did not form yet the unique Bulgarian people but were already living and acting in a kind of symbiosis).

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of the very fact of discrepancy between the mainstream early Slavic culture, including the literature, and the contemporaneous Byzantine one. Another such problem is the presence of the Ahiqar, directly translated from Syriac, among the most popular Slavic writings, although it never existed in Greek. Indeed, the Syriac hagiographical romance on Ahiqar composed by anti-Chalcedonian Syrians about the third quarter of the fifth century on the basis of an earlier Aramaic Vorlage became a much loved reading for Syrians throughout the ages irrespective of their denominations. Symptomatically, the Slavonic translation preserves a recension which is earlier than the available Syriac ones and their Arabic and Neo-Aramaic derivatives, although still later than the late fifth-century Armenian translation (also extremely popular among the Armenians throughout the ages).27 However, apart from Ahiqar, the remaining repertory of Slavonic non-Byzantine translation literature is at odds with most known Syriac traditions as well. The Syrian impact on the Slavs has certainly never been Jacobite or Nestorian. This is quite understandable given the pluriformity of Syrian Christian traditions in the second half of the first millennium and the established fact that Constantine of Apamea (the only historically known missionary to the Slavs and the Proto-Bulgarians) belonged to some extravagant religious minority: he was condemned by the Council as a heretic and a monothelete, but his form of monotheletism was sharply different from the official monotheletism of the Patriarchate of Antioch.28 Thus, our knowledge of the Syrian tradition of the first missionaries to the Slavs and the Bulgarian was so small that it was easily compatible with almost everything.

3. Hallmarks of Syriac in 2 Enoch There are several linguistic facts that need to be taken into account. According to the most accepted view, 2 Enoch was translated into Slavonic from Greek, whereas the Greek text was either original or, in turn, translated from a Semitic (Hebrew/Aramaic) original; anyway, the Greek text of 2 Enoch was saturated with Semitisms. This scheme of the history of texts is standard for the majority of the pseudepigrapha: Semitic → Greek → language(s) of Oriental Christianity and/or Latin. The majority of the linguistic facts from the Slavonic text of 2 Enoch (and especially all those discussed by Meshchersky) fits this scheme.29 But we have to 27 See for all these details B. Lourié, “The Syriac Ahiqar”. 28 B. Lourié, “Un autre monothélisme: le cas de Constantin d’Apamée au VIe Concile Œcuménique”, Studia Patristica 29 (1997), 290–303. 29 See their most detailed review, together with the previous bibliography, in the unpublished PhD thesis by L. Navtanovich: Людмила Михайловна Навтанович, Лингвотекстологический анализ древнеславянского перевода книги Еноха [L.M. Navtanovich, A Linguistic and Textological Analysis of the Old Slavic Translation of the Book of Enoch] (PhD Thesis. St. Petersburg: St. Petersburg State University, 2000).

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discuss those that do not. These facts could be subdivided into two categories. One of them is already known from the Slavonic pseudepigrapha, the other is unique to 2 Enoch. To avoid distracting the reader’s attention, I would say in advance that my observations would hardly challenge the present common opinion that 2 Enoch as a whole is translated from Greek. Nevertheless, they will allow us to envisage a somewhat more complicated picture of the textual transmission. It is symptomatic that all the facts discussed below belong to the Sondergut of the longer recension of 2 Enoch. 3.1. An Iranian Aramaism: the shift *t > d in the intervocalic position The Hebrew month Tebet is mentioned in 2 En 48:2 twice, in both cases with d instead of the expected t or th as the third consonant.30 The three manuscripts of the longer recension (JRP, among whom the best preserving old linguistic features is normally J) provide the following readings (always in Genitive):31 J

R

P

ѳеведа

ѳївиѳа

ѳевана31

ѳеведа

ѳивиѳа

ѳевада

The relevant phonological feature is now attested only in some Jewish dialects of Aramaic in Iran: the shift of *t to d in the intervocalic position.32 However, I have already noticed it in the Slavonic translation of Ahiqar, where ‫“ ܐܬܘܪ‬Assyria” is systematically rendered as Ador, whereas in Greek no rendering is known of this quite widespread word that would have contained d at the corresponding position. In this connection, I have already discussed the same feature in 2 En 48:2, pointing out that this Hebrew month’s name was rendered in Greek as τηβηθ in the Septuagint (Esther 2:16, gloss in the Codex Sinaiticus) with the quite explicablee Slavonic equivalent тевефъ /tevef ’’/ (in the so-called “Russian”

30 I will quote the most convenient synoptic edition of the Slavonic manuscripts (containing the editio princeps of ms J): G. Macaskill, The Slavonic Texts of the 2 Enoch (Studia Judaeoslavica, 6; Leiden: Brill, 2013), 172. 31 On this erroneous reading with n, see F.I. Andersen, “2 (Slavonic Apocalypse of) Enoch (Late First Century A. D.)”, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha 1, ed. J.H. Charlesworth (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983), 91–221: 175, fn. e: “P has Thevana to rhyme with Civana, but in the immediate repetition of the word P has the more correct Thevada.” 32 G. Khan, The Jewish Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Suleymaniyya and H alabja (Studies in Semitic Languages and Linguistics, 44; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 29–30; H. Mutzafi, The Jewish Neo-Aramaic Dialect of Koy Sanjaq (Iraqi Kurdistan) (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2004), 37.

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translation of Esther).33 Indeed, the final t in the Hebrew word T ebet is not in an intervocalic position, but in Syriac it would have had to acquire the final -a (the ending of the status emphaticus), which would have been resulted in the form ‫( *ܛــܒܬܐ‬presuming b > v in the intervocalic position, which is the common feature of all the dialects of Aramaic, traceable in direct translations from Syriac into Slavonic as well). The two other consonants of the Slavonic genitive Theveda are not problematic at all. The first consonant of T ebet would be more likely rendered with t (т) than th (ѳ), as we see in the “Russian” Esther. However, already in Hellenistic Greek the opposite took place (‫ ט‬rendered with θ),34 not to mention possible confusions between ѳ and т in the Slavonic spelling, especially in the texts transliterated from Glagolitic into Cyrillic as we have to presume for 2 Enoch (there was no ѳ in the early Glagolitic script). To sum up, it is likely that the word Theveda (gen., sing.) reached our Slavonic text after having passed through Syriac, and, moreover, the translator from Syriac (regardless of what was the language he was translating into, whether Greek or Slavonic) has kept in mind the same Syriac orthoepy as the translator of the Slavonic Ahiqar (who translated from Syriac into Slavonic), namely, that specific to some regions of Iran. It is well known that some Syriac works translated into Slavonic originated from Syriac-speaking communities in Iran. This is still not very significant per se, because the literary production of these communities sometimes attained an enormous success even in Byzantium (e. g., the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius of Patara). It becomes more significant, however, given that among the Slavonic pseudepigrapha unknown in Byzantium there are at least two that go back to the Syrians in Iran: Ahiqar and the Twelve Dreams of Shakhaisha (= Shahinshah).35 3.2. The transliteration of sin by tsy Even more strikingly abnormal is the spelling of those Hebrew months’ names that contain sin in Hebrew. In the Slavonic of 2 Enoch, unlike the normal Slavonic spelling, all of them acquire the letter tsy (ц, affricate ts), s. Table 2.36

33 B. Lourié, “The Syriac Ahiqar”, 84–85. The Syriac version of the Esther does not preserve the month’s ̈ name in Hebrew (‫ܢܘ ܐܚܪܝ‬ ‫ܟ‬ ‫ܕܥܣܪܐ ܕܼܗܘ ܢ‬ ‫“ܒܝܪܚܐ‬in the tenth month that is the kanun posterior”). 34 T. Ilan, Lexicon of Jewish Names in Late Antiquity, Part I (TSAJ, 91; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 19. 35 B. Lourié, “The Slavonic Apocalypse The Twelve Dreams of Shahaisha: An Iranian Syriac Reworking of a Second Temple Jewish Legend on Jambres”, in Commentationes Iranicae, Vladimiro f. Aaron Livschits nonagenario donum natalicum/Сборник статей к 90-летию Владимира Ароновича Лившица, ed. S. Tokhtasev [Tokhtas’ev] & P. Luria [Lurje] (St. Petersburg: Nestor, 2013), 481–507. 36 G. Macaskill, The Slavonic Texts, 172, 222.

236 2 Enoch

Basil Lourié J

R

P

48:2

цивана of Sivan (Gen.)

памовоуса (= of Sivan)

цивана of Sivan (Gen.)

68:1

циван (of) Sivan (Nom. or Gen.)38

памовоуса (= of Sivan)

цивана of Sivan (Gen.)

68:3

цива (of) Sivan39

памовоуса (= of Sivan)

цивана of Sivan (Gen.)

68:1

ницана of Nisan (Gen.)

нисана of Nisan (Gen.)

цивана of Sivan (Gen.)

37

The peculiar reading of R pamovusa does not need to be discussed here; it has nothing to do with the Hebrew months’ names but is derived from the Old Egyptian prototype through Elephantine Aramaic and Greek (and possibly even Coptic) intermediaries. The two remaining manuscripts J P are in agreement on the initial ts in the Slavonic rendering of Sivan. Of course, the Hebrew ‫ ִסיָון‬that in Greek was regularly rendered as σιβάν, sometimes σιυάν, would have been transliterated into Slavonic with the initial s (с), as we indeed see, for example, in the “Russian” Esth 8:9.373839 The same peculiar reading – ts instead of the expected s – J has for Nisan, whereas R provides the reading normative for Slavonic (unsurprisingly: the Hebrew name of this month was widely known and often used in Christian texts, including Slavonic ones). The erroneous reading of P corroborates, however, even though indirectly, J: tsivan more likely resulted from the confusion with nitsan than nisan. This appearance in the Slavonic of 2 Enoch (and nowhere else in Slavonic translations!) of the affricate ts instead of the expected s is equally inexplicable with the supposition of either a Greek intermediary or a direct transliteration from any Semitic language (even with recourse to the scheme Hebrew → Aramaic: cf. Syriac ‫ـܝܣ‬ ‫“ܢـ ܢ‬Nisan”). There is a way out from this problem if we allow some more complicated forms of the textual transmission involving Syriac. In Syriac, the Greek loanwords could acquire s (‫ )ܨ‬at the place of s (σ) on both a regular and an irregular basis. It

37 Cf. B. Lourié, “Calendrical Elements in 2 Enoch”, in New Perspectives on 2 Enoch, 191–219: 198–202. I consider Pamovusa (Gen.) to be an Egyptian Aramaic derivate from the Old Egyptian p-n-jmnhtp though the Elephantine Aramaic rendering pmnhtp (cf. Egyptian Greek φαμενῶθ), where it regularly (in all the five instances throughout the Elephantine archive) corresponds to Sivan (roughly Julian June, the month of the Summer Solstice). To the time of the Julian reform of the Egyptian calendar (30 BC), φαμενῶθ of the Egyptian Sothic year roughly corresponded to March; it corresponded to June in the epoch of the Elephantine papyri (5th cent., before 410 BC) and slightly later, in the early 4th cent. BC. This is a possible date of the calendar implied in 2 Enoch, whereas not of the book itself. 38 Both Nominative and Genitive are here possible from a point of view of syntax, but, anyway, the spelling is not perfect: the Nominative form would require the final jer (or, at least, its diacritical sign, pajerok), whereas the Genitive would require the final -a as we see in ms P. 39 Corrupted spelling of either *циванъ (Nom.) or цивана (Gen.).

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appears regularly in the words containing σ after π (e. g., πρόσωπον > ‫)ܦܪܨܘܦܐ‬.40 In other cases, it could occur irregularly – apparently in analogy with the overwhelming trend of rendering τ with the emphatic ‫ ܛ‬and not ‫ܬ‬.41 For instance, the Greek word σαλός (or σάλος) “fool” (sc., in Christ), normally rendered in Syriac as ‫ܣܐ�ܠܘܣ‬, is sometime rendered as ‫  ܨܠܘܣ‬or even ‫( ܨܐ�ܠܘܨ‬cf. also Arabic derived from Syriac: ‫)صالوــص‬.42 Thus, the odd Slavonic forms could be explained as renderings of the Syriac ones which in turn render Greek ones. The original Greek forms were the regular νισαν and σιβαν/σιυαν, whereas the Syriac ones were ‫ *ܢــܝܨܢ‬and ‫ـܝܘ‬ ‫*ܨـ ܢ‬. Unfortunately, the regional, temporal, and/or confessional distribution of the transliteration of σ by s in the Greek loanwords in Syriac has never been studied. Finally, we have to evaluate an even more complicated mode of transmission for our month’s names: not (1) Hebrew (Aramaic) → Greek → Syriac → Slavonic but (2) Hebrew (Aramaic) → Greek → Syriac → Greek → Slavonic. This second possibility presupposes two further conditions that would have to be met simultaneously: (a) the Syriac forms containing s would have been rendered into Greek otherwise than with a sigma (that is, in an unusual way43), and (b) this rendering would have been correctly recognised by the translator into Slavonic. The probability of the simultaneous occurrence of (a) and (b) is equal to the product of their respective probabilities as independent events; given that the probability of (b) is already extremely low (I do not know any example of tsy appearing in an Old Church Slavonic transliteration from Greek), the likelihood of this second possibility as a whole is virtualy zero and should therefore be taken out of consideration. We reached the explanation of the peculiar Slavonic forms with tsy, which is to my knowledge the only one that is linguistically acceptable.44 Is it textually acceptable too?  

40 Cf., e. g., C. Brockelmann, Syrische Grammatik (Porta linguarum orientalium 5; Berlin: Verl. von Reuther & Reichard, ²1905), 25 § 48. 41 The rendering of Greek σ with ‫ צ‬was already quite common in Hebrew and Aramaic transliterations of the Greek words in the late antiquity: T. Ilan, Lexicon, I, 20. It is hardly possible, however, to apply this observation to the textual history of 2 Enoch, even in supposition that its original language was Greek. 42 All these examples are from R.P. Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1879–1901), col. 2494. Both Syriac examples are from the Melkite calendars (on July 21) in the manuscripts of the Vatican Library: S.E. Assemanus & J.S. Assemanus, Bibliothecae Apostolicae Vaticanae codicum manuscriptorum catalogus in tres partes distributus, P. I, t. II (Rome: Ex Typographia linguarum orientalium, 1758) [repr.: Paris: Librairie Orientale et Américaine, 1926], 169 (Nr. XXI) and 443 (Nr. LXXVII). 43 E.g., with σσ; cf., e. g., συνεχόμενος νεεσσαραν “detained” < ‫( נצער‬1 Sam 21:8 LXX), Μεσσαρα