The Ritual World of Paul the Apostle: Metaphysics, Community and Symbol in 1 Corinthians 10–11 9780567120342, 9780567661715, 9780567663740

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LIBRARY OF NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES

602 Formerly the Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement series

Editor Chris Keith

Editorial Board Dale C. Allison, John M. G. Barclay, Lynn H. Cohick, R. Alan Culpepper, Craig A. Evans, Robert Fowler, Simon J. Gathercole, Juan Hernandez, John S. Kloppenborg, Michael Labahn, Love L. Sechrest, Robert Wall, Steve Walton, Catrin H. Williams

THE RITUAL WORLD OF PAUL THE APOSTLE

Metaphysics, Community and Symbol in 1 Corinthians 10–11

Michael J. Lakey

T&T CLARK Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2019 Paperback edition published 2020 Copyright © Michael J. Lakey, 2019 Michael J. Lakey has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress ISBN: HB: 978-0-5671-2034-2 PB: 978-0-5676-9519-2 ePDF: 978-0-5676-6374-0 eBook: 978-0-5676-8562-9 Series: Library of New Testament Studies, 2513-8790, volume 602 Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

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For Kirsty, Amelia and Ava.

CONTENTS Preface Abbreviations 1 Primary Sources 2 Additional Abbreviations

Chapter 1 Introduction 1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4

Ritual, Theology and New Testament Studies The Significance of the Present Field The Methodology of This Study An Outline of the Volume

Chapter 2 Literature Review: Baptism and The Lord’s Supper 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5

Introduction Issues and Themes Studies of Baptism Studies of the Lord’s Supper Conclusion

Chapter 3 ‘A Specific Metaphysic’: Paul and Cosmic Order 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4

Introduction Issues and Themes Texts: Cosmology, Anthropology and Ecclesiology Conclusion

Chapter 4 ‘A Particular Style of Life’: Paul and Community Order 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4

Introduction Issues and Themes Texts: Christ, the Church and Life in the Spirit Conclusion

ix xi xi xiii

1 1 4 5 7

9 9 9 16 23 36

39 39 40 55 68

71 71 72 86 106

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Contents

Chapter 5 ‘Religious Symbols’: Paul and Ritual Order 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5

Introduction Issues and Themes Texts: 1 Cor 10:14–22, Translation and Comment Texts: 1 Cor 11:17–34, Translation and Comment Conclusion

109 109

109 119 132 150

Chapter 6 The Ritual World of Paul’s Early Interpreters: Baptism as a Case Study 153 6.1 Introduction 153 6.2 Greek and Latin Theological and Apologetic Works 154 6.3 Church Orders 164 6.4 Syriac Works 168 6.5 Conclusion 176 Chapter 7 Conclusion 7.1 About This Study 7.2 Summary of Results 7.3 Epilogue Bibliography Index of References Index of Modern Authors

179 179 179 186 189 209 217

PREFACE My interest in the topic of Paul, cosmology and ritual began in Durham when I was a research student there from 2003 to 2007, working on Paul, hermeneutics and gender with Dr Stephen Barton. Both wise and encouraging, he advised me to attend Professor Douglas Davies’s theology and anthropology seminars. Interacting with Professor Davies in class, I began to be fascinated by some of the ways in which the interplay of theology, ritual, symbol and form of life, of world construction and world enactment, can be used to provide a rich, wholistic account of what we do when we theologize about anything. Since then, my interest in the key ritual moments of Baptism and Lord’s Supper in Paul has grown, first as I have read and reread key passages in Paul with successive years of ordinands at Ripon College Cuddesdon who are themselves preparing for sacramental ministry, and then as I underwent the same process at St Stephen’s House, Oxford, in 2014. I should like to acknowledge the huge debt I owe to all three communities – Durham, Cuddesdon and St Stephen’s. I am deeply grateful to all those who have assisted me along the way with this project. Let me in the first instance thank my colleagues at Ripon College Cuddesdon, who have patiently listened to my waxing lyrical and thinking aloud at every possible opportunity – especially Dr Hywel Clifford, Dr Grant Bayliss, Rebecca Dean and Dr Joanna Collicutt. Thanks also to Professor Bob Morgan for his interest and encouragement and for the delightful gift of a slightly battered and well-used copy of Lietzmann, which now has pride of place in my office. I had the opportunity to present some of my work at the New Testament Seminar in Oxford in 2014 and was both encouraged and challenged by perceptive questions from Dr Ben Edsall and Professor Philip Esler. The material on patristic baptismal theology began life as an essay, advised by Dr Simon Jones, and completed as part of my ordination training. Simon encouraged me to send it to Professor Paul Bradshaw for comments. I am grateful for their direction and their help. Let me also thank all those colleagues, students, family, friends and conversation partners who have endured lengthy chats, read the roughest of drafts and who, by their attention to detail, rigour and generosity, have assisted in the preparation and improvement of the manuscript. These include Rev David Morgan, Dr Ben Blackwell, Rebecca Dean, Dr Hywel Clifford, Dr Crispin Fletcher-Louis and my wife Kirsty. Dr Tyson Putthoff deserves a special mention for his unfailing generosity and time as a dialogue partner, perceptive reader, constructive critic and friend! I am indebted to you all. As I mentioned, this project has overlapped with my own selection, training and ordination first as a deacon and then as a priest in the Church of England. It has been a curious experience writing about the ritual practice of the Pauline

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communities as I begin to explore what it means to be a sacramental minister, albeit in a very different sort of Christian community. I could not have done that without the support of the people and clergy of the Dorchester Team in Oxford Diocese, where I serve. I should have struggled to have found time to have completed this project without the support and encouragement of my senior colleague Canon Sue Booys, whose great gift to me (apart from her wise ministerial example, her patience and her friendship) has been her frequent reminders that scholarship is one of the things we are supposed to do as priests. In the light of the effects of vocational selection, training for ordination and parochial ministry upon my research schedule, I also owe a debt of gratitude to Dominic Mattos and Sarah Blake at Bloomsbury, for their endless patience with me. Lastly, to my wife, Kirsty, thank you for your love, patience, support and kindness. The period of researching and writing this volume has coincided with so much: training, ministry, parenthood, illness, loss and gain – in short, all that life can throw at us. I know I could not have completed this without your love and support. This book is for you and for our daughters, Amelia and Ava, with whom I am very well pleased! Michael J. Lakey The Baptism of the Lord, 8 January 2018

ABBREVIATIONS Abbreviations of biblical books, ancient primary sources and reference works in this study follow, in general, the The SBL Handbook of Style: For Biblical Studies and Related Disciplines, 2nd ed. (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014). The following abbreviations are used. Abbreviations in brackets are of disputed authorship.

1. Primary Sources

Aphrahat Apuleius Aristotle

Chrysostom

Ascen. Isa. Bar. Const. Apost.

Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah 6–11 Baruch Constitutiones Apostolorum

Did. En. Fr. Gos. Phil. Herm. Jos. Asen. Jub. LXX m. Menaḥ. m. Miqw. m. Pesaḥ. m. ’Abot Mart. Isa. NA28

Didache Enoch Fragmenta Gospel of Philip Shepherd of Hermas Joseph and Asenath Jubilees Rahlfs, A. ed., Septuaginta. Mishnah Menaḥot Mishnah Miqwa’ot Mishnah Pesaḥim Mishnah ’Abot Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah 1-5 Aland, B. et al. eds., Novum Testamentum Graece, 28th ed. Kölner papyri Oxyrhynchus papyri Sibylline Oracles Testament of Levi Testament of Solomon Tripartite Tractate Vita Adae Et Evae Demonstrations Metamorphoses De anima De generatione animalium Metaphysica De Mundo Politica Homilia

P.Köln. P.Oxy. Sib. Or. T.Levi T.Sol. Tri.Tract. Vit. Ad. Dem. Metam. An. Gen. an. Metaph. [Mund.] Pol. Hom.

xii Cicero

Abbreviations

Inv. Parad. Clement of Alexandria Paed. Strom. Cyprian Ep. Cyril of Jerusalem MC Dio Chrysostom Admin. Apam. Diogenes Laertius Diog. Laert. Ephrem Com. Ep. Pauli Epiph. Nat. Epictetus Diatr. Euripides Bacch. Suppl. Galen Sem. Herodotus Hist. Ignatius Eph. Smyr. Irenaeus Adv. haer. Josephus A.J. C. Ap. Justin 1 Apol. Dial. Juvenal Sat. Livy Urb. cond. Marcus Aurelius Med. Martial Epig. Narsai Hom. Origen C. Cels. Philo Cher. Contempl. Gig. Her. Leg. Legat. Mos. Plant. Spec. Plato [Epin.] Theaet. Tim. Pliny Ep. Plutarch Def. orac. Is. Os. Stoic. abs. Virt. vit. Seneca Ben. Ep. Tatian Diat.

De inventione rhetorica Paradoxa Stoicorum Paedagogus Stromata Epistulae Mystagogic Catechesis De administratione Ad Apamenses Lives of Eminent Philosophers Commentarii in Epistulas D. Pauli Hymns for the Epiphany Hymns on the Nativity Diatribai Bacchae Supplices De semine Historiae To the Ephesians To the Smyrnaeans Adversus haereses Antiquitates judaicae Contra Apionem First Apology Dialogue with Trypho Satirae Ab urbe condita Meditationes Epigrammata Homilia Contra Celsum De cherubim De vita contemplativa De gigantibus Quis rerum divinarum heres sit Legum allegoriae Legatio ad Gaium De vita Mosis De plantatione De specialibus legibus Epinomis Theaetetus Timaeus Epistulae De defectu oraculorum De Iside et Osiride Stoicos absurdiora poetis dicere De virtute et vitio De beneficiis Epistulae morales Diatessaron

Abbreviations Tertullian

Theophrastus Xenophon

Adv. Jud. Adv. Val. An. Bapt. Cor. Cul. fem. Monog. Res. Spec. Virg. vel. Char. Mem.

Adversus Judaeos Adversus Valentinianos De anima De Baptismo De corona De cultu feminarum De monogamia De Resurrectione Carnis De spectaculis De virginibus velandis Characteres Memorabilia

2. Additional Abbreviations ANF BBR BDAG BJRL CBQ CurBR CV CW ETL ExpTim GRBS HALOT HTR Hug JAAR JAC JBL JJS JSNT JSP JTS LCL LNTS LSL NovT NPNF1 NPNF2 NTS

Roberts, A. and Donaldson, J. eds., The Ante-Nicene Fathers. Bulletin for Biblical Research Arndt, W., et al. eds., A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament, 3rd ed. Bulletin of the John Rylands Library Catholic Biblical Quarterly Currents in Biblical Research Communio Viatorum Classical World Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses Expository Times Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies Kœhler, L., et al. eds., The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament. Harvard Theological Review Hugoye: Journal of Syriac Studies Journal of the American Academy of Religion Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Jewish Studies Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Journal of Theological Studies Loeb Classical Library Library of New Testament Studies Liddell, H.G., et al., A Greek-English Lexicon, 9th ed. Novum Testamentum Schaff, P. ed., The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 1st Series. Schaff, P. and Wace, H. eds., The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 2nd Series. New Testament Studies

xiii

xiv ParOr PGM PS RHR RTR StPatr Str-B TDNT TS VC ZNW

Abbreviations Parole de l'Orient Betz, H.D. ed., The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, Including the Demotic Spells, 2nd ed. Patrologia Syriaca Revue de l’histoire des religions Reformed Theological Review Studia Patristica Strack, H.L. and Billerbeck, P., Kommentar Zum Neuen Testament Aus Talmud Und Midrasch. Kittel, Gerhard ed., Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. Theological Studies Vigiliae Christianae Zeitschrift Für Die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft

Chapter 1 INTRODUCTION

1.1 Ritual, Theology and New Testament Studies This monograph is chiefly a study in Pauline theology, one that takes as its principal focus the two ritual practices of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. It seeks to explore the significance of these rituals by means of an analysis which culminates in a reading of two key passages, 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 1 Cor 11:17–34.1 This reading is advanced in relation to a reconstruction of specific elements of Paul’s thought and practice gleaned from passages in 1 Corinthians, Galatians and Philippians. By situating a reading of the Lord’s Supper pericopae in the context of a wider discussion of Paul’s cosmology, metaphysics, ecclesiology and ethics, the aim is to reveal some of the ways in which, as symbols, these two rituals both constitute and are constituted by the world view of which they are a particularly dense and integrative expression. It is noteworthy that recent scholarship demonstrates a turn towards the study of the rituals of the early Jesus movement,2 whether in their own right or as an index of some other theological or historical concern. Studies have focused upon what rituals might indicate about the origins, theology, social world, context, emergence and trajectories of the early church or of specific movements within it, and they have done so from numerous disciplinary perspectives. Recent contributions include Stephen Turley’s fine exploration of the significance of Roy Rappaport’s notions of ‘performance and embodiment’ in relation to ablutions and dining in Galatians and 1 Corinthians.3 In terms of sheer depth and comprehensiveness, it is impossible to

1. Unless otherwise stated, where biblical materials are quoted with accompanying Greek comment, the translation is mine, based on NA28 and LXX. Otherwise, the NRSV is used. Where the LXX is cited and versification differs from the NRSV, alternative versification is included in brackets, for example Ps 109:1[110:1] LXX. 2. I have, where possible, avoided applying terms such as Christianity, Christian and Eucharist to the churches of the first century, in favour of the less anachronistic terms Jesus movement/church(es), Jesus devotee and Lord’s Supper. 3. Stephen R. Turley, The Ritualized Revelation of the Messianic Age: Washings and Meals in Galatians and 1 Corinthians, LNTS (London: Bloomsbury T.&T. Clark, 2015), esp. 23–5.

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overestimate the significance of David Hellholm’s contribution in the form of recent, collaborative works on Baptism and the Lord’s Supper.4 In drawing widely from the fields of biblical, ancient Near Eastern and patristic studies, these works attest to the nodal nature of ritual in making sense of the emergence of the Jesus movement and its social practices. In terms of the constructive function of dining rituals, Hal Taussig’s study of the relationship between different modes of enacting a common meal and the social identities reified thereby is important for giving leverage over the question of the distinctive ethos of Jesus communities.5 Other studies include Jorunn Økland’s incisive analysis of the relationship between ritual space, identity, cosmology and sex in 1 Corinthians,6 and Larry Hurtado’s body of work, which treats Jesus movement worship as the crucible in which its Christology is wrought.7 Within the wider body of Pauline scholarship there also exist several studies of substantial quality that address topics besides ritual, but which might provoke further consideration of ritual. In his magnum opus on Paul, N. T. Wright offers several substantial reflections upon the religious and ritual context of the ancient Mediterranean and upon Baptism and the Lord’s Supper as instances of Pauline religio.8 Yet in his discussion of Paul’s ‘symbolic praxis’, Wright’s analysis of primary symbols such as the unity of the people of God focuses more upon Paul’s ideas than it does upon the ritual behaviours by which these ideas are constituted, made cogent and socially performed.9 This is in no way a criticism. Rather, it is to observe that the breadth and scope of Wright’s ambition in his work does not permit every single avenue to be explored comprehensively. Not unrelated observations might be made regarding other works. John Barclay’s seminal study of Paul and grace embeds discussions of baptismal issues and commensality, where appropriate, into his exegesis of Pauline texts.10 However, the work as a whole is oriented towards elucidating Paul’s theology in relation to divine grace rather than to asking questions regarding incipient

4. David Hellholm, et al., Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, 3 vols., Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der Älteren Kirche (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011); David Hellholm and Dieter Sänger, eds, The Eucharist – Its Origins and Contexts: Sacred Meal, Communal Meal, Table Fellowship in Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, 3 vols., Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017). 5. Hal Taussig, In the Beginning Was the Meal: Social Experimentation and Early Christian Identity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010). 6. Jorunn Økland, Women in Their Place: Paul and the Corinthian Discourse of Gender and Sanctuary Space, LNTS (London: T.&T. Clark, 2004). 7. Larry W. Hurtado, How on Earth did Jesus become a God?: Historical Questions about Earliest Devotion to Jesus (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005); Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003). 8. N. T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2 vols., Christian Origins and the Question of God (London: SPCK, 2013), esp. 1:246–78 and 2:1320–53. 9. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 1:384–455. 10. John M. G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015).

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3

sacramentalism. Other examples include Troels Engberg-Pedersen, whose recent work includes a fine discussion of Paul in the light of Stoic physics and an illuminating account of Pauline epistolography as a ‘bodily practice’,11 and Ben Blackwell, who offers a superb analysis of Pauline soteriology in the light of Irenaeus and Cyril of Alexandria.12 In both cases, the theological subject matter provokes further reflection upon what ritual performances might be congruent with it. In terms of immediate antecedents to the present study, my own previous work on the crisis regarding female attire during the performance of pneumatic speech in worship in 1 Cor 11:2–16 has, in part, occasioned the present volume. The former study situated female veiling in worship in the context of Paul’s cosmology, ecclesiology, anthropology and eschatology, relating it thereby to the hermeneutic by which he attempts to warrant his gendered norms for his congregations. As such, it was found that, for Paul, veiling is an embodied ritual practice that densely integrates his beliefs about the places and natures of men and women in the world and in the church. This involves also commending a particular sort of narrative performance of this symbol in the social sphere, and underpinning both the beliefs and the performances with appeals to various scriptural and popular philosophical warrants.13 The dense integration here between a view of the world, normative assertions regarding behaviour and the performance of a symbol is redolent of Clifford Geertz’s analysis of religion. According to this, Religious symbols formulate a basic congruence between a particular style of life and a specific … metaphysic, and in so doing sustain each with the borrowed authority of the other.14

The question naturally arises from this as to what such an analysis might reveal regarding other ritual symbols mentioned in Paul’s correspondence, both in terms of the theological, ethical or symbolic meanings they enact and in terms of their constitutive role in integrating and sustaining the overall cogency of Paul’s world-view model. The present consideration of the practices of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper is an initial move in the direction of such an analysis. It utilizes Geertz’s systemic account of religion as a heuristic model and, on that basis, offers a reconstruction of some salient features of Paul’s metaphysical thought and his distinctive form of life, relating both to the rituals of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper.

11. Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 172–207. 12. Ben C. Blackwell, Christosis: Pauline Soteriology in Light of Deification in Irenaeus and Cyril of Alexandria, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2. Reihe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). 13. Michael J. Lakey, Image and Glory of God: 1 Corinthians 11:2-16 as a Case Study in Bible, Gender and Hermeneutics, LNTS (London: T.&T. Clark, 2010), esp. 69–136. 14. Clifford Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, in The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays, ed. Clifford Geertz (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 90.

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1.2 The Significance of the Present Field In terms of the significance of this investigation, there are several areas for which a systemic consideration of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper in Paul has potential ramifications. These include the following: 1) Theologically, nearly all churches and ecclesial communities have advanced some form of hermeneutical claim concerning the continuity between their own baptismal and eucharistic ritual practices and their foundational texts and prior traditions. Any consideration of these claims necessarily entails a careful reading of Paul, who is arguably the earliest textual witness to these activities. Nevertheless, the very fact that some ecclesial traditions mine Paul for an interpretative warrant for their ritual theologies and behaviours invites consideration of Paul himself. It perhaps goes without saying that the wider ecclesial tradition has not and does not receive or perform Pauline texts with anything like consensus regarding their meaning, their underpinning theology, what they accomplish or indeed what their implications might be in the sphere of ethical practice. Hence, a study of ritual in Paul has an important critical function in informing and clarifying these debates.15 2) Historically and liturgically, the rituals of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper present a complicated, though hardly unprecedented, set of challenges. For example, one of the key questions in historical studies of liturgy is whether there was a primitive, emergent form of the eucharistic rite, and if so what communally held meanings it might have had. In the case of formal liturgy, the earliest extant texts go back only so far: to a period that Paul Bradshaw correctly characterizes as pluriform, local, contested and pre-formalized.16 Add to this that the Pauline materials, belonging to a period antedating this, only hint at possible liturgical elements; they contain nothing that remotely corresponds to an actual rubric. Hence, Gal 3:26–28 may well reflect some form of baptismal affirmation, but the text does not clarify whether this is an affirmation about baptismal unity or something actually uttered when devotees are baptized. Even Paul’s reference to the words of Institution being a tradition ‘received from the Lord’ (cf. 1 Cor 11:23–25) only hints in the direction of actual recitation. A consideration of ritual in the context of a systemic account of Paul’s world-view model and form of life does not resolve these questions, but it does provide a richer background against which one might assess how subsequent figures in the interpretative tradition have used him.

15. I say critical here, because it is beyond the scope of the present volume to consider the role of Paul’s work in a constructive theology of baptismal or eucharistic practice. 16. Paul F. Bradshaw, Eucharistic Origins, Alcuin Club collections (London: SPCK, 2004); The Search for the Origins of Christian Worship: Sources and Methods for the Study of Early Liturgy (London: SPCK, 1992).

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3) Finally, a systemic study of the meaning of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper rituals is exegetically helpful. This is not, in the first instance, a reference to the various excellent sociorhetorical and social world studies of Paul and his practices, though richer and thicker modes of theo/sociological description are essential for any account of Paul nowadays.17 Rather, it is to observe that Pauline epistolography, even when evincing conflict or disagreement between Paul and his churches, is insider communication. The extent to which correspondence anticipates a highly specific set of model readerly competences is directly proportionate to the extent to which that text becomes opaque to unanticipated readers who are not as well attuned to the requisite textual and interpretative strategies.18 As insider communication, the Pauline correspondence seldom makes explicit either the details or full significance of the ritual scripts to which Paul makes appeal. Modern readers arrive mid-correspondence as unanticipated readers, with a consequence being that the texts can appear opaque or, paradoxically, open to all sorts of divergent readings. A systemic reading of the ritual symbols of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper, which situates them in the context of Paul’s world-view model, does not resolve this difficulty entirely, but it goes some way towards ameliorating it. That is, the notion of religion as a cultural system, even one that is inchoate or in transition, entails some level of congruence between Paul’s metaphysic, form of life and symbol, such that each element of his world-view model is able to shed some light upon some of the unstated aspects of the other elements. Whilst this conclusion is by no means certain, it does offer a wider vantage point from which to consider this topic.

1.3 The Methodology of This Study The recognition that there is a mutually constituting relationship between a worldview model and the practices that sustain it and make it plausible is neither new, whether in the fields of social science or of biblical scholarship, nor is it unique to Geertz. Something analogous to this relationship is evident in the work of Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann. They describe the way in which the social objectivization of world-view models, roles and norms and their consequent

17. See for example Philip F. Esler, New Testament Theology: Communion and Community (London: SPCK, 2005); Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003); David G. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence: Interests and Ideology from 1 Corinthians to 1 Clement (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1996); Ben Witherington, Conflict and Community in Corinth: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary on 1 And 2 Corinthians (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1995). 18. See Umberto Eco, The Role Of The Reader, ed. Thomas A. Seboek, Advances in Semiotics Series (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1979), 7; Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 137–9.

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acquisition by individuals are complementary moments in a larger dialectical process. Within this, ritual is important for the generation of what they describe as ‘plausibility structures’: The patterns of thought and action that make something, such as a religious claim, appear naturalized and believable.19 Though framed by different concepts and expressed in very different terms, the relationships between the conventional, the individual and the ritual worlds are equally evident in the work of Roy Rappaport. For Rappaport, rituals do not merely perform the meanings to which they refer; they themselves objectify and enact those meanings, such that those who participate are thereby concretely obligated.20 In terms of a summary of Geertz’s approach and its relevance here, Geertz proposes that central to the function of a religious system is the generation of particular modes of consciousness. These he terms moods or mindsets.21 In Pauline terms, one might think of faith, hope, love, joy (e.g. 1 Cor 13:13, Gal 5:22–23). A mindset is cultivated when a concrete pattern of life (e.g. cruciformity, life by faith, imitatio Christi, life in the spirit, thanksgiving, doxological orientation) associated with a particular mood is embedded in a congruent picture of reality: a metaphysic, world view or cosmological narrative.22 Crucial to this process of embedding is the symbolic order. Symbols, including ritual and sacrament, not only oil the wheels of the embedding process; they form the primary means by which the world-descriptive and world-performative poles of Geertz’s thought are initially formulated and clothed ‘with an aura of factuality’.23 In this sense, Geertzian symbols dialectically construct (cf. Berger and Luckmann) and enact (cf. Rappaport) the cogency of a social world in its dense entirety. The present argument explores the potential of this mode of cultural description for understanding the work of Paul, particularly in relation to the role of the ritual symbols of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. In summary, if Geertz is correct, then it follows that Pauline ritual practice will tend towards congruence between his metaphysic and his form of life and that this will be generated, enacted and sustained by his symbols. In other words, to do cosmology, ecclesiology and ethics in the context of a bounded community is to imply or at least invite some form of ritual practice to sustain them. Conversely, to do rituals like Baptism and the Lord’s Supper is tacitly to engage in metaphysical and ethical communication.

19. Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (Garden City: Doubleday, 1966), 88–91; examples of the use of Berger and Luckmann in the field of biblical scholarship include Edward C. Adams, Constructing the World: A Study in Paul’s Cosmological Language (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 2000); Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence, 40. 20. Roy A. Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity, Cambridge Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 108; see further Turley, The Ritualized Revelation of the Messianic Age, 23–5. 21. Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 94–8. 22. Ibid., 98–108. 23. Ibid., 109.

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7

Note, however, that this use of Geertz departs from his work in one important manner. There is a difference between plotting the symbolic relationship between a concrete community’s actual pattern of life and its espoused world view on the basis of phenomenological fieldwork and making inferences on the basis of an admittedly small collection of data gleaned indirectly from one side of an epistolary conversation. This is to highlight the relative difficulties of historical inaccessibility attached to the lived Pauline community and its pattern of life. Likewise, there is no unmediated access to Paul’s world view; what exists is a set of epistolary reflections on certain occasions and situations to which Paul brings various theological resources to bear, not necessarily in an entirely consistent manner. In effect, this is to observe that the present volume is not a work of social science. Rather, Geertz’s cultural model of religious symbols is used here as a heuristic device for framing a study that is otherwise characterized by methodologies typical of traditional exegetical, literary, theological and biblical-hermeneutical approaches. As such, following an overview of some of the previous works in the field, the argument turns to a series of historical, exegetical chapters, which cover Paul’s metaphysics and his form of life, before turning to exegetical studies of 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 1 Cor 11:17–34.

1.4 An Outline of the Volume The argument of this study is as follows. Chapter 2 presents an initial survey of some of the previous studies and methodological issues attached to this field, focusing principally on major works of the last century. As will be seen, various factors render the field inherently complicated, a complication much of which is generated by basic questions to do with the relationship between the Jesus movement’s ritual practices and their likely antecedents and parallels, not to mention the relationship between Jewish and Hellenistic cultural forms in the relevant epoch. In terms of baptismal studies, productive comparisons may be made with Jewish or Graeco-Roman cultic ablutions, though with no straightforward path through the material that decisively explains the relation of either to Jesus movement ritual. In the case of the Lord’s Supper, a similar complexity will be apparent. The survey concentrates upon major works in the first part of the last century, followed by a consideration of various subsequent studies that illustrate the turn towards the social sciences and concluding with a brief summary of the approach and findings of recent works. This sets the scene for the exegetical discussions that follow, which aim to navigate a route through some of this complexity. Chapter 3 builds upon the account of Paul’s cosmology and ecclesiology advanced in my previous study,24 by supplementing this with considerations of Paul’s likely views of both the physical structure of the cosmos and his attitude towards the inhabitants of the spirit world. As will be seen, he is a synthetic thinker who defies easy classification along the lines of the, now dubious, Judaism-Hellenism dichotomy. The resultant outline of a Pauline metaphysic 24. See Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 69–96.

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informs the exegetical consideration of Paul’s anthropology and baptismal thought in 1 Cor 6:2–3, 15:45–49 and Gal 4:1–10. This is further developed in relation to the idea of the ecclesial community as cult space in 1 Cor 3:16, 5–6. As will be seen, the resultant account of Pauline theology is pneumatologically mediated, baptismally effected, ecclesiologically situated and cosmologically and anthropologically transformative. The argument of Chapter 4 develops the present thesis by focusing upon the normative and performative corollaries of Paul’s eschatological anthropology, ecclesiology and cosmology. The aim is to begin to delineate some of the congruences that exist between the descriptive and performative aspects of Paul’s world view. Beginning with an introductory discussion of form of life in Geertz and in practice theory, the chapter considers the role of Pauline ethics, the place and function of mimesis of Christ and broader soteriological narrative patterns in the formation of an ecclesial mindset. This is explored exegetically in relation to Phil 2–3, Gal 5:13–26 and 1 Cor 12:4–13, passages that are thematically complementary to those examined in Chapter 3. As will be seen, the chapter advances a model of Pauline form of life in which the character of baptismal freedom is mimetically framed by Christ’s radical self-effacement, and in which the notion of the church as body/ temple serves to orient the community towards a model of mutual identification that likely has de-stratifying effects. Chapter 5 is the exegetical crux of the volume, in which the baptismal argument of Chapters 3 and 4 is brought to bear upon the ritual symbol of the Lord’s Supper in 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 1 Cor 11:17–34. Key to the analysis in this chapter will be a cogent description of the nature of symbol in Geertz’s thought and some account of its likely implications in the contested territory of Corinthian dining controversies. The chapter moves from that to a consideration of the relevant passages, drawing connections between the discussions there, the likely reconstructions of the situations to which they refer and the metaphysical and performative model established in Chapters 3 and 4. The aim is to show some of the ways in which, for Paul, this ritual enacts the boundedness and distinctiveness of the ecclesial community, epitomizing its character as cultic space, as location for the performance of Christ-mimesis and as sphere in which by means of πνεῦμα transmission/incorporation κοινωνία with Christ might occur. Though Chapters 3–5 present a distinctive account of the Pauline materials, this reading is not unprecedented, nor is it detached from the reception of Paul’s writings in the subsequent tradition. Chapter 6 is devoted to exploring whether, and if so how, elements of this reading might be attested in the work of some of Paul’s early interpreters. The chapter takes the form of a study of receptions of Paul in early theological and apologetic sources, liturgical texts and Syriac writings. Space precludes a consideration of both Baptism and the Lord’s Supper in these writings, but as Chapters 3 and 4 establish the Pauline world-view model in regard to baptismal practice in particular, it is apt to focus here upon how that might have been received in the tradition that follows him. This is followed by Chapter 7, which summarizes the findings of the volume and offers some concluding reflections.

Chapter 2 LITERATURE REVIEW: BAPTISM AND THE LORD’S SUPPER

2.1 Introduction As has been noted above, the present volume considers the question of the shape, purpose and meaning of core ritual events in the Pauline communities by means of the twin lenses of Paul’s cosmology and ecclesiology. The aim is to construct a relatively ‘thick description’1 of these realities by exploring them using Clifford Geertz’s notion of symbols as mediating and integrating the multidirectional interrelationships between metaphysics and forms of life. As two cardinal symbols of the ritual life of the Pauline communities, Baptism and the Lord’s Supper exemplify and mediate the congruence between Paul’s understandings of both the church and its relation to the world and the distinctive way in which baptismal identity is lived out. As a preliminary move, it is apt to offer brief considerations of previous studies in related areas and some of the methodological issues arising from the field. The following chapter is devoted to this task and offers a non-exhaustive account of some of the main contours of major studies in this area from the past century. This is to define the field of study. The survey comprises three main sections. The first section offers a summary account of some of the phases of study of the field. The second provides a critical, but non-comprehensive, illustrative summary of some of the aspects of the study of Paul and Baptism. The third gives a more substantial account of some of the literature on the Lord’s Supper.

2.2 Issues and Themes 2.2.1 The Complexity of the Field By way of initial observation, studies of ritual in Paul are complicated by questions of how Pauline practices, to which the epistles give only indirect evidence, relate to ideas and practices in several settings: (i) in the life and ministry of Jesus, (ii) in 1. Clifford Geertz, ‘Thick Description: Towards an Interpretative Theory of Culture’, in The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1973).

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non-Pauline Jesus movement circles and (iii) in subsequent Christian traditions. In regard to each of these settings there are also various complicating factors: (iv) the antecedent or precursory practices from which they are adapted, (v) the significance of these precursory practices to their respective communities (whether Jewish or Graeco-Roman),2 (vi) analogous practices in other communities and (vii) the distinctive meaning these practices acquire in their Jesus movement contexts.3 Broadly speaking, the field comprises studies that approach Jesus movement ritual by means of Jewish and non-Jewish antecedents and parallels.4 This tends to mean that this area of New Testament studies is liable to considerable complexity, not to mention controversy. We note that at least some of this complexity is inherent to the field. Since belonging, hence entry, to a community is something that affects nearly everyone, and dining not only is a physical necessity but also is usually a social activity, initiation and commensality are among the prime candidates (alongside birth, death and sex) to be socially ritualized and theologically thick experiences. Such experiences are necessarily complicated matters, since they bear the weight of forming, performing, maintaining and sustaining the community’s identity and distinctive world view. Quite apart from this, the Pauline materials add their own additional layer of difficulty, since the relatively cosmopolitan setting of the Corinthian congregation and the relative sparsity of detail in the Pauline materials gives ample room for competing accounts of these practices. 2.2.2 Interpretative Trends: History of Religion As described, the issue of ritual practices in the Pauline writings is effectively a subset of problems attached to the history of religion (Religionsgeschichte). This epithet covers a family of approaches to biblical interpretation that arose in the final decades of the nineteenth century, clustering initially around the community

2. As far as is possible, the practice here is to avoid using the term ‘Hellenism’ to denote a complementary/contrasting cultural field to Judaism. The term ‘Graeco-Roman’ will normally be used. 3. For an overview of some of these issues, see I. Howard Marshall, ‘Lord’s Supper’, in Dictionary of Paul and His Letters, ed. Gerald F. Hawthorne, Ralph P. Martin and Daniel G. Reid (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1993). 4. For literature covering this range, see Hans-Josef Klauck, ‘Sacrifice and Sacrificial Offerings (NT)’, in The Anchor Bible Dictionary, ed. David Noel Freedman (New Haven: Doubleday, 1992); Gene Schramm, ‘Meal Customs (Jewish)’, in The Anchor Bible dictionary, ed. David Noel Freedman (New Haven: Doubleday, 1992); C. K. Barrett, Church, Ministry, and Sacraments in the New Testament (Exeter: Paternoster, 1985); Albrecht Oepke, ‘βάπτω, βαπτίζω, βαπτισμός, βάπτισμα, βαπτιστής’, in TDNT, ed. Gerhard Kittel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964), 1:529–46.

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of scholars at Göttingen.5 The principal approach of the history of religion school (Religionsgeschichtliche Schule) was based in the emergent discipline of comparative religion. In its first phase, the movement attempted to show the development of early Christian ideas and practices by positing antecedents in Graeco-Roman religion, specifically the mysteries, mediated by Hellenistic Judaism. Key texts in this period include Albert Eichorn’s Das Abendmahl im Neuen Testament, and Wilhelm Bousset’s Kyrios Christos.6 For Eichorn, the initiatory and sacred meal practices of Graeco-Roman mysteries and pre-Christian gnosticism constituted the building blocks of early Christian sacramentalism and were distinct from the peasant commensality of Jesus. Bousset treated Christology itself, specifically the idea of Jesus as Kyrios, as having emerged under the influence of gentile religion, especially Gnosticism, the Imperial cult and the mysteries. In both cases, the working hypothesis is twofold: firstly, a cultural and conceptual gap is posited between the religious significance of Jesus to his contemporaries and his meaning for early Christians; secondly, the aetiology of this distance resides in the latter’s accommodation of Jesus to the status of cult founder or mythical saviour. Klauck’s sardonic description of the process as a ‘[Hellenistic?] lapse from the original purity of the [Jewish?] gospel’ aptly captures this interpretative tendency.7 Though the gnostic hypothesis, and its proto-gnostic and incipient-gnostic variants, continued well into the twentieth century,8 the interpretative approach characteristic of the history of religion was not restricted to proposals involving Graeco-Roman antecedents alone. The work of Albert Schweitzer on mysticism represents an alternative, which is in its own way a history of religion proposal. Schweitzer located the beliefs and practices of the Pauline mission in a Jewish context. Interacting with the religious character of Paul’s cosmological language, he

5. For helpful works on this field, see N. T. Wright, Paul and His Recent Interpreters: Some Contemporary Debates (London: SPCK, 2015), 3–25; S. J. Hafemann, ‘Paul and His Interpreters’, in Dictionary of Paul and His Letters, ed. Gerald F. Hawthorne, Ralph P. Martin and Daniel G. Reid (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1993), 668–9; Robert Morgan, ‘History of Religions School’, in A Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation, ed. R. J. Coggins and J. L. Houlden (London: SCM, 1990). 6. See Albert Eichhorn, The Lord’s Supper in the New Testament, trans. Jeffrey F. Cayzer, Society of Biblical Literature History of Biblical Studies (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007); Wilhelm Bousset, Kyrios Christos (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1913); also see Wilhelm Bousset, Die Religion des Judentums im neutestamentlichen Zietalter, 2nd ed. (Berlin: Reuther and Reichard, 1906). 7. Hans-Josef Klauck, The Religious Context of Early Christianity: A Guide to GraecoRoman Religions, trans. Brian McNeil, Studies in the New Testament and Its World (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 2000), 151. 8. See relevant sections of, Rudolf Bultmann, Theology of The New Testament, trans. Kendrick Grobel, 2 vols., vol. 1 (London: SCM, 1952); and especially Bultmann’s work on John, Rudolf Bultmann, The Gospel of John: A Commentary, trans. George R. BeasleyMurray (Oxford: Blackwell, 1971).

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proposes that Paul’s disposition towards the cosmos is only superficially redolent of Hellenistic philosophical forms of life and thought.9 Rather, it is ruptured by a thoroughgoing eschatology, in which Paul’s mysticism is mediated solely through Christ and is expressed locatively.10 For Schweitzer, baptismal practice constitutes a quasi-physical participation ‘in Christ’ that derives not from gnostic notions of mediation, but from early Jewish beliefs about God and the world. This second strand of history of religion is evident in a range of works in the mid-late twentieth century which are devoted to exploring possible parallels or antecedents to Jesus or Paul within Rabbinic and Second Temple Judaism. One of the most significant early works of this stable is William Davies’s Paul and Rabbinic Judaism.11 The argument in this volume is insightful, in that Davies correctly draws attention to areas of commonality between Paul and the rabbis that had hitherto been underplayed by those advocating a Graeco-Roman provenance for the substance of Paul’s religion. As I have observed elsewhere, such echoes are evident in Paul’s writing: For example, the statement of mutuality in 1 Cor 11:11 manifestly resembles the Rabbinic ‘not man without woman, not woman without man and not both without the Shekinah’ (Gen. Rab. 8.8).12 However, this specific case only serves to illustrate the complexity of these sorts of judgement. The Rabbinic text postdates Paul, so the question of the provenance of the traditions it contains is almost as vexed as the question of the relationship of these traditions to Paul, to Jesus or to other materials. In the case of studies of Paul and ritual, this second Jewish approach to the history of religion is apparent in Joachim Jeremias’s study of The Eucharistic Words of Jesus, and in George Beasley-Murray’s volume on Baptism in the New Testament.13 To some extent, it has been usual in the history of religion discussions to find Paul portrayed as either disconnected from the Jesus tradition and its Palestinian Jewish matrix or adapting it for the novel, Hellenistic setting of the ancient Mediterranean city. We note that this tends to suppose that the thought forms 9. He makes this point contra Eduard Norden, Agnostos Theos: Untersuchungen Zur Formengeschichte Religiöser Rede (Leipzig: Teubner, 1913), 240ff. 10. Albert Schweitzer, The Mysticism of Paul the Apostle, trans. William Montgomery (London: A.&C. Black, 1931), 11. 11. W. D. Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism: Some Rabbinic Elements in Pauline Theology (London: SPCK, 1948); also E. P. Sanders, Paul, the Law, and the Jewish People (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985). 12. Cited in C. K. Barrett, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians, Black’s New Testament Commentaries (London: A.&C. Black, 1968), 255; James Moffatt, The First Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1938), 153; see my discussion in Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 114–15. 13. See Joachim Jeremias, The Eucharistic Words of Jesus, trans. Norman Perrin, 3rd revised ed. (London: SCM, 1966). The edition used here is the third edition, which reflects Jeremias’s mature thesis in the light of the Qumran discoveries (which he rejects as attesting to a possible antecedent); also George R. Beasley-Murray, Baptism in the New Testament (London: Macmillan, 1962).

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of Judaism and Hellenism are essentialized and opposed. This is not, of course, a presumption limited to history of religion.14 However, such a portrayal of the relationship between Jewish and Hellenistic identities has been substantially debunked, initially in the work of Martin Hengel.15 More recently, Ronald Charles has suggested that Paul inhabits what Homi Bhabha describes as a ‘Third Space’.16 This is to suggest that Paul’s identity, like that of most Jews, was shaped by the experience of diaspora, empire or both, and thus was necessarily negotiated, intersectional and contestable. Consequently, the question of how Pauline practices of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper intersect with Graeco-Roman or Jewish practices is unlikely to be settled by the marshalling of rival sets of parallels and echoes. This tendency is the ‘parallelomania’ of which Samuel Sandmel wrote so witheringly.17 2.2.3 Interpretative Trends: Social Sciences The question of the influence of other, mainly philosophical, hermeneutical and social-scientific, disciplines upon the field merits comment. That the field of New Testament interpretation draws upon other areas as they move between paradigms and emphases is hardly novel. For example, in the early decades of the twentieth century, Schweitzer’s preoccupation with the interiority of Pauline religious experience, characterized as ‘mysticism’, relies upon a field at least partially indebted to the work of William James on religious experience.18 More recently, a number of significant works from the 1970s onwards have sought to address questions of practice in the Pauline communities in terms of what such ritual behaviours accomplish by way of world view, symbol and identity in construction, performance or enactment.19 Such studies draw variously on

14. See for example Ferdinand C. Baur, Paul, the Apostle of Jesus Christ: His Life and Works, His Epistles and Teachings, trans. A. Menzies, 2nd ed., 2 vols. (London: Williams and Norgate, 1873), 1:39–62. 15. See Martin Hengel, Judentum Und Hellenismus: Studien zu ihrer Begegnung unter besonderer Berücksichtigung Palästinas bis zur Mitte des 2. Jh. v. Chr (Tübingen: Mohr, 1969); and more recently Troels Engberg-Pedersen, ed. Paul Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001). 16. Ronald Charles, Paul and the Politics of Diaspora, Paul in critical contexts (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2014), 51; Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, Routledge Classics (London: Routledge, 2004), 55. 17. See Samuel Sandmel, ‘Parallelomania’, JBL 81 (1962), 1–13. 18. See Schweitzer, Mysticism, 1; William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature, Revised ed. (London: Longmans, 1902). 19. See for example Gerd Theissen, The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1982); Meeks, First Urban Christians; Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence; Adams, Constructing the World; Philip F. Esler, Conflict and Identity in Romans: The Social Setting of Paul’s Letter (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003); Esler, New Testament Theology: Communion and Community.

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a range of sociological and anthropological models, including major works by Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann, Clifford Geertz, Roy Rappaport and Anthony Giddens.20 David Horrell’s account of the methodological issues attached to this field provides a useful and thorough example of one way in which this type of study might be undertaken. He considers three main critical approaches in turn: (i) functionalist sociology, (ii) Berger and Luckmann on the ‘sociology of knowledge’ and (iii) Anthony Giddens on ‘structuration theory’. Commending the first of these for its attention to what social activities accomplish, he nevertheless correctly observes that this tendency inadequately distinguishes between the  consequences of an action and its intentions, or indeed its emergence.21 This  is an important criticism, which bears decisively on the intersection between social-scientific, history of religion and classic philological, grammatical and contextual modes of interpretation. In effect, it is to observe that what an activity purports to be is not necessarily what it does; what it does is not necessarily its intended end; and none of this necessarily indicates its origin or antecedent. In regard to Berger and Luckmann, Horrell notes that their work on world construction is important as a theoretical tool for understanding the role of practice and symbol in the ‘formation of human self-understanding and social interaction’.22 The socially constructed symbolic world orders both how reality is received and the patterns of life that are naturalized within it.23 Nevertheless, Horrell suggests that Berger and Luckmann inadequately account for the role of human agency in actively reproducing or attempting to transform the symbolic order.24 For this, he turns to the work of Anthony Giddens. Giddens is notable for insisting upon a dialectic between social structures and individual agency, such that the one is formed by the other, which in turn operates within the very medium that it forms.25 One of the consequences of understanding the relationship between members of a society and its symbolic order in this way is that it is open to the exposure of ideology. As Horrell notes, a symbolic order may legitimize, delegitimize, sustain, reify and naturalize all manner of ideas and proposals, and

20. See for example Berger and Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality; Anthony Giddens, New Rules of Sociological Method: A Positive Critique of Interpretative Sociologies (London: Hutchinson, 1976); Geertz, ‘Thick Description’; Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. 21. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence, 36–7. 22. Ibid., 40. 23. For an application of this to Pauline theology, see Adams, Constructing the World. 24. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence, 42–5. 25. For example, Giddens, New Rules of Sociological Method: A Positive Critique of Interpretative Sociologies, 121.

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when the order is religious in its character this effect is especially powerful.26 This bears upon the study of Pauline practices, particularly his critical stance towards the Corinthian δεῖπνον. Finally, the work of Risto Uro on socio-cognitive accounts of early Christian ritual deserves mention.27 Utilizing work in the field of Cognitive Science of Religion (CSR), he draws upon works by Lawson and McCauley, Stewart Guthrie, Pascal Boyer and Harvey Whitehouse. Noting the ‘striking regularities of religious ideas and behaviours across time and space’, Uro suggests that that there is evidence to indicate that the ‘mental architecture’ of human beings is sufficient to explain some of the recurrence.28 These cognitive explanations for repeated patterns of religiosity include the idea of religious ideas and practices as by-products, particularly of the cognitive mechanism by which humans recognize other agents. Being (usually) both pro-social and costly, rituals simultaneously elicit cooperative behaviour and attest to honesty of intentions.29 It is not the aim here to provide an exhaustive account of the relevance of this to the interpretation of Paul, though we note that Uro does apply these ideas to ritual washing.30 Interpretatively, this approach is significant but beyond the scope of this volume. Its value for the present project lies in its function as a reminder that some of the ritual behaviours of early Christianity might be chartable against inbuilt human cognitive tendencies. This is not to necessitate dispensing with history of religion, constructivist social anthropology or questions of interpretation and ethics. Rather, it is to act as a corrective to parallelistic excess. We note too that Uro avoids the apparent tendency towards reductionism that some might infer based on a purely evolutionarily adaptive model of human cognition. The approach does not require that theological statements are rendered untrue by this; nor does it mean that human agency, whether individual or collective, is inactive or nonconstructive. There are, Uro notes, ‘ritual entrepreneur[s]’.31

26. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence, 52; also Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 149–53. 27. Risto Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings: A Socio-Cognitive Analysis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 41–70. I am grateful to Professor Philip Esler for drawing this to my attention. 28. Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings, 43. 29. For an effective overview and analysis, see Ilkka Pyysiäinen and Veikko Anttonen, Current Approaches in the Cognitive Science of Religion (London: Continuum, 2002). I am grateful to Dr Jonathan Jong for access to the pre-publication copy of his forthcoming article, C. Kavanagh, J. Jong, H. Whitehouse, ‘Ritual and Religion as Social Technologies of Cooperation’, which covers some of the terrain mentioned here. 30. Uro, Ritual and Christian Beginnings, 71–98. 31. Ibid., 73.

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2.2.4 Section Summary The aim of this section has been to provide an overview of some of the issues and trends that comprise the backdrop for the overviews of scholarship on Baptism and the Lord’s Supper that are to follow. Complexity is characteristic of this field, in part because of the relative dearth of ritual and theological detail in the Pauline materials. However, the complexity also is due to the multiple and contradictory history of religion proposals that have been posited in the past century. Much of this complexity stems from basic framework questions: What are the intersections between Palestinian Judaisms, Diaspora Judaisms and Graeco-Roman cultures in this period? Does this suggest Paul as a receiver, a corruptor, an adapter or an originator of the traditions about Jesus? How might identity, and thus rituals of entry and commensality, function in such a milieu? These are questions that aptly draw upon insights from the field of the social sciences. The section closed with some corrective observations from the field of CSR.

2.3 Studies of Baptism The main aim of this volume is to explore the two key ritual events of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper in Paul, focusing initially on Baptism and progressing to a detailed examination of 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 11:17–34. Accordingly, this chapter reflects that emphasis, offering here a brief account of some of the contours of the relevant literature. The section following this provides a more substantial and detailed overview of select proposals regarding the Lord’s Supper. 2.3.1 Overview and Philological Issues The term βαπτίζω (cf. Rom 6:3, 1 Cor 10:2, Gal 3:27) does not have a particularly wide semantic field, Liddell and Scott32 giving its three principal senses as (i) ‘to dip, plunge’, which includes the ideas of ‘drowning’ and ‘drenching’, (ii) ‘to draw by dipping’ and (iii) ‘to baptize’. Bauer and Danker33 note that within the New Testament and related literature the term denotes various types of ablution, such as ritual washings associated with dining (e.g. Mark 7:4, Luke 11:38), John’s baptismal practice (e.g. John 3:23) and Jesus movement initiation (e.g. Acts 2:4). Alongside this, they note several figurative extensions of this final usage, which include the case of Paul’s midrash on the exodus (1 Cor 10:2 ‘baptized’ into Moses), the notion of being baptized in the spirit (Mark 1:8, cf. 1 Cor 12:13), and the references to baptismal practice in the context of martyrdom (Mark 10:38 ‘the baptism that I am baptized with’; cf. Luke 12:50). It is not clear that these figurative uses each invoke the same aspect of the primary sense.

32. See βαπτίζω in LSL. 33. See βαπτίζω in BDAG.

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The locative language associated with baptismal practice (e.g. Rom 6:3, 1 Cor 12:13, Gal 3:27)34 is a particularly significant issue. This language takes the form of either ‘in the name of ’ (εἰς τὸ ὄνομα; cf. 1 Cor 1:13) or ‘in’ (εἰς; cf. Gal 3:27) expressions. Chiefly, attention has been given to the fuller form, with key work in this area having been done by Wilhelm Heitmüller and Paul Billerbeck.35 Effective accounts of this debate include those by George Beasley-Murray and Lars Hartmann.36 In summary, there are two questions: The first bears upon the significance of the εἰς τὸ ὄνομα form; and the second upon its relationship to the shorter εἰς form. For Heitmüller, the proper context for understanding εἰς τὸ ὄνομα expressions is Graeco-Roman banking, in which to reckon an amount ‘in the name of X’ is to credit that sum to X’s account. On this basis, he understood baptismal practice to involve a form of transference in which the baptisand becomes the property of Christ. There is evidence in Paul of the relationship between Jesus and a devotee being described in terms redolent of property relations: Paul describes himself as a ‘slave’ (Rom 1:1); the Corinthians were ‘bought with a price’ (1 Cor 6:20, 7:23); both justification and resurrection are described in terms of ‘redemption’ (Rom 3:24, 8:23, 1 Cor 1:30). Nevertheless, as Hartmann insightfully observes, there is little in the immediate contexts of most New Testament εἰς τὸ ὄνομα sayings to support Heitmüller’s reading, given that the expressions are usually insulated from verbs associated with finance and combined with verbs covering different semantic fields entirely.37 The principal alternative is to explore εἰς τὸ ὄνομα sayings in terms of their Old Testament and Jewish significance. This is to treat the usage of εἰς τὸ ὄνομα as corresponding to the way in which lešēm (‘to the name’) is deployed in Jewish literature. Beasley-Murray offers three examples of this, which he gleans from Billerbeck.38 The first relates to the ritual washing of a gentile slave by his or her Jewish master ‘in the name of [viz. for the purpose of] slavery/freedom’. This could take place upon ownership or at manumission. The second relates to various functions of sacrifice, ‘in the name of ’ denoting the sacrificial intentions. The third

34. Rom 6:3: εἰς Χριστὸν … εἰς τὸν θάνατον αὐτοῦ, 1 Cor 12:13: εἰς ἓν σῶμα, Gal 3:27: εἰς Χριστὸν. 35. Str-B, 1:591; Wilhelm Heitmüller, ‘Im Namen Jesu’: Eine sprach.- u. religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum Neuen Testament, speziell zur altchristlichen Taufe, Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1903), 120. 36. George R. Beasley-Murray, ‘Baptism’, in Dictionary of Paul and His Letters, ed. Gerald F. Hawthorne, Ralph P. Martin and Daniel G. Reid (Downers Grove: InterVarsity Press, 1993), 60–6; Lars Hartman, ‘Usages – Some Notes on the Baptismal Name-Formulae’, in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, ed. David Hellholm, et al., Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), 1:397–414. 37. Hartman, ‘Usages – Some Notes on the Baptismal Name-Formulae’, 1:400. 38. Beasley-Murray, ‘Baptism’, 61.

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relates to Jewish and Samaritan initiatory practices, the latter being regarded by the former as circumcised ‘in the name of Mt Gerizim’.39 Though these usages are drawn from a range of Rabbinic sources, thus running the risk of anachronism, it is nonetheless the case that they offer a more defensible account of these expressions than that offered by Heitmüller. Beasley-Murray suggests that the εἰς Χριστὸν expression is a truncated form of the εἰς τὸ ὄνομα (‘in the name of ’ cf. 1 Cor 1:13) form, the implication being that the significance is similar.40 Whilst this is possible, it does not account fully for the strongly locative aspect in the Pauline usage. It is difficult to disentangle Pauline statements regarding being baptized εἰς Χριστὸν (cf. Gal 3:27), from conceptually and textually proximate expressions describing the baptized as ἐν Χριστῷ (cf. Gal 3:26). Since the examples cited above by Beasley-Murray are not obviously locative, but this Pauline usage is, it would appear to have a different meaning. I have argued elsewhere, in relation to Paul’s ecclesiology and cosmology, that his locative prepositions are spatial, participatory and cosmological in character.41 It is the position taken here that Paul’s use of εἰς Χριστὸν to describe entry to the baptized state belongs properly in this context – despite this making the provenance of the expression somewhat more difficult to identify.42 2.3.2 Graeco-Roman Ablutions Graeco-Roman cult is germane to the interpretation of early Christian baptismal thought,43 so much so that there is evidence of unease among later commentators regarding the similarity between Christianity and the mysteries (Tertullian, Bapt. 5 [ANF 3:671], Origen, C. Cels. 1:7 [ANF 4:399]). However, the relevance of these rites for understanding and interpreting Pauline baptismal practices will depend largely upon whether they are regarded through the lens of history of religion or of social world approaches – the former being more likely to regard Graeco-Roman cult as influences upon Pauline practice, with the latter regarding them as bearing more upon the context in which Paul’s churches or non-Jesus movement observers might have received him. Albrecht Oepke’s summary of some of the Graeco-Roman data available to him is a helpful place to start when considering its relevance to Jesus movement baptismal practices. He notes the evidence of sacral bathing in a variety of contexts, ranging from the Eleusinian cult, the Bacchae, Mithraism and

39. Some of the same ground is covered in Hartman, ‘Usages – Some Notes on the Baptismal Name-Formulae’, 1:397–401. 40. Beasley-Murray, ‘Baptism’, 61. 41. See the figure and the discussion in Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 92. 42. See also James D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 390–412; Schweitzer, Mysticism, 127. 43. See the discussion in the penultimate chapter (below).

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devotion to Isis.44 In terms of significance, Oepke notes that the meanings of these rituals tend to cluster around two foci: purification and regeneration of life.45 Of the texts Oepke mentions, Apuleius is perhaps the best illustration of the issues attached to the use of the mysteries as a comparison for ritual in Paul. The narrative takes the form of a first-person novelistic account of the adventures of Lucius the protagonist, who is transformed magically into an ass (Metam. 3.24–29). The denouement arrives in the form of the intervention of the goddess Isis at Cenchreae, near to Corinth, and Lucius’s subsequent restoration (Metam. 11.23). The upshot is Lucius’s transformation into an Isis devotee, which involves a multi-stage initiation into the cult. This initiation includes bathing, followed by instruction and a period of abstinence, prior to final initiation. Allusions and references to this work can be found in Tertullian (Bapt. 5 [ANF 3:671]). The narrative being geographically proximate to Corinth attests to the significance of Isis devotion in a region germane to the present study, there being cultic sites both at the port of Cenchreae and others in Corinth proper. Despite this proximity, determining exactly what relevance ablutions in the Isis cult might have for the interpretation of Pauline baptismal practice is tricky. Apuleius is not writing ethnography. The rites he describes may well be framed by novelistic intentions, and even if not, the question of the aptness of the analogy remains. To be sure, Lucius’s transformation upon encountering the goddess involves a pattern of initiation of which ablution is part, but did the meaning of this rite correspond, even obliquely, with the meanings performed when a Jesus devotee is baptized? None of this is to diminish the way in which transfers of religious allegiance such as that experienced by Lucius might have been understood by former Isis devotees in Corinth. His cognitive and social reality is dislocated and relocated.46 In that sense, the structural association between processes of epiphany, transfer of allegiance, initiation and ablution that one sees in Apuleius may well merit comparison with Paul. Fritz Graf ’s discussion of references to Graeco-Roman cultic ablutions in early Christian apologetic literature is helpful in showing both the strengths and the limitations of these sorts of comparisons. He notes that Justin (1 Apol. 61–62 [ANF 1:183–84]), in describing Christian Baptism, refers to two distinct water rituals in Graeco-Roman cults – routine aspersion at the entrance to sanctuary space, and bathing for the purpose of cultic purification.47 Similarly, Tertullian (Bapt. 5 [ANF 44. Oepke, ‘βάπτω, βαπτίζω, βαπτισμός, βάπτισμα, βαπτιστής’, 1:530–1; see also the descriptions of various ritual initiations in Klauck, The Religious Context of Early Christianity, 81–152. 45. Oepke, ‘βάπτω, βαπτίζω, βαπτισμός, βάπτισμα, βαπτιστής’, 1:532–3. 46. See the discussion of Meeks, Nock and Shumate in Stephen J. Chester, Conversion at Corinth: Perspectives on Conversion in Paul’s Theology and the Corinthian Church (London: T.&T. Clark, 2003), 10. 47. Fritz Graf, ‘Baptism and Graeco-Roman Mystery Cults’, in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, ed. David Hellholm, et al., Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), 111.

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3:671]) cites not only the Isis cult, but also Mithraism, ablutions at the Apollinarian and Eleusinian games and repeated sundry ablutions for the purposes of expiation of transgressions.48 Graf ’s analysis is incisive. He notes that the approaches of the apologists to such parallels attest to attempts by both Christians and Graeco-Roman writers to explain away one another’s ritual practices. He also argues convincingly that the differences between the two sets of superficially similar behaviours preclude a straightforward history of religion proposal in which the one is the antecedent of the other. The mysteries usually treated ablution as a preparatory, repeatable rite, with the secret encounter with the divine being subsequent. Baptism, as Graf notes, ‘performed the radical change of personality that turned a pagan into a Christian; the bath and prayer thus was the core rite’.49 The preceding discussion is, in effect, to reiterate a point made some time ago by Alexander Wedderburn regarding the nature of the relationship between Paul and the mysteries. He notes (i) that Paul is extremely unlikely ever to have had first-hand experience of being initiated into Graeco-Roman cult; (ii) that because of the ‘tendency of many mysteries to extract a high price for initiation’ it is prima facie unlikely that many of Paul’s congregants were former initiates; and (iii) that consequently the influence of the mysteries is unlikely to be decisive for the emergence of early Christian sacramental thought – at least in the Apostolic period.50 Nevertheless, Wedderburn balances this caution by observing that both Paul and his congregants would in all likelihood have received the usual noninitiate exposure to the public elements of Graeco-Roman religious ceremonies and of those beliefs that were ‘the common heritage of the Hellenistic world’.51 As such, the popular religiosity of the ancient Mediterranean is relevant to Pauline practice in a similar manner to the way in which popular philosophical notions are germane to his ideas or to the slogans of his interlocutors.52 They are in the cultural air that Paul and his converts breathe. As such, the relevance of the mysteries for Pauline baptismal patterns may be twofold. On the one hand, he may reference ideas that overlap those used in the mysteries – arguably, the comparison between Lord’s Supper and the table of demons would not work otherwise (cf. 1 Cor 10:14–21) – but the presence of such terminology ought not to imply proximity. On the other hand, it would be surprising if such ideas did not from time to time generate responses to Paul

48. Ibid., 105–10. 49. Ibid., 102–5. 50. A. J. M. Wedderburn, Baptism and Resurrection: Studies in Pauline Theology Against its Graeco-Roman Background, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament (Tübingen: Mohr, 1987), 158. 51. Wedderburn, Baptism and Resurrection, 159. 52. See for example Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989); also Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 82–8.

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among his gentile converts or among non-Jesus movement observers in which Pauline Christianity was received in terms akin to the mysteries.53 2.3.3 Jewish Ritual Ablutions An oft-repeated theme in the literature regarding Baptism is that of Jewish ablutary practice. At one level, this connection leads naturally from attention to the New Testament usage of βαπτίζω which includes denoting Jewish ritual washing of foodstuffs and dining utensils prior to cooking (Mark 7:4) or diners prior to eating (Luke 11:38). At another, it follows from some of the similarities of idea or preoccupation between early Jesus movement literature and other Jewish literature. So, for example, Beasley-Murray cites the first chapter of the tractate Mishnah Miqwaʾot, which offers an ascending scale of water preference purity wise.54 This scale rises from the least preferable, (i) rainwater in a pool of less than forty seahs, through (ii) flowing rainwater, (iii) a pool of more than forty seahs, (iv) a spring, (v) a hot or salty spring and finally (vi) ‘living’ or running water. Though the order of preference in the Didache (7:1–3) begins with the most preferable and ends with the least, there are nonetheless echoes of Jewish miqwaʾot prescriptions in the sequence of (a) ‘living’ water, (b) cold standing water, (c) warm standing water and (d) affusion/aspersion. However, as with Graeco-Roman parallels, the Rabbinic text is both similar and dissimilar, both in form and underlying theology, from the Jesus movement text. Whereas the Rabbinic text is interested in the cultic and halakhic question of which types of washing will be efficacious under what circumstances, such that ‘living’ waters will enact purifications that lesser waters will not, there is no sense in the Didache passage that those baptized in standing water or by affusion are any less baptized than those done in running waters. Moreover, the orders of preference differ: The author of Mishnah Miqwaʾot ranks hot springs above cold, whereas the author of Didache ranks cold cisterns above warm. Clearly, the similarities are redolent of an overlap between the early Jesus movement and Jewish concerns and practices, but the differences at the level of underlying theology are sufficient to warrant caution. This is to revisit the problem identified in the previous section. It is also worth mentioning inter alia the issue of washings in the Old Testament. The question of whether some of the allusions to Jewish cult in early Christian literature refer to actual cult or to cultic materials and regulations in Scripture is a live question in some New Testament areas (e.g. Heb 9:1–22). The Old Testament texts themselves evince a range of washings, such as (i) those directed towards sanctification (Exod 19:10); (ii) those upon entry into cultic space (Exod 30:19–21);

53. See Wedderburn, Baptism and Resurrection, 163. 54. Beasley-Murray, ‘Baptism in the New Testament’, 26n1; Avraham Walfish, Miqva’ot, ed. Adele Berlin, 2nd ed., The Oxford Dictionary of the Jewish Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 500; also Everett Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church: History, Theology, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), 64.

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(iii) preparatory ablutions for the purpose of prayer (Jdt 12:7–9); (iv) ritual purifications upon recovery from specific illnesses (Lev 14:1–9); (v) periodic issues of somatic discharges or dietary restrictions (Lev 15, 17:10–16); (vi) rituals, including the Red Heifer, attached to the management of contact with death (Num 19) and (vi) the Day of Atonement (Lev 16:1–5). Some of these usages, such as preparatory washings and lustrations for the management of sanctuary space, are common to a range of traditions in various ancient contexts.55 Others are evidently referred to in Jewish literature of the Second Temple and early Rabbinic periods. The Sybilline Oracles attest to the practice of daily purifications among Jews for the purpose of prayer (Sib. Or. 3:591–93). In the Qumran materials, 4QMMT 1–19 discusses the ablutions associated with the Red Heifer ritual, also raising questions about the efficacy of flowing water for the separation of pure and impure in a manner not dissimilar from the Rabbinic discussions mentioned above (54–69).56 Indeed, the presence of multiple miqwaʾot in the Dead Sea Complex and elsewhere in ancient Palestine is well attested.57 Everett Ferguson highlights evidence in certain manuscript traditions of the Testament of Levi of an association between washing in ‘living’ (viz. running) water and repentance. Manuscript E states: ‘I wholly washed myself in living water, and I made all my ways straight’ (T.Levi 2:3).58 Certainly, penitential washings are by no means limited to isolated references in testamentary pseudepigrapha. The Latin recension of the Life of Adam and Eve has both Adam and Eve penitentially immerse themselves to their necks in the rivers Jordan and Tigris respectively (Vit. Ad. 5:1–10:1). This seems to correspond to elements of Jewish purifications, since the waters of rivers are ‘living’ and immersion to the neck corresponds to the usual depth of the miqwaʾot. By way of drawing some of this data together, one of the remaining issues to be considered is that of the relationship between some of these patterns of Jewish washing and specific rites clustering around notions of repentance and initiation. Specifically, this involves asking how early Jesus movement baptismal patterns and their precursor practices might relate to penitential and initiatory ablutions elsewhere in Second Temple Judaism. Certainly, this task is not straightforward. Evidence for initiation bathings, both sectarian and proselyte, is mixed in this period. On the one hand, there is solid evidence of the use of bathing as part of initiation into the

55. See section 2.3.2 on Graeco-Roman ablutions. 56. See Florentino García Martínez, The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated: The Qumran Texts in English, trans. Wilfred G. E. Watson, 2nd ed. (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 79–84. 57. Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church, 64–5; Jonathan David Lawrence, ‘Washing in Water: Trajectories of Ritual Bathing in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Literature’ (Doctoral Thesis, University of Notre Dame, 2003), 192–230. 58. Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church, 65; also see the relevant Aramaic fragments in García Martínez, The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated, 266–8.

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Qumran community (cf. 1QS 5.13).59 On the other, proselyte ablution, which several reconstructions of the emergence of early Jesus movement baptismal practice require, is much less evident.60 Of course, evidential paucity is not decisive; as Adela Collins has observed, even if it were not initiation per se bathing would have been a necessity for converts if they were to establish the requisite temple purity.61 It is not a complicated development from this to proselyte ablutions. Though there evidently is some relationship between Johannine and Jesus movement practices and Jewish penitential and initiatory ablutions, Maxwell Johnson cautions against too particular a cause and effect proposal. The specific social and religious context of the first century, together with the sheer variety of Jewish ritual uses of water, makes the emergence of a ‘ritual entrepreneur’ such as John extremely likely.62 It may be that early Jesus movement baptismal practice and some of these other Jewish water rites are, in fact, parallel rather than sequential developments. 2.3.4 Section Summary This section has explored some of the issues attached to the consideration of early Jesus movement baptismal practices against both Graeco-Roman and Second Temple Jewish backdrops. It was seen that there is scope for reconstructing some of the ways in which Graeco-Roman ideas and practices may have framed the interaction between Paul and his interlocutors, whose stances and readings of one another may have been informed directly or indirectly by the religiosity of the culture that surrounded them. In the case of Jewish washing rituals, Old Testament, Second Temple and Rabbinic materials were surveyed. There is no linear route through the material that decisively accounts for both John’s baptismal practice and the Jesus movement practices that followed it.

2.4 Studies of the Lord’s Supper The following section offers a survey of some of the literature regarding the Lord’s Supper. These include approaches to the Lord’s Supper by means of Jewish

59. See the discussion in Sean Freyne, ‘Jewish Immersion and Christian Baptism’, in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, ed. David Hellholm, et al., Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), 228. 60. Most of the examples of proselyte initiation cited by Ferguson are from Rabinnic literature. See Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church, 79–82. 61. Adela Yarbro Collins, ‘The Origin of Christian Baptism’, Studia Liturgica 10 (1989): 32–5. 62. Maxwell E. Johnson, The Rites of Christian Initiation: Their Evolution and Interpretation, Rev. and expanded ed. (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2007), 9–12; The term ‘ritual entrepreneur’ derives from Uro, Ritual and Christian beginnings, 73.

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meals (quotidian, Sabbath, festal or paschal)63 and by means of non-Jewish meals (temple sacrifices, associations, collegia, mysteries, oikos cults and symposia).64 Space limits the scope of the study to the past century. 2.4.1 Major Studies in the First Half of the Twentieth Century Albert Schweitzer (1901) In the eponymously titled Das Abendmahlsproblem,65 Albert Schweitzer identifies the ‘problem’ that his nineteenth-century predecessors had revealed but failed to resolve regarding the Lord’s Supper. He proposes that scholarship had hitherto approached interpretations of the Lord’s Supper by means of two main emphases. The one focuses upon the death of Christ, enacted symbolically through the fraction and distribution by Christ at the Last Supper. The other attends to the significance of the moment of reception by the disciples. Whereas the former concentrates sacramental focus upon participation in the effects of Jesus’s passion, the other treats the meal in terms of table fellowship. Of course, these are not mutually exclusive stances, and Schweitzer’s resultant taxonomy of scholarship recognizes four basic positions:66 (i) an exclusive focus upon the moment of presentation; (ii) a focus mainly upon presentation with a subsidiary focus on reception; (iii) a focus exclusively upon reception; and (iv) a focus mainly upon reception with a subsidiary focus upon presentation.67 These

63. See the summaries in for example Barrett, Church, Ministry, and Sacraments; Schramm, ‘Meal Customs (Jewish)’; Anthony C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, ed. I. Howard Marshall and Donald A. Hagner, New International Greek Testament Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000). 64. See the fine summaries in Klauck, ‘Sacrifice and Sacrificial Offerings (NT)’; Dennis E. Smith, ‘Meal Customs (Sacred Meals)’, in The Anchor Bible Dictionary, ed. David Noel Freedman (New Haven: Doubleday, 1992); Dennis E. Smith, ‘Meal Customs (Greco-Roman)’, in The Anchor Bible Dictionary, ed. David Noel Freedman (New Haven: Doubleday, 1992). 65. The full title of the series is Das Abendmahl im Zusammenhang mit dem Leben Jesu und der Geschichte des Urchristentums, trans. A. J. Mattill (Tübingen und Leipzig: J.C.B. Mohr, 1901). A translation of volume 1 is available under the English title The Problem of the Lord’s Supper, trans. A. J. Mattill (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1982), with Volume 2 available as The Mystery of the Kingdom of God, trans. Walter Lowrie (London: A.&C. Black, 1914). References here are to the German edition. 66. See Schweitzer, Das Abendmahl im Zusammenhang mit dem Leben Jesu und der Geschichte des Urchristentums, 1:5. 67. For those in (i) (e.g. De Wette, Ebrard, Rückert, Keim, Weizsäcker, Beyschlag, Holtzmann, Lobstein, Schmiedel), see ibid., 1:7–10; for those in (ii) (e.g. Schmiedel, Jülicher), see ibid., 1:31–7; for those in (iii) (e.g. Strauss, Bauer, Renan, Brandt, Spitta, Eichhorn), see ibid., 1:11–21; for those in (iv) (e.g. Harnack, Haupt, Schultzen, Hoffman), see ibid., 1:21–6.

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options derive, for the most part, from comparing the canonical accounts with liturgical texts available at the time (cf. Matt 26:26–29, Mark 14:22–25, Luke 22:15–20, 1 Cor 11:23–26, Justin, 1 Apol. 66 [ANF 1:185]).68 On the basis of his examination of the data available to him, Schweitzer opts for Markan authenticity,69 proposing that all of the subsequent accounts, including the Pauline one, reflect various later forms of Jesus movement ritual commensality. It is not the intention here to rehearse his analysis, since the focus is upon Paul. However, it is worth briefly making two critical points. The first is that Schweitzer’s comment that ‘the Lord’s Supper problem is the problem of Jesus’ life’70 is astute. How one reconstructs the one necessarily bears upon the other. In Schweitzer’s case, positing a primitive Institution Narrative devoid of references to ongoing communal re-performance and memorial anticipates his developed stance of imminent and thoroughgoing eschatology. If the Historical Jesus understood the end to be immediately at hand, then it follows that the Pauline and Lukan memorial instructions are accretions.71 But is Schweitzer correct? As Pitre notes, even the reference to the blood as a ‘covenant’ (Mark 14:24) anticipates some form of ongoing community.72 The second critical point is that it is hardly self-evident that the Pauline materials are a secondary layer of tradition. In terms of date, 1 Corinthians very likely predates Mark and, in any case, Paul attributes his version of the Institution Narrative to something he received ‘from the Lord’ (ἀπὸ τοῦ κυρίου 1 Cor 11:23). Thiselton suggests that Paul generally uses παρά to denote the transmission of tradition and that the unexpected use of the preposition ἀπό here may denote a tradition ‘originally rather than “directly” (in a charismatic sense) from the Lord’.73 If this is the case, then the materials upon which the Pauline account ultimately depends belong to an extremely early stage in the tradition. It is perhaps only a preference for narrative or assumptions regarding Paul and his relation to the Historical Jesus that obscure this. Hans Lietzmann (1926) Hans Lietzmann’s volume Messe und Herrenmahl begins with a different account of the problem, working instead with what he regards as a double tradition, originating in the Didache and in the Pauline materials.74 The Didache form, in particular, finds its antecedents in Jewish patterns of ritual

68. Ibid., 1:50–6. 69. Ibid., 1:56–62. 70. ‘Das Abendmahlsproblem ist das Problem des Lebens Jesu!’ ibid., 1:62. 71. For an effective discussion of this point, see Brant J. Pitre, Jesus and the Last Supper (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015), 14–17. 72. Ibid., 17–18. 73. Thiselton, First Corinthians, 866. 74. Hans Lietzmann, Messe und Herrenmahl: Eine Studie zur Geschichte der Liturgie (Bonn: A. Marchus und E. Weber’s Verlag, 1926), 238–9.

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commensality practised by Jesus and his immediate circle. Various candidates are considered: the paschal meal, the Sabbath Kiddûsh and Ḥaburot meals. In regard to the paschal meal, Lietzmann proposes that the details of neither the Lord’s Supper nor the Last Supper resemble an actual Passover. There is, he asserts, no lamb, no midrash upon the liberation from bondage, no requirement to avoid leaven, and one cup rather than four.75 Likewise, with the Sabbath Kiddûsh, he observes that distinctive elements of the customary ritual are absent, such as multiple loaves, a Sabbath prayer and a closely associated wine blessing.76 Instead, he claims that the table practice of Jesus, his immediate followers and subsequent Agape meals more adequately corresponds to a class of Jewish festal meals celebrated by a fellowship group (Ḥaburah), which may or may not involve wine (and a wine blessing), and which may be adapted for various purposes.77 The specific religious significance attached to Jesus movement Ḥaburot is, for Lietzmann, an extension of the fellowship enjoyed with Jesus during the earthly ministry and an anticipation of the messianic banquet.78 To this primal ritual is added a more interpretatively complicated Pauline δεῖπνον, which derives its significance chiefly from Jesus’s final meal with the disciples. At this meal, the church commemorates the death of the Lord anticipated in the Scriptures (cf. 1 Cor 15:3), enacts its fulfilment through the ritual and anticipates his parousia. Lietzmann is to be commended for taking the Pauline materials seriously as a primary source in the development of the eucharistic tradition, and his attempt to chart the Jesus movement’s commensality in terms of a wider repertoire of Jewish mealtime practices is useful. Nevertheless, his dismissal of a paschal interpretation of the Lord’s Supper is weak. That there is no lamb, no midrash on the liberation from bondage, no requirement to avoid leaven and only a single cup79 is true. However, whether meat is available and religiously licit is a very live question in 1 Corinthians (cf. 1 Cor 8), so the presence or absence of flesh in Paul’s description of the δεῖπνον is hardly straightforward. Additionally, the paschal reference in 1 Cor 5:7–8 is hardly irrelevant, since the immediate context (5:4) relates this reference to the community having been assembled – and this is the context of the δεῖπνον in 11:18. Lastly, Lietzmann pays insufficient attention to the fact that Paul’s writings come to us as paraenetical epistolography rather than as a manual of liturgics. This is a very important point. Though Paul nowhere writes ‘read a midrash on exodus and Numbers’ as part of the narrative framing of the δεῖπνον, it is surely not irrelevant that he does frame the opposition between the Lord’s table and the table of demons (1 Cor 10:21), by means of a substantial christologically reinterpreted retelling of the exodus and wilderness accounts. As such, the texts Paul mines for paraenesis

75. 76. 77. 78. 79.

Ibid., 211–18. Ibid., 202–10. Ibid., 210. Ibid., 250. See also the material cited in 208–9. Ibid., 211.

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regarding the κυριακόν δεῖπνον are thematically and narratively proximate to the traditions explicitly cited in the paschal meal. This does not decisively indicate dependence of the one on the other, but it does at least suggest that, whatever the antecedent dining ritual, there are no reasons to exclude a paschal association, and several reasons to be open to considering it.80 Joachim Jeremias (1935) In his volume Die Abendmahlsworte Jesu,81 Jeremias, like Schweitzer and Lietzmann, focused upon comparative study of the Words of Institution. In terms of the significance of his argument, his contribution is twofold. On the one hand, there is his linguistic archaeology into what he calls the ‘preliturgical stratum’ of the tradition; what were the actual words of Jesus?82 On the other hand, and in contrast to Schweitzer and Lietzman, he cogently defends the Passover as the primary context for Jesus’s final meal.83 Noting the various chronological issues attached to the Synoptic and Johannine Last Supper accounts and the difficulties that these entail for the paschal interpretation,84 Jeremias concludes nonetheless that neither the Kiddûsh nor the Ḥaburah meals adequately account for the features of the Last Supper as described. Firstly, the similarity between the actions of the supper and those of the Sabbath Kiddûsh he treats as superficial, unnecessarily speculative and neglectful of the details of the canonical narratives, which place it on a Thursday.85 Secondly, he dismisses the idea of the supper as a Ḥaburah meal as a ‘conjecture’. Since all meals acquired some ‘religious solemnity’, the presence of wine and a prayer is not, in itself, enough to place the supper in the same category as Ḥaburot Miṣwah: fellowship meals conducted out of obligation, rather than on an ad hoc basis.86 In terms of textual evidence, Jeremias notes that both Paul (1 Cor 11:23) and the Johannine materials (John 13:30) place the supper narrative at night, which differs from the ordinary daily meal of this era.87 The diners reclined, which marks it out as either a dinner party or a paschal meal.88 The bread is broken after the meal has begun (Mark 14:20), and wine rather than water (Mark 14:23) was served. According to Jeremias, these data more resemble the ritual dining pattern

80. See 5.3.2 and 5.4.2 below. 81. The edition used here is the third edition, which reflects Jeremias’s mature thesis in the light of the Qumran discoveries (which he rejects as attesting to a possible antecedent). See Jeremias, The Eucharistic Words of Jesus. 82. Ibid., 138–203. 83. Ibid., 15–88. 84. Ibid., 16–26. 85. Ibid., 28–9. 86. Ibid., 29–31. 87. Ibid., 44–6. 88. Ibid., 49.

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of Passover than the festive dining of a celebratory dinner.89 Finally, he notes that the criterion of dissimilarity suggests that the Passover elements in the Institution Narratives are unlikely to have derived retrospectively from liturgical practice.90 Philologically, Jeremias’s attempt to reconstruct a likely Aramaic utterance from the available Greek versions takes him through a detailed preliminary discussion of the longer and shorter forms of the Lukan account (Luke 22:15–20).91 Arguing that the longer version of Luke is the more authentic, he concludes that the Markan, Pauline and Lukan accounts represent three distinct variants of the ‘eucharistic formula’, and that the Lukan account, though later and more developed, preserves elements of tradition that are pre-Pauline.92 In sifting this data, he pays considerable attention to likely Semitisms in the Greek. The existence of non-Hellenic idiomata and loan words in the Greek of the New Testament is not an especially controversial matter, though calling them Semitisms perhaps fails to distinguish between Aramaisms and Hebraisms – and this distinction is germane to the difference between biblical allusion and reportage. Nonetheless, Jeremias makes a cogent argument that multiple features of the Institution Narrative make best sense when understood as attesting to an Aramaic original.93 The merits of Jeremias’s approach lie in his rigorous evaluation of the then available proposals and the strength of his paschal proposal. His critique of the Kiddûsh and Ḥaburah theses is rigorous and persuasive. Having said that, his criticism that Ḥaburot Miṣwah are formalized and obligatory rather than ad hoc and voluntary is not as decisive as it appears. Put simply, what his work suggests is that the Ḥaburah nomenclature is tendentious when applied to Jesus, but since he concedes that all early Jewish meals had a religious aspect, the substance of Lietzmann’s argument remains. A fellowship meal that is quotidian, ad hoc and voluntary may not be what Lietzmann names it, but the substance does approximate what he describes. Ernst Käsemann (1947–8) Käsemann’s essay, ‘Anliegen und Eigenart der paulinischen Abendmahlslehre’,94 offers a useful analysis of the Pauline texts. Like Jeremias, he identifies earlier Semitic usages in the phrases ποτήριον τῆς εὐλογίας (‘cup of blessing’) and the use of the verb κλάω (‘break’) in regard to the fraction (1 Cor 10:16), though he regards the specific meal form from which this terminology

89. Ibid., 50–3. 90. Ibid., 62. 91. There is insufficient space to rehearse all of the MSS issues here. See the critical apparatus at Luke 22:15-20 in NA28; also Jeremias, The Eucharistic Words of Jesus, 139–59. 92. Jeremias, The Eucharistic Words of Jesus, 156. 93. Ibid., 173–86. 94. References here are to the English translation. See Ernst Käsemann, ‘The Pauline Doctrine of the Lord’s Supper’, in Essays on New Testament Themes, Studies in Biblical Theology, ed. Ernst Käsemann, trans. W. J. Montague (London: SCM, 1964), 108–35.

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derives as perhaps less than clear.95 The distinctive Pauline reception of this pre-Pauline tradition is framed by the idea of participation (cf. κοινωνία 10:16). For Käsemann, participation in the elements of the meal, particularly the bread (10:17), conveys ‘incorporation into the church as the body of Christ’.96 This is to integrate the Lord’s Supper into some of the major structures of Pauline thought as Käsemann understands it, namely the ἐκκλησία as coterminous with the body of Christ, with Baptism as the primary effectual sign of incorporation into the unity of that body. Käsemann proposes the Gnostic Redeemer myth and the Mysteries as likely backgrounds to this Pauline emphasis, which somewhat limits the applicability of his argument. It does, however, highlight the necessity of a wide-angle (both Jewish and Graeco-Roman) approach to the meal. The merits of his proposal lie in his careful exegetical integration of Pauline ecclesiology, Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. He is correct to observe that these issues are deeply connected in 1 Corinthians. His understanding of πνευματικὸν βρῶμα and πνευματικὸν πόμα (1 Cor 10:3) as ‘food and drink which convey πνεῦμα’,97 in the context of an extended baptismal reference (10:1), is provocative and, in terms of the thesis of this book, correct in substance.98 As such, Käsemann’s work elaborates upon the earlier participatory ecclesiology of Schweitzer in an innovative manner.99 Of course, there remain questions of how best to explain this connection, given the intervening decades of scholarship, but the argument merits reconsideration at the least. Subsequent Developments Other works of this period provide variations upon themes already identified, specifically the early Jewish dining conventions that form the possible antecedents to the Jesus meal, and the specific accretions and repurposing that the Pauline meal supposedly represents. Martin Dibelius (1939) reiterates the thesis that the Jesus meal was a modified Sabbath Kiddûsh. By contrast, Gregory Dix (1945) appeals to Lietzmann’s Ḥaburah proposal.100 Jeremias has proved immensely influential – so much so that Lietzmann’s argument has periodically been overshadowed. Notwithstanding this, several major works have followed Lietzmann. Oscar Cullmann (1936) does so by proposing alternative Didache and Hippolytan forms of the early Jesus movement meal, with Paul as the originator of the

95. Käsemann, ‘The Pauline Doctrine of the Lord’s Supper’, 109; see the discussion in Thiselton, First Corinthians, 757–8. 96. Käsemann, ‘The Pauline Doctrine of the Lord’s Supper’, 110. 97. Ibid., 113. 98. See especially Chapters 5 and 6. 99. See for example Schweitzer, Mysticism, esp. 11. 100. Martin Dibelius, Jesus, trans. C. B. Hedrick and F. C. Grant (London: SCM Press, 1963), 123; Gregory Dix, The Shape of the Liturgy (Westminster: Dacre Press, 1945), 60.

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memorial aspect.101 Ernst Lohmeyer (1942) deploys Lietzmann in his argument that Jesus’s quotidian table fellowship, including the Last Supper, is a central feature of his negotiation of the cultic boundaries of early Judaism.102 In an Anglophone context, Norman Perrin’s application of Lohmeyer’s appropriation of and development of Lietzmann’s thesis deserves brief mention.103 Treating table fellowship with out-groups as the ‘central feature’ of Jesus’s ministry,104 he proposes that it constitutes a ritual performance of the reintegration of outsiders into the eschatological kingdom.105 Though it is beyond the remit of this work to offer a developed evaluation of Perrin, since the focus here is upon Paul, it is nonetheless worth making the following brief point. If table fellowship is quasi-redemptive for Jesus, then some attention to the specific circumstances in which it occurs is necessary to understanding it appropriately. That is to say, the Gospels rarely, if ever, show Jesus inviting tax collectors and sinners to share his quotidian dining routine. If there is such a thing as restorative commensality, then it seems prima facie to involve Jesus receiving rather than giving hospitality.106 Nevertheless, Perrin’s particular reception of and development of Lietzmann’s thesis is significant for this study principally because it draws attention to the contrast between the practice of Jesus, which is open, and the Pauline meal, which is congregational (cf. 1 Cor 11:18). 2.4.2 The Turn to Social Science Gerd Theissen (1974) Gerd Theissen’s essay Soziale Integration und Sakramentales Handeln: Eine Analyse von 1 Cor. 11:17–34107 addresses the κυριακόν δεῖπνον through the lens of social stratification. He notes that guilds and collegia admit a

101. See Oscar Cullmann and Franz J. Leenhardt, Essays on the Lord’s Supper (London: Lutterworth Press, 1958). Original publication: La signification de la Sainte-Cène dans le christianisme primitif (Revue d’histoire et de philosophie religieuses, Strasbourg, 1936). 102. Ernst Lohmeyer, Lord of the Temple: A Study of the Relation between Cult and Gospel, trans. Stewart Todd (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1961), 79. Original title Kultus und Evangelium (Göttingen, 1942). 103. See Norman Perrin, Rediscovering the Teaching of Jesus (London: SCM, 1967), esp. 103. 104. Perrin, Rediscovering the Teaching of Jesus, 107. 105. See Michael F. Bird, Jesus and the Origins of the Gentile Mission, vol. 331, LNTS (London: T.&T. Clark, 2006), 104. 106. See Andrew McGowan, ‘The Meals of Jesus and the Meals of the Church: Eucharistic Origins and Admission to Communion’, in Studia Liturgica Diversa: Essays in Honor of Paul F. Bradshaw, ed. Maxwell E. Johnson and L. Edward Phillips, Studies in Church Music and Liturgy (Portland: Pastoral Press, 2004), 106. 107. Gerd Theissen, ‘Soziale Integration Und Sakramentales Handeln Eine Analyse Von Ι Cor. Xi 17-34’, NovT 24, no. 3 (1974); the edition used here is Schütz’s English translation, in Theissen, Social Setting, 145–74.

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certain amount of social stratification, whereas associations specifically cultic in character usually vary less. This marks out the Pauline congregations as socially anomalous, in that they include some members of ‘noble birth’ (1 Cor 1:26), but only a few (οὐ πολλοὶ εὐγενεῖς).108 According to Theissen, the theological issues that potentially arise from these imbalances cannot be excluded as having a possible bearing upon the issues that are addressed in 1 Corinthians. In the case of the Lord’s Supper, this begs the question of how social stratification might bear upon the conduct of the δεῖπνον. Theissen identifies four possible areas: (i) the nature of the conflict; (ii) the timing of the meal; (iii) the quantity and (iv) the quality of the food provided.109 Theissen’s observation that the lion’s share of the substance of the meal was probably provided by the wealthier members of the congregation helpfully illuminates the way in which the Words of Institution enact the transfer of this ‘private contribution into community property’.110 As such, the willingness of the wealthier members to go ahead and eat (1 Cor 11:21) without regard for the poorer members of the congregation (11:22) is a de facto undoing of the ritual significance of the meal. As to the specific nature of the violation, Theissen suggests that as patrons of the community meal, and unconstrained by a rule to the contrary, the wealthier Corinthians may have allowed themselves portions of greater quantity and quality and permitted themselves to eat earlier and apart from the wider group.111 In addition, he suggests that the wealthy may have supplemented their own participation in the communal meal with additional fare, including meat, that others would not be able to afford. The immediate end to which Paul writes is, for Theissen, that of providing a limited accommodation to the norms of the wealthy in the private sphere; each may eat τὸ ἴδιον δεῖπνον (1 Cor 11:21) at home, but not in the shared ritual space of the ἐκκλησία. However, Theissen’s understanding of Paul’s ultimate aim is rooted in an understanding of the supper as an enterprise in world construction:112 an integrating reality that forms the Pauline understanding of the community as an eschatological people embodies this in a narrative history, and sustains it with a symbolic re-performance. It is worth noting that Theissen’s taxonomy of ancient associations unduly emphasizes Pauline exceptionalism. As Stephen Barton and Greg Horsley have demonstrated, not all specifically religious cults were demographically or socioeconomically restricted. Their particular study related to the house rule of a Philadelphian cult devoted to Zeus, in which the householder specifically gave

108. Theissen, Social Setting, 146. 109. Ibid., 147. 110. Ibid., 148. 111. Ibid., 154–8. 112. See for example his comments on Mühlmann, Berger and Luckmann, in ibid., 165, also 73n36; see also Berger and Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality.

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‘access into [the] oikos to men and women, free people and slaves’.113 Of course, some of these distinctions are closer status wise than others, but the point is well made nonetheless. Pauline communities may not have been entirely novel. Additionally, Theissen’s analysis of the issues of Idol Feasts (1 Cor 10:14–22) and the Lord’s Supper in terms of social stratification is useful, but not everything in these passages resolves either into the socioeconomic or into Paul managing the community into homonoia by means of limited concessions to the Strong in the form of Love Patriarchalism.114 As I have argued elsewhere, there are various issues in 1 Corinthians in which Paul actually agrees with the theological position of the Strong, but develops this differently from his interlocutors.115 As such, socioeconomic analysis may well be an important tool, but it is not the only theological horizon at play. To do him justice, this is a possibility Theissen acknowledges. Wayne Meeks (1983) The First Urban Christians,116 by Wayne Meeks, constructs a cogent account of the social world and history of the earliest Jesus movement followers. He observes that one of the earliest (pre-Pauline) transitions the movement underwent was in becoming a predominantly urban, diasporic phenomenon,117 and therefore that to understand the religion of the first Christians it is necessary to situate them in the context of the polis. Key to understanding this transition is understanding the issues at play in the Jewish Diaspora,118 and how the earliest followers of Jesus might have been affected by these. Meeks estimates that between five and six million Jews were resident in the Diaspora, many of these in the cities of the ancient Mediterranean. This amounts to between a tenth and an eighth of the entire population of any given city.119 In terms of the Lord’s Supper, Meeks notes the sparsity of detail in the Pauline accounts of the meal (cf. 1 Cor 10:14–22, 11:17–34).120 This is due in large part to the paraenetical purpose of these passages in 1 Corinthians. In the former passage,

113. Stephen C. Barton and G. H. R. Horsley, ‘A Hellenistic Cult Group and the New Testament Churches’, JAC 24 (1981): 9. Their translation; also Klauck, The Religious Context of Early Christianity, 64–8. 114. For a developed analysis of 1 Corinthians in these terms, see Margaret Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1991). 115. Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 79–82. 116. It is the second edition used here. See Meeks, First Urban Christians. 117. Ibid., 9–13. 118. The standard text in this area is John M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: From Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE-117 CE) (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996). 119. Meeks, First Urban Christians, 34; recent studies cast some doubt on this figure, Thomas A. Robinson, Who Were the First Christians? Dismantling the Urban Thesis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 55. 120. Meeks, First Urban Christians, 157.

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the κυριακὸν δεῖπνον is not so much the topic as the basis for the prohibition against frequenting the ‘table of demons’ (10:21). In the latter, Paul has little need to go into detail, since he has specific abuses in view. Meeks notes the distinctive memorial emphasis in the Pauline Institution Narrative tradition, and situates this against the backdrop of ancient ‘cultic commemoration[s]’ of the dead.121 Note that this is not an aetiological claim; he does not suggest that ‘burial-club’ practice is an antecedent, only that such practices would comprise part of the ordinary repertoire of meanings an observer or convert might bring to the Pauline language. He also observes the strong, and exclusive, in-group solidarity upon which the Pauline meal depends and which it reifies.122 This multi-layered understanding of the integrating function of the meal is redolent of Clifford Geertz’s understanding of symbol.123 David Horrell (1996) David Horrell’s work, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence,124 builds upon the work of his predecessors in various ways. He notes the heuristic, exploratory and occasionally piecemeal manner in which previous studies deploy sociological models, and proposes instead a more rigorous use of social science.125 As Horrell’s methodological observations have already been given significant attention in the first main section of this chapter, they will not be repeated here.126 The distinctive merit of Horrell’s work lies in his application of a multilayered social-scientific approach to the principal symbols in 1 Corinthians, namely Baptism and the Lord’s Supper.127 Key to the new symbolic order these rituals enact is the action of God in Jesus Christ, through whom the world is both decisively judged and saved, and in whom the new age has dawned. As the marker and principal agent of renewal, the spirit is uniquely associated with the unification of the disparate members of the community in the ritual of Baptism. This unity ought to be reified and enacted by the parallel ritual of the Lord’s Supper, which has in fact become an instance of disunity. At once, it is apparent that Paul’s reaction to the conduct of the meal is focused on the theology, the practice and what these mean for the integrity of the symbolic order the ritual world is meant to sustain.128

121. Ibid., 158. 122. Ibid., 159–62. 123. This is an association Meeks also makes ibid., 142; see also Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 87–9. 124. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence. 125. Ibid., 14. 126. See section 2.2.3 on Interpretative Trends: Social Sciences. 127. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence, 77–88. 128. Ibid., 150–5.

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2.4.3 Other Recent Studies Panayotis Coutsoumpos (2005) Recent work on ancient meals by Panayotis Coutsoumpos merits consideration. Coutsoumpos129 offers a helpful series of summaries of the social and religious significance of different forms of GraecoRoman meal rituals, both sacred and social.130 Summarizing his findings, he recognizes the similarities between the Pauline supper and some of the rites of the mysteries, which were nascent around this time but suggests that there is insufficient evidence to indicate that any of these are antecedents to the Pauline meal.131 Similarly, he notes the presence of terminology common to both the Pauline and the Graeco-Roman meals, but observes that the underlying metaphysical assumptions seem to be different. A frequent feature of the mysteries was internalization of a god, by means of the consumption of its representation, whereas Jewish worshippers tended to understand the meal as eating in God’s presence.132 In terms of social meals, Coutsoumpos notes that there is considerably more overlap in terms of Graeco-Roman social dining and the Lord’s Supper. Specifically, he likens the Pauline meal to a Graeco-Roman eranos, or communal supper, and notes that the literature on such meals raises several of the same issues as the Pauline meal regarding inequities of prestige.133 We note in passing that that there is some debate regarding whether Paul anticipated the supper to comprise a full meal or just the bread and wine rite,134 though there is some weight to Coutsoumpos’ observation that Paul’s concern for the poor (1 Cor 11:22) is ill at ease with a policy that would effectively restrict the scope of the communal meal. Hal Taussig (2009) Hal Taussig’s volume, In the Beginning Was the Meal,135 builds upon comparative and social-scientific attention to ancient meals, especially those

129. Panayotis Coutsoumpos, Paul and the Lord’s Supper: A Socio-Historical Investigation, Studies in Biblical Literature (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2005); also Panayotis Coutsoumpos, Community, Conflict, and the Eucharist in Roman Corinth: The Social Setting of Paul’s Letter (Lanham: University Press of America, 2006). This is a revised version of the author’s doctoral dissertation at the University of Sheffield. 130. Coutsoumpos, Paul and the Lord’s Supper: sacred meals (sacrifices, mysteries, Jewish meals), 11–32; social meals (symposium, cena, eranos), 40–50. 131. Ibid., 23–5. 132. Ibid., 35–7; for a series of articles exploring some of these issues, see Schramm, ‘Meal Customs (Jewish)’; Marvin W. Meyer, ‘Mystery Religions’, in The Anchor Bible Dictionary, ed. David Noel Freedman (New Haven: Doubleday, 1992); Hans-Josef Klauck, ‘Lord’s Supper’, in The Anchor Bible Dictionary, ed. David Noel Freedman (New Haven: Doubleday, 1992); Klauck, ‘Sacrifice and Sacrificial Offerings (NT)’. 133. Coutsoumpos, Paul and the Lord’s Supper, 23–5. 134. Theissen, Social Setting, 145ff. 135. Taussig, In the Beginning Was the Meal.

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of Dennis Smith with whom he has collaborated extensively.136 Key to his thesis is that within the common architecture of a Graeco-Roman meal,137 the task of social identity formation is undertaken. Indeed, it is because of the quotidian, yet ritualized, and socially specific nature of the dining experience that the meal cultivates and instantiates a particular habitus, or total set of practical behaviours and dispositions that shape the conventions and norms of the group. This is a concept Taussig borrows from Pierre Bourdieu.138 As such, the distinctive ways in which the early Christians adapted meal forms are, for Taussig, exercises in identity construction. Taussig regards the experimental nature of early Christian commensality as evident par excellence in two distinct features of their mealtime practice and consequent identity. The first is social and economic expansiveness; the second, a radical alternative to imperial power.139 Both of these aspects will be discussed in the chapters which follow. Taussig’s approach to meals is reminiscent of John Dominic Crossan’s deployment of Klosinski’s anthropological approach to dining. He cites Klosinski, who states that ‘food has the capacity both to serve as the object of human transactions and to symbolize human interaction, relationships and relatedness.’140 As such, meals are the matrices of obligation, of mutual gift, of the formation of relationships and ultimately of the formation and maintenance of community. Unlike Crossan, who proposes Paul as a relatively late stage in the development of the eucharistic tradition,141 Taussig here offers no detailed reconstruction of the tradition history of the Institution Narrative. Nonetheless, his work is useful in the context of the present study, since it highlights the function of the Lord’s Supper as a vehicle not just of identity performance, but of identity formation. Stephen Turley (2015) Stephen Turley’s recent doctoral thesis, The Ritualized Revelation of the Messianic Age,142 is the final volume covered by this survey.

136. See for example Dennis E. Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003); also Dennis E. Smith and Hal Taussig, Many Tables: The Eucharist in the New Testament and Liturgy Today (London: SCM, 1990). 137. Taussig, In the Beginning Was the Meal, 68–85. Taussig identifies five features: (i) reclining, (ii) an order of supper then drinks, (iii) marked by some form of libation, (iv) under the auspices of a symposiarch and (v) with a wide coterie of marginal persons in attendance. 138. See Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, trans. Richard Nice, Cambridge studies in social and cultural anthropology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977); also Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge: Polity, 1990). 139. Taussig, In the Beginning Was the Meal, 87–143. 140. See John Dominic Crossan, The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant, 1st ed. (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1991), 361. 141. Crossan, The Historical Jesus, 360–7. 142. Turley, The Ritualized Revelation of the Messianic Age.

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Examining Baptism and the Lord’s Supper in both Galatians and 1 Corinthians, Turley utilizes the work of Roy Rappaport as his analytical lens. In particular, he deploys Rappaport’s notions of ‘performance’ and ‘embodiment’143 to frame the argument. Regarding Baptism, Turley argues that Pauline baptismal practice is rooted in and reifies a ‘spatio-temporal dualism of “this world” and “the world to come”’,144 thereby generating a distinct temporally and socially bounded set of identities and responsibilities to be performed by participation in the spirit through faith in Christ. Ritual commensality, he proposes, is concerned with enacting the life of the messianic epoch in a manner that performs the gospel as true, signals the new covenant as having arrived and lives out the identity reified when one is baptized.145 By way of brief evaluation, Turley’s analysis is carefully argued and weighty. His attention to key passages in Galatians (Gal 2–3) and 1 Corinthians (6, 8–10, 12) is well executed and exegetically insightful. The key theoretical device in the thesis, the ecological-anthropological approach of Rappaport, is robust. Nevertheless, one of the limitations of many of the phenomenological approaches mentioned in this chapter is metaphysical thinness: Several comments in the volume about embodied symbols constituting the identities they express are redolent of, but less than the equivalent sacramental ideas in developed Christian theology. This is not a criticism of this volume, merely an observation about the possible limits of these approaches. 2.4.4 Section Summary This final section has surveyed some of the main contours of Lord’s Supper research in the past hundred years. Several contours were identified. There are questions of origin and antecedent, whether Jewish or Graeco-Roman. Alongside this, there are questions of significance and theology: whether Paul receives, amends, modifies or transforms the traditions he receives, and to what precise end. There are also questions of method and scholarly tradition, with the period covering the decline of the history of religion project, the rise of social science as an interpretative discipline and the question of how meals contribute towards the forging of identities.

2.5 Conclusion This chapter has sought to situate the methodological and textual analysis that follows in the context of previous scholarship. Three fields have been considered:

143. Ibid., 25; see for example Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity, 104–38. 144. Turley, The Ritualized Revelation of the Messianic Age, 99. 145. Ibid., 171–2.

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(i) methods of approaching questions of ritual; (ii) issues of ritual ablution and their relation to early Jesus movement Baptism and (iii) studies from the past century on the Lord’s Supper. One of the principal functions of the section on method was to demonstrate some of the underlying complexity attached to the field. Much of this derives from the way in which rival underlying assumptions regarding Judaism, Hellenism and Graeco-Roman identity have played out in scholarly works and in schools of thought. This is important since the prevailing assumptions that Judaism and Hellenism are essentialized, and dichotomously opposed, cultural fields is increasingly regarded as untenable. The present volume proceeds on that basis. The materials on Baptism and the Lord’s Supper have illustrated some of the key issues in their respective areas of study. As the subsidiary emphasis of this volume, the shorter section on baptismal practice considered broader questions of provenance, antecedent and parallel. Of relevance to the Corinthian context was the role of ablution in the mysteries, including the Isis cult. Alongside this, sits the question of the origins of Jesus movement Baptism and its relation to Jewish ablutary practice. A number of Jewish antecedents and parallels were explored in what proved to be a complicated field. The survey of Lord’s Supper research turned upon many of the same issues. As was repeatedly noted, it is not easy to construct a united field out of this diversity, and in that respect it may be apt to extend Schweitzer’s assertion that ‘Das Abendmahlsproblem ist das Problem des Lebens Jesu!’ to cover Paul.146 In terms of the argument that follows, the diversity of the preceding field is not so much a problem as an invitation to find some way through this complexity. Rather than seeking to adjudicate between the plethora of history of religion proposals, or to recover at a distance a hypothetical reconstruction of the detailed practice of the Pauline communities, the following material seeks instead to establish a sense of Paul’s symbolic universe from clues within the Pauline writings. By situating Paul’s discussions of baptismal practice in an account of his view of the world, the church and the Christian form of life, and by locating his account of the Lord’s Supper in that framework, the aim is to enable the successful navigation of what is, admittedly, a disparate field.

146. Schweitzer, Das Abendmahl im Zusammenhang mit dem Leben Jesu und der Geschichte des Urchristentums, 1:62.

Chapter 3 ‘A SPECIFIC METAPHYSIC’: PAUL AND COSMIC ORDER

3.1 Introduction The preceding chapters of this volume have set the scene for the present material and for the two other exegetical chapters which are to follow. Briefly, this study proceeds from Clifford Geertz’s observations that religion, and especially the symbolic order of a religion, ‘tunes human actions to an envisaged cosmic order and projects images of cosmic order onto the plane of human experience’.1 That there is a mutually reinforcing relationship of congruence between Paul’s metaphysic, the specific form of life he anticipates his communities to enact, and the religious symbols he uses to hold these areas of life together is significant. The argument here is that these three interrelated frames of reference together offer a cogent, world view level, account of Paul’s ritual world, and that this is an apt place within which to situate his references to Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. It is the purpose of this chapter to examine the first of these: metaphysics. Of course, there are multiple difficulties attached to the use of the term ‘metaphysics’ to denote aspects of Pauline thought. Chiefly, Paul is not a philosopher or a metaphysician, but an apostle and a pastor. As such, talk of Pauline metaphysics, of necessity, is concerned with the identification of tacit, as well as explicit, elements of his approach to the way in which the world works. This is congruent with Geertz’s approach, since he understood world views often to operate below the level of the explicit. Another difficulty lies in defining what constitutes a metaphysic. The field covers almost all accounts of fundamental principles, how they relate to one another and how they bear upon the natures of the derivative realities which they constitute. Some of the questions apt to the field relate to origins, ontology, identity, change, temporality, materiality and agency. To this end, the present chapter will consider three aspects of Paul’s theology. These are cosmology, anthropology and ecclesiology. The aim is to connect these in subsequent chapters to other aspects of his religion. The chapter has two main sections: the first considers some of the framework issues that bear upon how these elements of Paul’s thought might be understood, whereas the second addresses these issues exegetically, by means of an examination of select issues in 1. Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 90.

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passages from 1 Corinthians and Galatians.2 The aim is to situate Paul against his environment and to show his tacit ‘metaphysic’ as one of christologically mediated, ecclesiologically situated, cosmological, hence anthropological, transformation.

3.2 Issues and Themes 3.2.1 Paul, the Cosmos and the Church in 1 Corinthians In the volume Image and Glory of God: 1 Corinthians 11:2-16 as a Case Study in Bible, Gender and Hermeneutics,3 I address the conundrum of 1 Cor 11:2–16 by means of locating it in a preliminary account of Paul’s view of the world. Based on an analysis of texts (1 Cor 3:21–22, 6:12, 7:29–31, 8:4b–6, 10:23),4 the cosmological section of that argument is as follows:

1. What are routinely identified as Corinthian slogans (e.g. πάντα ἔξεστιν, 1 Cor 6:12, 10:23; πάντα ὑμῶν, 3:21) are redolent of the approach to the relationship between wisdom and materiality in popular Stoic and Cynic moral discourse. According to this, not only is the wise person ‘free’ (ἐλεύθερος, Diog. Laert. 7.122), but being free resembles a king (cf. 1 Cor 4:8), insofar as he or she needs no external regulation (τῆς βασιλείας οὔσης ἀρχῆς ἀνυπευθύνου, Diog. Laert. 7.122),5 because he or she knows the true use of the things of the world. This deployment of regal terminology to describe the state of αὐτάρκεια is not uncommon (Seneca, Ben. 7.3.2–7.4.3, cf. Plutarch, Stoic. abs. 1058b–c). 2. Though this association between wisdom, ἐλευθερία and elevation to the status of possessing all things informs the stance of the Corinthian strong, who must be presumed to be behind some of the slogans that pepper 1 Corinthians, this is an emphasis they also share with Paul, who never flatly denies their argument, but repeatedly and carefully qualifies it.6 For example, his response to the assertion that ‘all is allowed’ (1 Cor 6:12) and that there is a natural (viz. proper) teleological relationship between the experience of an appetite and the satisfaction of that appetite (6:13–14) illustrates this. His initial response that ‘I will not be mastered’ (οὐκ ἐγὼ ἐξουσιασθήσομαι, 6:12) echoes Stoic moral teaching on the destructive, compulsive consequences

2. For example, humanity in the order of the cosmos (1 Cor 6:2–3 and 15:45–49), change, materiality and temporality (Gal 4:1–10), space and identity (1 Cor 3:16, 5–6). 3. See Lakey, Image and Glory of God, esp. 69–135. 4. Ibid., 79–92. 5. I take this expression to imply αὐτάρκεια (‘self-sufficiency’) at the level of moral decision-making. 6. On slogans, see Hans Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, ed. George W. MacRae, trans. James W. Leitch, Hermeneia, a Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 110.

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of non-deliberate action (Epictetus, Diatr. 3.12.4–6, Seneca, Ep. 116.5). His ensuing response to the idea of ‘foods for the stomach and stomach for foods’ (6:13) is not denial, but redirection: ‘the body is not for πορνεία, but the Lord, and the Lord the body.’ 3. What seems to differentiate Paul from his interlocutors is his (and their) eschatology. It is not certain whether their views are shaped by an overrealized eschatological scheme, by philosophical influences or by GraecoRoman religion.7 However, it is fairly evident that they and Paul share substantial elements of the same family of popular moral arguments, but that Paul does something different with those arguments than they do. What he does is to situate himself and his readers, along with their ἐλευθερία, in a community in which eschatological crisis frames the proper use of the things of the κόσμος. The Corinthians are free to marry, to buy at the market and to use the things of the world (1 Cor 7:29–31). Nevertheless, the coming abolition of the ‘pattern of this world’ (τὸ σχῆμα τοῦ κόσμου τούτου 7:31) means, paradoxically, that those to whom wisdom gives all things (3:21–22) must, if they are eschatologically wise, ‘buy as though not possessing’ (7:30). 4. This model of ‘apocalyptically-ruptured sapientialism’8 extends beyond the confines of Paul’s moral discourse and encompasses his approach to the relationship between the God, the church and the World. This is particularly apparent in the development of the argument in 1 Cor 8:4–6. The presenting issue is the question of whether it is licit to eat food that has been involved in idol sacrifices, there being a division within the congregation on this point. It is reasonable to suppose that the multiple references to γνῶσις in 1 Cor 8:1, not to mention the other epistemic terminology in verses 2–4,9 constitute Paul’s recognition that his interlocutors associated wisdom/knowledge of the nature of things with an elevated idea of the ἐλευθερία that follows from this insight. In this instance, the specific insight is that ‘there is no God but One’ (1 Cor 8:4b); ergo idols are empty (8:4a); ergo food sacrificed to them is untainted; ergo those with this knowledge are free to partake. 5. Paul handles these claims in two ways. His observation that ‘knowledge inflates, whereas love builds’ (1 Cor 8:1b) highlights that he understands ἐλευθερία and αὐτάρκεια to be obtained so that they may be deployed in service of others (cf. 1 Cor 9).10 In that sense, a non-agapic account of the elevating aspects of knowledge is deficient; one who pursues it ‘does not yet know as one must know’ (οὔπω ἔγνω καθὼς δεῖ γνῶναι 1 Cor 8:2). However, he also addresses

7. Anthony C. Thiselton, ‘Realised Eschatology at Corinth’, NTS 24 (1978): 510–26; also Paul J. Brown, Bodily Resurrection and Ethics in 1 Cor 15: Connecting Faith and Morality in the Context of Greco-Roman Mythology, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2 Reihe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), esp. 68–102. 8. Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 180. 9. Cf. δοκέω, ‘think’ (1 Cor 8:2); γινώσκω, ‘know’ (8:2–3); οἶδα, ‘know’ (8:4). 10. See 4.3.2.

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the claims that idols are empty, therefore trivial, by asserting the existence of λεγόμενοι θεοὶ and κύριοι (8:5). Whether he means by this no more than the fact that there are various cults in the world or whether he attributes real existence of some sort to cult deities is a matter of debate, but his coup de grâce is to assert exclusive cultic allegiance to the one God and one Lord (8:6). 6. An analysis of this latter statement shows it to be similar in form and style to Graeco-Roman acclamations regarding God/the gods and the world (Ps.-Aristotle, Mund. 397b, M. Aurelius, Med. 4.23), and pre-Socratic statements regarding the procession and return of all things to and from a single elemental substrate (Heraclitus, Fr. 10, Xenophanes, Fr. 27). The similarities between these different traditions ought to be little surprise, since the former statements are adapted from the latter. The Pauline acclamation is cosmopolitan, it being Graeco-Roman in literary form, but there being enough overlap of content for several commentators to posit a connection with the Shema.11 It is right to be open to such a connection, though the formal differences between 1 Cor 8:612 and the Shema (cf. Deut 6:4–9 LXX) are stark. The most obvious relate to vocabulary, the Pauline text being at least as terminologically proximate to the Graeco-Roman texts as to the Shema. In any case, there are similar examples in Philo that show how a philosophically literate Judaism may assimilate and use some of these forms of expression (cf. Cher. 125–27, Leg. 3.7, Spec. 1.208). 7. At the level of content, the principal differences between the Pauline and Graeco-Roman acclamations relate to mediation and symmetry. For Paul, the unity and symmetry of cosmic generation and return are doubly interrupted. Firstly, alongside the ‘one God’ there is the inclusion of the ‘one Lord’, through whom (διʼ οὗ) Creation and Redemption are effected (1 Cor 8:6b). Secondly, there is the evident non-identity between the outward and homeward movements in the expression. Though τὰ πάντα is ‘from’ (ἐκ) God, ‘by means of ’ (διά) Christ, not all returns εἰς God. Rather, it is ‘we’ (ἡμεῖς), namely the church, who are directed adequately to the Creator ‘by means of ’ (διά) the Lord. Regarding the first of these interruptions to the typical form, Gregory Sterling has partially rehabilitated an earlier account of these expressions by positing a mixed Stoic and Middle-Platonic influence, itself mediated by prior Jewish engagement.13 Regarding the second, I propose that Paul understood

11. Larry W. Hurtado, One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and Ancient Jewish Monotheism (London: SCM, 1988), 93–124; Dunn, Theology, 267ff; more recently, Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, Jesus Monotheism (Eugene: Wipf & Stock, 2015), 1:141–2. 12. Also for example Rom 11:36. 13. Gregory E. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics in Jewish Wisdom Speculation and Early Christological Hymns’, in Wisdom and Logos: Studies in Jewish Thought in Honour of David Winston, ed. David T. Runia and Gregory E. Sterling, Studia Philonica Annual 9 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 235f; for the first phase of the debate, see Norden, Agnostos Theos, 240ff; and Schweitzer, Mysticism, 11.

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the church to be ‘cosmic space … the boundaries of [which] … circumscribe that part of the κόσμος that is ordered correctly εἰς God’.14 8. The upshot of this discussion is to posit a Paul whose cosmological ideals and moral reasoning overlap considerably with popular-level Stoic thought, but whose actual cosmic outlook is thoroughgoingly eschatological. As such, the normative poles of his cosmological thought are Creation and New Creation, which though analogous are non-identical (cf. Adam and Christ in Rom 5:12–21, 1 Cor 15:42–9). Accordingly, Paul’s cosmology, and by extension theological anthropology, involves a strong element of eschatological transformation. The question remains as to what part Baptism and the Lord’s Supper play in the processes of that transformation. 3.2.2 Paul’s Model of the World (Weltbild) The preceding section considered some of the elements of Paul’s cosmology and metaphysics as found in select passages from 1 Cor 3–10. The cosmological motifs found in those passages are not systematically presented, though there is an underlying structure. Nor are they comprehensive, since they arise in the context of shared moral reasoning in what are ostensibly pastoral and paraenetical arguments. As such, though there are genuinely cosmological aspects to Pauline ethics, ecclesiology and anthropology in 1 Corinthians, these are framed by the rhetorical needs of Paul given the pastoral crises which occasioned the epistle. Consequently, though Paul reasons cosmologically in several places, these materials present nothing remotely like an explicitly articulated or systematic Pauline world view. They do, nevertheless, situate Paul in the context of GraecoRoman moral and metaphysical reasoning. This is to echo some of Joel White’s observations in his essay on the cosmology of Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians and Galatians.15 He notes that these epistles nowhere present a detailed account of the spatial arrangement of the universe, and cautions against overinterpreting Paul’s use of a cosmological register in a manner that fails to distinguish between his ‘symbolic’ and ‘physical universe’.16 This is a point well made, since it is quite possible for language belonging to one sphere or register to be deployed in service of another. Conversely, he also warns against the confusion of cosmology and eschatology as it occurs in some scholarship. By this he refers to the tendency to treat eschatology as a form of narrative cosmology,17 when in fact the two fields are related yet distinct from one another. Whereas eschatology ‘is the

14. Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 91. 15. Joel White, ‘Paul’s Cosmology: The Witness of Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians, and Galatians’, in Cosmology and New Testament Theology, ed. Jonathan T. Pennington and Sean M. McDonough (London: T.&T. Clark, 2008). 16. White, ‘Paul’s Cosmology’, 91. 17. Schweitzer, Mysticism, 11.

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story of God pursuing and attaining his purposes within history’, the cosmos is not the story but is ‘the stage on which the story is acted out’.18 This is insightful, and bears in the first instance upon the mid-twentieth century tendency to collapse these two fields. This tendency is epitomized in the works of Rudolf Bultmann and Hermann Sasse and exemplified by their assertion that in Paul the terms κόσμος and αἰών are functionally synonymous.19 Since I have already explored the strengths and weaknesses of this position elsewhere, I do not propose to treat it again here.20 Nevertheless, it is worth observing inter alia that this tendency reveals as much about the aims of Paul’s modern interpreters as it obscures about his cosmology. The collapsing of eschatology and cosmology is difficult to disentangle from the precedence given to history and existential anthropology in studies belonging to this phase of the discipline; and this, in turn, cannot be isolated from a wider hermeneutical task,21 the aims of which include the reworking of Christian theology in terms of a specific philosophical project.22 Though White’s caution against categorical errors in this area is well made, it is unwise to press the distinction between the categories of cosmology, eschatology and narrative too far. Ancient discussions of the cosmos were topically diverse, and single works could interweave elements of world description (Plato, Tim. 33b– 34a, 36c–d, Aristotle, Metaph. 1073b19–74a39),23 accounts of processes and causes (Metaph. 1045b27–52a14)24 and cosmological, even mythological, narratives (Plato, Tim. 90e–92c).25 As such, the boundaries between myth, model, theology and likely tale in this period were occasionally fluid. Accordingly, it is defensible to consider the eschatological narrative shaping Paul’s cosmological thought to be part of his notion of how the world is ordered – even if it gives no special insight into its topography. As an absolute minimum, Paul understood the cosmos to be at the very least a three-tier affair, involving ‘terrestrial’ (ἐπίγειος), ‘celestial’ (ἐπουράνιος) and ‘cthonic’ (καταχθόνιος) realms, each populated by creatures with sentient agency

18. White, ‘Paul’s Cosmology’, 92. 19. See Bultmann, Theology, 1:254; Hermann Sasse, ‘κοσμέω, κόσμος, κόσμιος, κοσμικός’, in TDNT, ed. Gerhard Kittel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans), 3:893. 20. See Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 70–2. 21. See Rudolf Bultmann, ‘New Testament and Mythology: The Problem of Demythologizing the New Testament Proclamation’, in New Testament and Mythology and Other Basic Writings, ed. Schubert M. Ogden (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984). 22. See for example Markus Barth, ‘Christ and All Things’, in Paul and Paulinism: Essays in Honour of C. K. Barrett, ed. Morna D. Hooker and S. G. Wilson (London: SPCK, 1982), 164. 23. The reference in Aristotle involves an elaboration on the Eudoxan account of the heavens. 24. This is Book 9, which discusses being, substance, potentiality and actuality. 25. See further, M. R. Wright, Cosmology in Antiquity (London: Routledge, 1995), 11–36.

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enough to praise God (cf. Phil 2:10–11).26 Beyond this, the enigmatic reference to the third heaven in 2 Cor 12:2 suggests strongly that Paul also understood the celestial sphere to be further subdivided into multiple regions. However, discerning a common geography of the heavens in apocalyptic and testamentary literature is extremely tricky. Ethiopic Enoch (e.g. 1 En. 14) apparently mentions only a single heaven, whereas the ascent narrative in Slavonic Enoch (2 En. 3–20) evidently asserts that there are seven, of which the third (8:1–8) contains paradise (παράδεισος, cf. 2 Cor 12:4); 2 Baruch refers only to one (e.g. 2 Bar. 22:1), whereas 3 Baruch mentions five (3 Bar. 2–11). Indeed, different recensions of the same work (e.g. T.Levi) differ from one another as to the number of the heavens. Paula Gooder provides a fine summary and analysis of the available data (e.g. T.Levi 2:5–3:10, Ascen. Isa. 7:4–9:1).27 She is rightly critical of the assumption that a tripartite heaven is necessarily more primitive an idea than a fivefold or sevenfold heaven, and cautions against inferring that because Paul mentions only three that this locates him decisively in relation to available parallels. She also notes that it is a common scholarly assumption that Paul’s visionary ascent is to the highest heaven, acutely observing that the absence of reference to the throne of God perhaps indicates that for Paul the third heaven is not ultimate.28 Addressing this fully is beyond the scope of this chapter, but it will suffice to conclude that Paul’s celestial topography certainly involved three tiers, but likely involved more, with the reference to paradise in the third being redolent of the seven tiers of Slavonic Enoch (2 En. 8). There remains the question of the referential status of visionary materials. White is cautious rather than sceptical. He notes the difficulties attached to the assumption that Paul’s visionary language straightforwardly maps the cosmos.29 Kelley Coblentz Bautch makes a similar point in relation to 1 Enoch. Noting that the cosmology of Chapters 17 to 19 is a vehicle for its eschatology, she observes that 1 Enoch presents neither a complete nor a completely consistent cosmic picture.30 Though this observation bears principally upon the composition and structure of 1 Enoch, it is relevant for other texts in the corpus of literature discussed here. This is to pose the question of what differences there might be between a visionary’s narrative, symbolic and spatial universes. Of course, this question is apt for the extended narratives of visionary literature, but there is little in Paul to indicate decisively that such a gap exists between his terse reference to the third heaven and the working model of the universe this seems to imply. 26. See White, ‘Paul’s Cosmology’, 93. 27. Paula Gooder, Only the Third Heaven?: 2 Corinthians 12.1-10 and Heavenly Ascent, LNTS (London: Continuum, 2006), 182–5. 28. Gooder, Only the Third Heaven?, 190–1; also C. K. Barrett, A Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, Black’s New Testament Commentaries (London: A.&C. Black, 1973), 308–10. 29. White, ‘Paul’s Cosmology’, 94. 30. Kelley Coblentz Bautch, A Study of the Geography of 1 Enoch 17-19: ‘No One Has Seen What I Have Seen’, Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 258.

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3.2.3 Paul’s View of the Spirit World (Geisterwelt) The previous two sections of this chapter have suggested that Paul’s moral reasoning is shaped by ideas redolent of Stoic/Cynic sapiential and metaphysical thought, held within a christologically mediated apocalyptic-eschatological narrative of Creation and New Creation. His spatial model of the cosmos is fundamentally tripartite (heavenly, earthly, chthonic), and though he is characteristically sparse regarding topographical detail, it is very likely that he understands the heavenly region to involve at least three tiers and probably more. It remains therefore to consider briefly the way in which Paul addresses the question of the inhabitants of these regions. Guy Williams is significant here for his diligent and careful supernatural bestiary of Second Temple Judaism, and for his situating of Paul firmly in this context.31 One of his primary conclusions is that despite Paul’s lack of an integrated and fully coherent demonology and angelology ‘the spirit world largely has an axiomatic and cultural importance in the Pauline epistles’.32 This is a useful reminder that themes do not always derive their importance by being the most coherently or frequently articulated. Sometimes, they are important because they form the warp and weft of other ideas. This is arguably so for Paul. Nevertheless, the following two general observations pertain. The first is that though Paul’s dispositions towards the spirit world vary, he exhibits a strong, even pervasive, understanding of the scale of cosmic opposition.33 This is not just evident in references to agencies of evil: Satan (1 Cor 5:5, 2 Cor 11:14), Belial (2 Cor 6:15) or the demons (1 Cor 10:20–21). Rather, it is present in references to classes of agencies, such as the ἄρχοντες, δυνάμεις or ἐξουσίαι, which are able to refer to good agents (e.g. Dan 10:13, T.Levi 3:8),34 but which in the context of Pauline eschatology are presented as opponents both hypothetical and real (Rom 8:38, 1 Cor 15:24). Likewise, with the στοιχεῖα τοῦ κόσμου (‘elements of the cosmos’ Gal 4:3).35 The second observation is related to this. Not only is the spirit world a somewhat sombre place for Paul, it is not discrete from the world of human agency. Writing of Paul’s powers terminology, John Barclay states: The ‘principalities’ and ‘powers’ … are not simply ‘anthropological’ since they cover the whole gamut of existence, from death to social disintegration to the corruption that infests the whole cosmos … to call them ‘cosmic’ might suggest that they hover in some extra-human sphere, and not (also) in human lives on 31. Guy Williams, The Spirit World in the Letters of Paul the Apostle: A Critical Examination of the Role of Spiritual Beings in the Authentic Pauline Epistles, Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments, vol. 231 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 83–183. 32. Williams, The Spirit World in the Letters of Paul the Apostle, 312. Italics in original. 33. Ibid., 181–2. 34. References to the Greek text of this work are to R. H. Charles, ed., The Greek Versions of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1908). 35. See 3.3.2.

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the earthly stage. … ‘Powers’ thus denotes comprehensive features of reality which penetrate (what we call) the ‘political’ sphere, but only as it is enmeshed in larger and more comprehensive force-fields.36

This description of the relationship between the Pauline spirit world, in this case the powers, and human agency echoes the observation made variously that ancient cosmologies tended to be ordered in terms of relationships of participation involving both ur-phenomenal and epiphenomenal agencies.37 By this assessment, human agency, both individual and collective, is enmeshed in a series of hierarchically ordered fields and processes. Of course, if this is the case, then such a continuum of agency would have considerable bearing upon the way in which one might expect Paul to use the terminology of power. The challenge that follows is this: How does one tell whether he is referring to (i) human actors, (ii) personal extra-human agencies or (iii) impersonal entities, such as ‘personified … salvation-historical abstractions’?38 By way of exploration of these challenges, we consider some of Paul’s references to powers, authorities and rulers. Within the Hauptbriefe, ‘powers’ (δυνάμεις) are not mentioned often, the two clearest examples being Rom 8:38 and 1 Cor 15:24. Whilst the Romans passage does refer to δυνάμεις alongside references to cosmic-level entities (ἄγγελοι, ἀρχαὶ), these occur in the context of both existential-cosmological agencies (θάνατος, ζωή) and eschatological-temporal realities (ἐνεστῶτα, μέλλοντα). As such, it is not entirely clear which frame of reference Paul has in mind. Paul’s statement concerning ‘every ruler (ἀρχή) and authority (ἐξουσία) and power (δύναμις)’ (1 Cor 15:24) is marginally more straightforward. In the context of the passage, and particularly its cosmological-eschatological reading of both Ps 109:1[110:1] (LXX cf. 1 Cor 15:25) and the Adam-γῆ/Christ-οὐρανός (15:47) contrasts, it seems prima facie likely that these three items together probably denote angelic-level agents of cosmological governance, possibly together with the human spheres they influence. This is not to ignore the presence of powers like ‘death’ (θάνατος 15:26) on the wider list of enemies that the exalted Christ must subdue. However, it is to observe the usage of these terms in other, albeit later, literature to refer to angelic beings.39 Paul’s reference to the ἄρχοντες τοῦ αἰῶνος τούτου (‘rulers of this age’ 1 Cor 2:6) presents a particularly concentrated illustration of these issues. Anthony Thiselton

36. John M. G. Barclay, ‘Why the Roman Empire Was Insignificant to Paul’, in Pauline churches and Diaspora Jews, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 384. 37. Adams, Constructing the World, 21–2; Wright, Cosmology in Antiquity, 56–73. 38. See Christopher Forbes, ‘Paul’s Principalities and Powers: Demythologising Apocalyptic?’, JSNT 23, no. 82 (2001): 61. 39. ἐξουσίαι, cf. Col 1:16, T.Levi 3:8; ἄγγελος/οι τῶν δυνάμεων, cf. 2 Thess 1:7, 3 Baruch, 1:8; references to the Greek text of 3 Baruch are to Sebastian P. Brock and J.-C. Picard, eds., Testamentum Iobi, Apocalypsis Baruchi Graece (Leiden: Brill, 1967).

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identifies four trends in the history of interpretation of this expression.40 The first is that of the rulers as diabolic agencies.41 This position is not without support; the devil is variously designated as ἄρχων of the world (John 12:31, 14:30, cf. Ascen. Isa. 10:29), of demons (Matt 9:34, Luke 11:15) and of the power of the air (Eph 2:2). Note, however, that Paul refers not to a specific diabolic individual but to a class of entities. The second alternative Thiselton proposes is that of human political rule,42 which he argues was the majority patristic opinion (cf. Chrysostom, Hom. 7.1 [NPNF1 12:33]). This proposal has the obvious merit of being able to make sense of the expression ‘they crucified (ἐσταύρωσαν) the Lord of glory’ (1 Cor 2:8). This contextual point is extremely significant, since in the absence of a decisive demonstration that non-human agency is lexically impossible we are left to infer likely sense from usage. Thiselton’s third interpretative option is that the rulers are angelic figures presiding over, or behind, human political structures (cf. Ignatius, Smyr. 6:1 [ANF 1:89]).43 This view heavily depends upon a reading of Dan 10:13, in which the ‘prince (śǎrʹ) of Persia’ denotes the national angel of Persia.44 The Greek version of this verse is illuminating; there, the expression is rendered ὁ ἄρχων βασιλείας Περσῶν (‘the ruler of the kingdom of Persia’ LXX), who contrasts with Michael εἷς τῶν ἀρχόντων τῶν πρώτων (‘one of the principal rulers’ LXX). Not only is the use of the same vocabulary to describe these entities telling, but the use of the plural ἄρχοντες to describe the class of agents to which Michael belongs belies the insistence in some studies that it is the singular that is able to bear an extra-human sense.45 Finally, Thiselton’s preferred alternative is that the rulers are ‘sociopolitical powers in a structural collectivity that transcends given human individuals (possibly with a hint of demonic overtones)’.46 This proposal depends in large part upon

40. Thiselton, First Corinthians, 234–9. See also Thiselton’s bibliography on this topic on p. 228. 41. See for example Wolfgang Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, 4 vols. (Zürich: Benziger, 1991), 1:250. 42. See for example A. Robertson and A. Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians, 2nd ed., International Critical Commentary (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1914), 36; Wesley Carr, Angels and Principalities: The Background, Meaning, and Development of the Pauline Phrase Hai Archai Kai Hai Exousiai, Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). 43. οἱ ἄρχοντες ὁρατοί τε καὶ τὰ ἀόρατοι. References to the Greek text of Ignatius are from, Michael W. Holmes, The Apostolic Fathers: Greek Texts and English Translations, 3rd ed. (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007). 44. On this, see entry C under śǎrʹ in HALOT; also see Martin Dibelius, Die Geisterwelt im Glauben des Paulus (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1909), 10–11; G. B. Caird, Principalities and Powers: A Study in Pauline Theology (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1956), esp. chapter 1. 45. On this view see the comments in Thiselton, First Corinthians, 238. 46. Ibid. Italics original.

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the writings of Walter Wink,47 which offer a sophisticated account of both the material-political and the cognitive-affective elements of human life by means of apocalyptic language about the powers. This approach to the powers is hermeneutical as well as exegetical, and this warrants brief comment. By contrast with an earlier phase of history of religion research,48 mid-twentieth to late-twentieth-century scholarship on the powers found itself on the horns of a dilemma that was theological rather than historical in character. On the one hand, the idea of the powers as named entities and personal agencies was culturally and intellectually problematic. On the other, the sheer scale of disaster and brutality witnessed in the wars of the twentieth century necessitated a metaphysical account of corporate evil that would give voice to the moral horror these events generated. Attempts at theological recovery of the powers are ways of giving voice to this impulse and attempts at escaping the dilemma.49 One such example is the work of Hendrick Berkhof, who, though observing that Paul’s language of the spirit world is characteristic of that of Jewish apocalyptic, nonetheless claims that Paul treats the powers as the depersonalized structures that order human thought and behaviour.50 As a consequence, though he denies the objective personal existence of the mythological entities to which Paul refers, he does not deny their psycho-social reality; they genuinely shape individual and collective life. In making this claim, Berkhof suggests that Paul originates the first phase of demythologization. The assertion is not novel, since it echoes Bultmann’s own claim that demythologization begins in the New Testament.51 Despite being both hermeneutically sophisticated and elegant, this account of the powers is not without its difficulties. Perhaps the most significant is, in interpretative terms, that this stance runs the risk of permitting the modern horizon to subsume the ancient. It is one thing to maintain, with Hans-Georg Gadamer, that coming to understand something well involves the ‘fusing of horizons’ (Horizontverschmelzung);52 it is another matter entirely to allow the

47. See Walter Wink, Naming the Powers: The Language of Power in the New Testament, vol. 1, The Powers (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), esp. 107; Unmasking the Powers: The Invisible Forces that Determine Human Existence, vol. 2, The Powers (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986); Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination, vol. 3, The Powers (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992). 48. See for example Otto Everling, Die paulinische Angelologie und Dämonologie (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1888); Dibelius, Die Geisterwelt im Glauben des Paulus. 49. See for example H. Berkhof, Christ and the Powers, trans. John Howard Yoder, 2nd ed. (Scottdale: Herald Press, 1977); Caird, Principalities and Powers; Oscar Cullmann, Christ and Time: The Primitive Christian Conception of Time and History, trans. Floyd V. Filson (London: SCM, 1951), esp. 202. 50. Berkhof, Christ and the Powers, 21–3. 51. Bultmann, ‘New Testament and Mythology’, 11, 32–6. 52. Hans-Georg Gadamer, ‘The Principle of Effective History’, in The Hermeneutics Reader, ed. Kurt Mueller-Vollmer (Oxford: Continuum, 1985), 273.

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theological preoccupations of modern readers to exercise an overriding influence over what Paul may be permitted to mean.53 The fact that moderns find the powers perplexing as well as useful is insufficient reason to propose Paul as the primal demythologizer. As has been said elsewhere, it is self-referential to adopt what is, in effect, an exegetical stance that ‘we cannot believe X … hence Paul cannot possibly have said X’.54 3.2.4 Discussion: Paul’s Cosmological-Hermeneutical Stance By way of evaluating the different aspects of the preceding argument, we note that it is not a novel move to present aspects of Paul’s theology or practice in the context of interpenetrating fields of meaning. Indeed, N. T. Wright offers just such an analysis as a comprehensive vision of Pauline theology and religion. Locating Paul intellectually in the context of Graeco-Roman philosophy,55 religiously in the context of ancient cults and practices,56 and politically in the context of Roman imperial discourse,57 Wright offers a sophisticated and variegated portrait of Paul as an intelligent, occasionally subversive, original and multidimensional thinker. Whereas here the apocalyptic frame of reference is understood to situate Paul’s use of Graeco-Roman moral and material discourses cosmologically and eschatologically, Wright emphasizes it as Paul’s riposte to the vainglory of the Empire, which includes a challenge to the cosmic powers of whom the Empire is the latest, most monstrous, socio-political manifestation.58 Likewise, regarding the philosophers, Wright posits a hypothetical exchange between Paul and representatives of the Graeco-Roman intellectual world. Such a conversation would falter, he argues, around some of the axiomatic commitments Paul shared with other Jews, specifically the transcendence of God and the epistemic priority of revelation.59 Vis-à-vis the ‘physics’ of the cosmos, Wright’s reconstruction of Paul is of a singular figure, who may have had some qualified affinity for isolated aspects of various systems – Plato’s epistemology, Aristotle’s cosmological argument, Stoic accounts of the ages – but with the evaluation of these systems being critical in the light of the story of the gospel. The genuine substance of Paul’s thought lies not in such superficial similarities but in God’s decisive act in Christ, which offers a hermeneutic of Paul’s entire social and intellectual world.60 Though Wright is absolutely correct to point to the centrality and uniqueness of Paul’s christologically mediated narrative of the world and right to observe

53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

Williams, The Spirit World in the Letters of Paul the Apostle, 43. Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 182–3. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 1:197–245. Ibid., 246–78. Ibid., 279–347. Ibid., esp. 1310–19. Ibid., 1360–2. Ibid., 1369.

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some of the ways in which this renders Paul, in places, as oil to the philosophical waters, some of these suggestions merit examination nonetheless. The observation that Jews and ancient physicists differed regarding the question of whether God/ the gods were included in the cosmos or not is a case in point.61 Jews did not identify God with the cosmos; but, there again, neither did Plato (Tim. 92c), and though Aristotle’s Prime Mover is technically included in the cosmos (Metaph. 1072b), its region of occupation is beyond the furthest circle of the heavens (which is where God resides in some apocalyptic vision accounts). None of this is to dispute Wright’s assessment of what was axiomatic for many Jews of this period, only to observe that the terms ‘characteristic’ and ‘distinctive’ are useful here. The transcendence of God is certainly ‘characteristic’ of Jewish belief, but whether, and how far, it ‘distinguishes’ Jews from all others is an open question. Here, as in other areas, Philo provides a useful foil for the discussion of Paul, not because his approach is identical but because the similarities and differences enable a clearer sense of Paul’s distinctiveness to come to the fore. In relation to the transcendence of God, and engagement with Graeco-Roman philosophical systems, Legum Allegoriae 3.1–7 provides an interesting point of reference. The passage is an example of Philonic exegetical reflection upon the narrative of Genesis, in this instance the story of Adam and Eve hiding from God (Gen 3:8, cf. Leg. 3.1). Since, for Philo, hiding from God is a risible idea, he concludes that the meaning of the saying is best appreciated allegorically (3.4). The allegorical sense of ‘they hid’ (ἐκρύβησαν 3.6) is, he asserts, to do with ways of understanding the relationship between God and the cosmos: ‘the wicked person thinks God is in a place, not containing, but being contained’ (3.6). Ironically, such a person has ‘become an exile’ (πεφυγάδευται) from the community of those who know the divine presence.62 In a remarkable leap of associative logic, Philo then applies this conclusion to those ‘of the opinion of Heraclitus’ (Ἡρακλειτείου δόξης, 3.7), namely Stoic physics, by means of a further allegorical allusion to Lev 22:4 (LXX). This passage concerns the cultic exclusion of an Aaronic descendant who ‘is leprous or has had a seminal emission’ (λεπρᾷ ἢ γονορρυής).63 Whereas the Levitical exclusion presents these two conditions as alternatives, it is likely that Philo has in mind their being experienced synchronously (cf. ὁ λεπρὸς καὶ γονορρυής, Leg. 3.7). As such, his assessment of the Stoic theological malaise is twofold, with the allegorical correspondence between Stoic ideas and the respective condition being vividly expressed: (i) The view he criticizes corresponds to ὁ λεπρός, in that it involves

61. See for example Bultmann, Theology, 1:254. 62. φυγαδεύω and its related terms are not terribly common in the LXX, but appear to be among Philo’s terms of preference in other allegorical readings of biblical ‘banishment’ stories (e.g. Adam, Cain, Hagar, etc.). See Philo, Cher. 3, 10; Plant. 46, 61. 63. The term ‘leprous’ is hardly satisfying, though constructions involving ‘Hansen’s disease’ or ‘skin disease’ are unwieldy. On the sense of γονορρυής, see the relevant definition in LSL.

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combining God and the cosmos, which are ἀντιπάλους φύσεις, δύο χρωμάτων ὄντων (‘rival natures, being two colours’, Leg. 3.7). ‘Two colours’ here evidently alludes to healthy and inflamed tissue side by side in the same body. (ii) This view also corresponds to ὁ γονορρυής, in that the claim that ‘all things are from the cosmos and to the cosmos’ (ἐκ κόσμου πάντα καὶ εἰς κόσμον, 3.7) is a de facto denial of the Creator. Characterizing Stoic cosmogony as a seminal emission is to treat it as an abortive attempt at self-generation. Given the Alexandrian context, it is also possible that there is also a sly sideswipe at philosophical accounts of Egyptian cosmogony.64 The point of the example is not to suggest that Philo is somehow decisive for the interpretation of Paul, or even that his distinctive hermeneutic bears sustained comparison with Paul. It is only to demonstrate that it is possible to share in some of the characteristic axioms of Jewish belief, whilst also both fully engaging a philosophical opponent and locating oneself philosophically within the options available in that field. Philo argues as he does not only because he is Jewish, but also because significant elements of his thought are Middle-Platonist, and whilst he evidently regards the latter as being amenable to the former, he genuinely occupies both locations. It is on that basis that he takes on specific Stoic ideas. Returning to Paul, the stance taken here is that Wright’s governing Pauline hermeneutic of God’s apocalyptic action in the person and work of Christ is not, in principle, inconsistent with the notion of Paul also genuinely engaging, and in places agreeing with, the moral and material discourses of popular Stoicism.65 This is to suggest that Paul inhabits a hybrid cultural field analogous to that described by Homi Bhabha as a ‘Third Space’.66 What Bhabha means by this expression is attached to his analysis of the cultural difference exposed by the interaction between subjugated peoples and their subjugators. This interaction occasions a complicated process of negotiation, in which the very act of communication across difference entails the construction of a discursive space in which both parties undergo transformation. Individuals and communities inhabiting this location genuinely occupy both discourses, but they do so in different ways, to different extents and with a degree of ambivalence.67 As such, occupants of this field are paradoxically both fully and also never quite at home. Ronald Charles has recently applied these ideas to Paul and Jewish diasporic identities.68 This is not to make a theory heavy or doctrinaire point. Neither Paul nor his Graeco-Roman interlocutors occupied a cultural field anything like that

64. See for example Atum-Re in Wright, Cosmology in Antiquity, 75–6; also Pieter Willem van der Horst, ed. Chaeremon, Egyptian Priest and Stoic Philosopher: The Fragments Collected and Translated with Explanatory Notes (Leiden: Brill, 1984), ix–xiv. 65. See 3.2.1. 66. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 212–35. See especially the comments on ‘third space’ on p. 217. 67. Ibid., 33–4. See esp. Bhabha’s discussion of Christian missions in colonial India. 68. Charles, Paul and the Politics of Diaspora, 19–21.

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occupied by subjugated peoples today. Nor is it suggested that analytical tools apt for social analysis in the modern world may somehow be airlifted into the ancient Mediterranean with neither caution nor caveat. The reference to Bhabha is heuristic and directed towards giving shape to the idea that Paul’s deployment of Graeco-Roman moral and material ideas represents a real, though idiosyncratic and at times ambivalent, engagement with the substance of those traditions. It also hints at ways in which the notion of a ‘third space’ might helpfully elucidate what it might mean to proclaim the collapse of the Judaism-Hellenism dichotomy, or more precisely what it does not mean. It does not mean that cultural, religious, social and ideological distance between Jewish identities (whether acquiescent or resistant) and their political, religious and intellectual surroundings can safely be collapsed.69 In Bhabha, this is seen in his deployment of the Derridean concept of the ‘trace’, such that even that which is disavowed is tacitly invoked in the consequent identity.70 Arguably, this applies even to resistant, nationalist Jewish identities, which, figuratively speaking, bear the ‘traces’ of tens of thousands of Selucid, Herodian and Roman boots! Overall, therefore, the position here resembles that summarized by Wright towards the end of his discussion of Paul’s engagement of the philosophical tradition. The following excerpt bears quoting in full: Paul did not, then, derive his key ideas from his non-Jewish environment, but nor can his relationship with that environment be labelled simply ‘confrontation’. It is far more subtle. He did not, indeed, take over his main themes from the worlds of non-Jewish politics, religion or philosophy, but nor did he march through these worlds resolutely looking the other way and regarding them as irrelevant. Nor did he say they were all completely wrong from top to bottom. When he says that all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge are hidden in the Messiah, he does not mean, as did some who believed that all truth was contained in the Bible, that one could throw all other books away. Tracking, plotting and assessing the many lines and levels of his engagement with his complex non-Jewish world is a task awaiting further attention.71

Nevertheless, it is difficult to track these ‘lines and levels … of engagement’ without making specific claims as to the level and sophistication of Paul’s cultural repertoire. In the example above from Philo, this is somewhat straightforward, since he not only engages Scripture by means of the LXX, but also utilizes a mode of interpretation and invokes a philosophical canon that locates him as an elite Alexandrian Jew. Identifying Paul is not as straightforward. Paul’s literary canon offers a few broad-brush indications, his primary textual engagement being with the writings and stories of his own people as climaxed in

69. See Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2:1357. 70. See Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 111. 71. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2:1407. Italics added.

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Christ. There is evidence of extended citation of the Greek Scriptures (e.g. Rom 3:12–18, cf. Ps 13:3[14:3] LXX), along with indications that the forms of some of Paul’s allusions and paraphrases more closely resemble the Septuagint than extant Hebrew texts (e.g. 1 Cor 15:55, cf. Hos 13:14 LXX).72 However, others of Paul’s citations and allusions offer greater agreement with the MT than with the LXX (e.g. 2 Cor 9:9, cf. Ps 111:9[112:9] LXX).73 In addition to this, there are examples of expansive narrative actualizations of scriptural accounts (e.g. 1 Cor 10:1–13, cf. Num 21:17), and arguments that presuppose free-form renderings of Scripture (e.g. 1 Cor 11:7–10). By contrast with this depth and variety, Paul’s explicit citation of classical Greek literature in the Hauptbriefe is limited. The only clear example is the oft-mentioned citation of Menander in 1 Cor 15:33: ‘evil company corrupts good habits’. However, as Thiselton notes, sayings to this effect are sufficiently common in the literature that this may well be no more than a popular apophthegm.74 Of course, that Paul would use Graeco-Roman commonplaces is no sign that they are devoid of meaning. The Corinthian slogans and maxims mentioned in earlier sections of this chapter (from which Paul appears to demur only in a qualified sense) certainly qualify as commonplaces. Nevertheless, they bear significant content, though it is precisely regarding their significance that Paul and his interlocutors differ. The balance of this and other data has led Stanley Stowers to observe that Paul’s educational formation, whilst including some instruction in epistolographic rhetoric and style, is unlikely to have involved access to the highest Graeco-Roman curriculum.75 However, as Ronald Hock suggests,76 deployment by Paul of literary devices characteristic of the progymnasma (cf. prosopopoeia in Rom 7:7–25)77 suggests at least some tertiary tuition. Alongside whatever Graeco-Roman formation Paul may have received, there is also his Jewish education. Ed Sanders suggests that this formation was primarily in the Greek language, whereas Jerome MurphyO’Connor posits a lengthy period of pharisaic education in Jerusalem.78 The point

72. See for example Robertson and Plummer, First Corinthians, 378. It is beyond the remit here to consider questions of Vorlage. 73. Richard N. Longenecker, Paul: Apostle of Liberty, Second edition (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans, 2015), 356–7. 74. Thiselton mentions, for example Menander, Euripides, Diodorus Siculus, Philo. See Thiselton, First Corinthians, 1253. 75. See Stanley K. Stowers, A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1994), 17. 76. Ronald F. Hock, ‘Paul and Greco-Roman Education’, in Paul in the Greco-Roman World: A Handbook, ed. J. Paul Sampley (Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2016), 239ff. 77. Stowers, A Rereading of Romans, 264–71. 78. See for example E. P. Sanders, ‘Paul between Judaism and Hellenism’, in St. Paul among the Philosophers, ed. John D. Caputo and Linda Alcoff (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009), 77–82; Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, Paul: A Critical Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 52–62.

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of this analysis is not to pin understanding Paul to a debatable reconstruction of his educational background. Rather, it is merely to observe that Paul’s education is a relevant concern in identifying the possible interaction between the frames of reference discussed here. For my own part, I think the evidence suggests that the arguments Paul engages are at the popular end of the spectrum, but that this is not the limit of his exposure to the philosophical and cosmological tradition. This is not a fundamental departure from the position taken elsewhere. 3.2.5 Section Summary The preceding discussion examined some of the frames of reference by which Paul understood the world to be ordered. The first of these was derived from the way in which some of Paul’s moral reasoning sits well in the context of Greco-Roman, particularly Stoic, debates regarding the relationship between wisdom, freedom and the cosmos. These ideas and arguments and their metaphysical and cosmological correlates are, in turn, framed by a Christocentric narrative redolent of Jewish apocalyptic literature. The upshot of this is that Pauline ecclesiology functions as a cosmological sphere within which redemptive activity occurs. The second frame of reference involved the structure of the material universe itself. Broadly, Paul’s Weltbild resembles that found in apocalyptic; it is tripartite with a multi-tiered heaven, inhabited by residents of a Geisterwelt largely coterminous with that of Jewish testamentary and apocalyptic materials. Notwithstanding the similarity, Paul’s presentation of these communities of entities is itself framed by the cosmologicallocative contrast between ὁ κόσμος οὗτος (e.g. 1 Cor 5:10), which is the domain of Satan and the flesh (5:5), and the ecclesial sphere, within which the spirit of the Lord manifests (cf. 1 Cor 12:4–11). As such, Paul characteristically treats certain classes of entities inhabiting the Geisterwelt as either potential or actual antagonists. As to what these three frames of reference might indicate about Paul’s sense of the ordering of reality, and of the place of humanity within this, N. T. Wright’s very comprehensive analysis of Paul’s political, religious and intellectual world was of decisive importance. Paul’s sense of cosmological order is first and foremost shaped around the New Creation inaugurated in Christ. He does genuinely engage some of the Stoic sapiential cosmological issues mentioned in the preceding analysis in a real, though idiosyncratic and at times ambivalent way. This argument was sustained by a comparative discussion of an example from Philo, by the heuristic use of Homi Bhabha and by a consideration of the level and scope of Paul’s education.

3.3 Texts: Cosmology, Anthropology and Ecclesiology The present section of the chapter explores how Paul situates humanity and the church in this model of the world. As noted in the introduction to the chapter, Paul’s tacit ‘metaphysic’ involves a salvation historical transformation, which is cosmological and anthropological, christologically mediated, ecclesiologically situated and ritually

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enacted when one is baptized. The position taken here is that Paul understood salvation to involve cosmological promotion: that, in short, redeemed humanity is not what it used to be or ever was! It is the purpose of this section of the chapter to explore this in relation to a selection of passages in the Pauline corpus. 3.3.1 Eschatological Advancement: 1 Cor 6:2–3 and 15:45–49 To this end, we turn briefly to two examples from 1 Corinthians, in which the outcome of this transformation is mentioned. In the first of these, 1 Cor 6:2–3, Paul poses his interlocutors the rhetorical question of whether they are aware that ‘we will judge angels’ (ὅτι ἀγγέλους κρινοῦμεν 6:3), presumably at the eschaton. This is, in fact, the second of two such questions, the first being whether the Corinthians know that ‘the holy ones will judge the world’ (οἱ ἅγιοι τὸν κόσμον κρινοῦσιν 6:2). The close parallelism between verses 2 and 3 here indicates that the second question is either epexegetical of the first or that it expands upon it. In either case, the juxtaposition indicates that (i) ‘we’ (6:3 viz. the church) are the ‘holy ones’ (6:2) who will do the judging, and that (ii) the judgement of the ‘world’ (6:2) is wider in scope than humanity (6:3). The two verses together constitute an argument of the form a maiore ad minus, the point being that those who will judge angels ought not needlessly to subject themselves to earthly arbitration. The negative particle οὐκ, with which each question begins, indicates that Paul anticipates the answer in each case to be ‘yes’. This apparent reference to shared knowledge suggests that the eschatological exaltation of the faithful over the angels and powers is not being introduced to the Corinthians for the first time here. As to the provenance of this teaching, references to the angelic judgement (e.g. 1 En. 69:28–29, 91:15) and to the exaltation of the elect above the angels (e.g. 2 Bar. 51:12) are not unknown in apocalyptic literature, though it is unclear precisely from where Paul derives the idea of combining these two ideas and applying it to Christians. There are examples of the elect (e.g. Dan 7:22, Wis 3:7–8, 1QpHab 5.4–5)79 being agents of judgement vis-à-vis the world, but these scenarios are not exactly parallel to 1 Cor 6:3.80 It may be that Paul anticipates Christians taking over some of the functions of the angelic retinue of the Lord (e.g. Mart. Isa. 4:14, cf. 1 En. 1:9, 2 Thess 1:7–8) or indeed that, being baptismally united with Christ, the church participates in his rule somehow (cf. Eph 2:6).81 The second example in 1 Corinthians in which humanity undergoes some form of eschatological-cosmological elevation is to be found in 1 Cor 15:47–49.

79. See Geza Vermes, ed., The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English (London: Penguin, 1997). 80. For these and various other suggestions, see Joseph A. Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, The Anchor Bible (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), 252; Raymond F. Collins, First Corinthians, ed. Daniel J. Harrington, Sacra Pagina (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1999), 232; Barrett, First Corinthians, 136. 81. For a survey of other suggestions, see Thiselton, First Corinthians, 430–1.

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These verses constitute the climax of Paul’s discussion of the Adam-Christ contrast (15:21–22, 45–49), which is itself the lynchpin of his discussion of the resurrection. Briefly, verses 42–44 of this chapter construct a somatic taxonomy of pre- and postresurrection bodies. ‘Corruption’ (φθορά), ‘dishonour’ (ἀτιμία) and ‘weakness’ (ἀσθένεια) are associated with the pre-resurrection state, whereas ‘incorruption’ (ἀφθαρσία), ‘glory’ (δόξα) and ‘power’ (δύναμις) belong to the resurrected state (1 Cor 15:42–43). These qualities are epitomized in the contrast between the σῶμα ψυχικόν and σῶμα πνευματικόν (15:44).82 Much of the recent literature on the σῶμα ψυχικόν/σῶμα πνευματικόν contrast has focused upon the question of what the adjectival -ικος ending denotes, and in what way the lexical sense differs from cognate adjectives ending in -ινος.83 Whilst, in the wider literature, the -ικος endings denote quality and the -ινος substance, the stance here is that any such discussion is moot. This is because (i) there are no extant examples of ψυχινος or πνευματινος in relevant literature; and (ii) Paul uses σάρκινος and σαρκικός interchangeably in 1 Cor 3:1–3 in a manner that suggests little concern for the ‘characterized by’/‘comprised of ’ distinction.84 Consequently, whatever may be denoted by the expressions σῶμα ψυχικόν and σῶμα πνευματι κόν, it is clear from the run of the argument that the distinction maps onto that posited between Adam and Christ in 1 Cor 15:45–49. Adam became constituted ‘as a living soul’ (εἰς ψυχὴν ζῶσαν 15:45 cf. Gen 2:7 LXX),85 Christ an ‘enlivening spirit’ (εἰς πνεῦμα ζῳοποιοῦν). The further characterization of Adam as the ‘man of dust (ἄνθρωπος … χοϊκός) from the earth (ἐκ γῆς)’ and Christ as ‘the man from heaven’ (ἄνθρωπος ἐξ οὐρανοῦ) respectively (1 Cor 15:47) is epexegetical of this contrast, and paradigmatic for those who subsequently bear the images of these alternative human archetypes (15:48–49). For the purposes of the present discussion, it suffices to observe that whatever bodily distinctions pertain between Adam and Christ, they will at the eschaton entail the somatic transformation of those in Christ (cf. 1 Cor 15:22). This transformation expresses more than a redemptive or restorative soteriology. To be sure, for Paul, the role of the primal man in bringing death into the world evokes the fall narrative of Gen 3:3 (cf. 1 Cor 15:21),

82. I have intentionally left these expressions untranslated. ‘Natural’ and ‘spiritual’ carry unfortunate materialist-immaterialist connotations for Moderns, but the alternatives are hardly adequate either. See the relevant definitions in LSL; BDAG. 83. See for example Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2:1400–1; EngbergPedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul, 217n73; N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God, Christian Origins and the Question of God (London: SPCK, 2003), 352; also the discussion in Dale B. Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 123–9. 84. Note that some mss give σαρκίνοις (v.1) as -ικοις and some mss give σαρκικοί (v.3) as –ινοι, but that, on balance, the observation above still holds. See the critical apparatus at 1 Cor 3:1–3 in NA28. 85. This expression is broadly similar in meaning to npš hyh in the MT (Gen 2:7).

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with Christ’s resurrection eschatologically undoing that (1 Cor 15:26, 54). However, in utilizing the material language of Gen 2:7 (viz. prior to the fall) to give shape to the Adam-Christ contrast (1 Cor 15:47–49), Paul indicates that the ‘christiform’ σῶμα πνευματικόν surpasses the σῶμα ψ υχικόν not only as the latter denotes humanity qua fallen, but also humanity qua originally created. Unlike subsequent Marcionism and Gnosticism, there is little here to suggest a denial of the pristine goodness of created things (cf. Gen 1:31). Rather, what primal humanity and fallen humanity share by way of cosmological status is the experience of being positionally subordinate to the heavenly powers (e.g. Gen 1:14, Ps 8:4–6, Jub. 2:9–10, 1 En. 6–8). For Paul, the resurrection seems to mark the moment at which this status decisively ceases and humanity in Christ procures a new standing in the world. 3.3.2 Baptism, the πνεῦμα and the στοιχεῖα: Gal 4:1–10 The present section on Gal 4:1–10 develops the idea of cosmological promotion in relation to the penultimate state brought about when one is baptized, rather than the ultimate state brought about when one is raised. Despite baptismal ideas not being explicit here, they are assumed, especially when the passage is situated in the argument beginning at 3:1, in which the promised πνεῦμα is a major theme. For Paul, it is a given that the Galatian believers have received the spirit of God, which is evidence that the fulfilment of God’s promise to bless the gentiles through Abraham’s seed (viz. Christ) has occurred (Gal 3:8–9, 14 cf. Gen 12:3). For Jesus devotees, sonship, hence inheritance of this blessing, is associated with entry ‘into’ (εἰς) baptismal participation in Christ (3:27–29). This moment coincides with the ritual, pneumatic transcendence of all of the basic social categories by which ancient societies organized themselves (cf. Aristotle, Pol. 1252a–b). Torah is a subsidiary theme in this, in that Paul understands it as a transitional measure (3:19), commensurate with the period prior to Christ’s coming (Gal 3:19, 24). Its secondary status is not only that it is consequent to the promise and penultimate to the fulfilment, but also that it was mediated by derivative agencies (3:19). Given that the issue that occasions the epistle is whether gentile Jesus devotees ought to be Torah compliant, references to ‘we’ being ὑπὸ νόμον (3:23) during the transitional period indicate that at points Paul has in mind Jews as distinct from gentiles. This highlights the pronomial movement between ‘we’ (3:23–25) and ‘you’ (3:26–29), which persists in Gal 4:1–10. Gal 4:1 begins with an illustration about inheritance (cf. 3:29). To be an heir but a minor is ‘no different’ (οὐδὲν διαφέρει 4:1) from being enslaved,86

86. The following comment agrees with Richard Hays in narratively aligning Gal 3:23– 29 and 4:3–7; see Richard B. Hays, The Faith of Jesus Christ: The Narrative Substructure of Galatians 3:1-4:11, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 201; cf. James D. G. Dunn, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians, Black’s New Testament Commentaries (London: A.&C. Black, 1993), 210.

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since both conditions involve heteronomy: subordination ‘under guardians and stewards’ (ὑπὸ ἐπιτρόπους … καὶ οἰκονόμους Gal 4:2) acting on behalf of the paterfamilias.87 This is redolent of Aristotle’s comparison of children and slaves in the ancient household; both are subordinate, though the child will eventually mature and become self-regulating (Pol. 1260a5–18). The illustration evidently alludes back to the descriptions of the Jewish people as ὑπὸ νόμον and of Torah as a παιδαγωγός in the preceding chapter (3:23–24). As such, the focus here is upon the contrast between the past and present status of Jewish Jesus devotees: Now they participate in the πνεῦμα and sonship, and their eschatological minority is over (4:2, cf. 3:23–24). From Gal 4:3 onwards, the focus of metaphor shifts from heirs awaiting their coming of age to slaves awaiting their ‘adoption’ (υἱοθεσία) as sons (4:5).88 Despite this change in focus, the narrative structure of verses 3–5 echoes that of verses 1–2. There is a condition of subordination, and there is a temporal limit that marks the cessation of this condition. Here, the cessation coincides with the coming of the Son of God (4:4) to (ἵνα) redeem those ὑπὸ νόμον (4:5) from slavery. Since the wider epistolary aims preclude Paul describing gentiles thusly, it is likely that he still has in mind Jewish Christ devotees in these verses.89 This makes the reference to slavery to the στοιχεῖα τοῦ κόσμου (‘elements of the cosmos’ 4:3) perplexing, since it begs the question of the relationship between the elements and Torah. In Gal 4:6, Paul’s attention shifts from ‘we/us’, namely Jews, to ‘you’, namely gentiles, though he continues the slavery/adoption metaphor. This to-and-fro between Jews and gentiles is oriented towards demonstrating that both groups of Jesus devotees already share in an equivalently elevated baptismal status. Nevertheless, the logic is not entirely straightforward. The difficulty lies in the opening clause ‘since/that (ὅτι) you are sons’ (4:6a). If ὅτι here is causal (‘since’), then the logical relationship between this and subsequent clauses would be somewhat convoluted: Precondition: since (ὅτι) you are sons (6a) Consequence: God sent the spirit of his son … (6b) Inference: so that (ὥστε) you are no longer slaves but sons (7).

87. See the note on guardianship in E. D. W. Burton, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians, International Critical Commentary (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1921), 212–15. 88. See the helpful discussion of υἱοθεσία in Dunn, Galatians, 217–18. 89. Notwithstanding the debate regarding Paul’s pronouns in the wider passage. See, Charles B. Cousar, Galatians, ed. James Luther Mays, Patrick D. Miller and Paul J. Achtemeier, Interpretation, a Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville: John Knox Press, 2012), 91–2; Dunn, Galatians, 212; Frank J. Matera, Galatians, ed. Daniel J. Harrington, Sacra Pagina (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1992), 149; Richard N. Longenecker, Galatians, ed. Ralph P. Martin, vol. 41, Word Biblical Commentary (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1990), 164.

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Quite apart from the obvious circularity involved in an inference being its own precondition, the idea of sonship as a precondition to the reception of the divine spirit runs counter to Paul’s earlier argument. In Chapter 3, the reception of God’s spirit is the evidence of, and is baptismally coterminous with, the Galatians becoming heirs of the blessing (cf. Gal 3:2, 14, 26), namely sons. However, Liddell and Scott usefully note that ὅτι can be used demonstratively (‘with regard to the fact that’).90 Though this is not without its difficulties, it offers a more coherent account of the sentence: Topic: with regard to the fact that (ὅτι) you are sons (6a) Precondition: God sent the spirit of his son … (6b) Consequence: so that (ὥστε) you are no longer slaves but sons (7).

The remaining verses (Gal 4:8–10) see Paul develop this by presenting what he understands to be the critical issue, namely the loss of this acquired status when gentile believers become Torah observant. Like Jewish Jesus devotees (4:5), the Galatians are already ‘sons’ (4:7). Like Jewish Jesus devotees, their pre-Christ existence involved subordination. For Jews, this was ὑπὸ νόμον (3:23, 4:5), or slavery to the στοιχεῖα τοῦ κόσμου (4:3). For the Galatians, this involved slaving for beings ‘by nature not gods’ (τοῖς φύσει μὴ οὖσιν θεοῖς 4:8). It is unclear exactly what Paul means by this: Do the ‘not gods’ have ontological, but non-divine, reality or do they lack existence altogether? The balance of likelihood is towards the former.91 If Paul had concluded here, the argument would have been simpler. As it is, his rhetorical question in verse 9 raises further issues: ‘how can you return again (ἐπι στρέφετε πάλιν) to … the elements (στοιχεῖα); how can you want to slave for them once more (πάλιν ἄνωθεν)?’ (Gal 4:9b). This question must be understood from the point of view of Paul’s audience. To them, the change they are considering (cf. 4:21) has no connection with their prior religious affiliation; as uncircumcised non-Jews they have no prior Torah observance to which to return (5:2). Hence, the assertion that this move is retrogressive makes no sense unless: (i) Paul’s use of the term στοιχεῖα to denote Galatian cult is related to his use of στοιχεῖα τοῦ κόσμου to denote slavery to Torah (4:3); such that (ii) he regards a turning to the latter as a real re-turning to the former. As for the term itself, στοιχεῖα could bear various senses.92 (i) The option with the most to commend it lexically is στοιχεῖα as material elements (e.g. στοιχεῖα τοῦ παντός, Plato, Tim. 48b). As Martinus De Boer and others have decisively demonstrated, this is the natural reading when στοιχεῖα is accompanied by τοῦ

90. See defn. A.IV of ὅτι in LSL; also Dunn, Galatians, 218–19. 91. See further Hans Dieter Betz, Galatians, Hermeneia, A Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979), 214–15. 92. See στοιχεῖον in BDAG; also Gerhard Delling, ‘στοιχέω’, in TDNT, ed. Gerhard Kittel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans), 7:683–7.

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κόσμου.93 (ii) The στοιχεῖα may also denote heavenly bodies/constellations (e.g. δώδεκα στοιχεῖα, Diog. Laert. 6.102). The reference to calendrical observances in Gal 4:10 offers some support for this as a subsidiary element of Paul’s usage (cf. Wis 7:17–22).94 (iii) The notion of the στοιχεῖα as preliminary/fundamental principles (e.g. στοιχεῖα καὶ ἀρχαὶ, Aristotle, Metaph. 998a20–30) appears elsewhere in the New Testament (cf. Heb 5:12), though never to describe pre-Christ observance.95 (iv) Finally, the idea of the στοιχεῖα as elemental spirits (e.g. the Decans in T.Sol. 18:2, cf. Mart. Isa. 4:18) has only limited support in texts of this period, though it is consistent with Paul’s attitude to the spirit world.96 As De Boer has also shown, that Paul uses the first of these definitions (material elements) is explicable in terms of Jewish critique of gentile religion,97 which asserted that gentiles ignorantly reverenced the elements as deities (e.g. Wis 13:1–3, Philo, Contempl. 3–5). Inter alia, there may also be evidence of the converse phenomenon, of Graeco-Roman association of the gods/daemons with the elements (e.g. Empedocles, Fr. 6, Ps-Plato, Epin. 984c–e).98 As such, the Jewish polemic may be an example of the kind of contested space hermeneutic I mentioned previously; it is a real, though idiosyncratic and at times ambivalent, engagement with the substance of those traditions.99 Nevertheless, though De Boer resolves the connection between the στοιχεῖα and gentile religion, his account of the στοιχεῖα and Torah is less substantial. This is because he pins the association upon Paul’s reference to calendrical observance. Admittedly, sacred time is a feature of many ancient cults, both Jewish and gentile.100 But whether an analogy between Jewish liturgical cosmology and calendrical aspects of gentile religious observance is sufficient to account for Paul’s usage, and for his expectation that

93. Martinus C. De Boer, ‘The Meaning of the Phrase τά στοιχεία τοῦ κόσμου in Galatians’, NTS 53, no. 2 (2007): 207–8; J. Louis Martyn, ‘Christ and the Elements of the Cosmos’, in Theological Issues in the Letters of Paul (London: T.&T. Clark, 1997), 127–8; Eduard Schweizer, ‘Slaves of the Elements and Worshipers of Angels: Gal 4:3, 9 and Col 2:8, 18, 20’, JBL 107, no. 3 (1988): esp. 455–64. 94. De Boer, ‘The Meaning of the Phrase τά στοιχεία τοῦ κόσμου in Galatians’, 216–17. 95. Longenecker, Galatians, 41, 165; Matera, Galatians, 150; also see Burton, Galatians, 510–18. 96. On this, see Clinton Arnold, ‘Returning to the Domain of the Powers: Stoicheia as Evil Spirits in Galatians 4:3,9’, NovT 38, no. 1 (1996); also the evaluation in Williams, The Spirit World in the Letters of Paul the Apostle, 162–5. 97. De Boer, ‘The Meaning of the Phrase τά στοιχεία τοῦ κόσμου in Galatians’, 219. 98. Empedocles uses ῥιζώματα rather than στοιχεῖα, though Aetius (1.3.20) treats them as interchangeable. See Empedocles, Empedocles: The Extant Fragments, trans. M. R. Wright (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981), 96; also see Apuleius, Metam. 11.5; and Augustine (on Varro), De Civitate Dei 7.28 (NPNF1 2:139). 99. See 3.2.4. 100. De Boer, ‘The Meaning of the Phrase τά στοιχεία τοῦ κόσμου in Galatians’, 223.

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his readers would find his point persuasive, seems to me doubtful. A definitive solution to this problem is beyond the scope of this chapter. Nevertheless, it is evident that situating Gal 4:1–10 within the wider ambit of the argument beginning in chapter 3 indicates that the στοιχεῖα (4:3–5; 8–9) and the πνεῦμα (3:26–9, 4:6–7) are related by the same eschatological narrative that has run through the entire passage. Accordingly, what the στοιχεῖα are to division (Gal 3:27), minority (4:1), slavery (4:3) and cosmological subjection (4:8), the πνεῦμα is to unity (3:28), majority (4:2), sonship (4:5) and cosmological emancipation. Two observations pertain here: Firstly, the slavery-sonship contrast indicates that πνεῦμα and the στοιχεῖα are hierarchically and not just temporally ordered; secondly, this ordering, together with the hierarchical ordering of πνεῦμα and the στοιχεῖα in other ancient material discourses, suggests that these other frames of reference should be taken into account.101 That is, Paul here uses a register that evokes the relationship between πνεῦμα and the στοιχεῖα in the fields of ancient biology, physics and cosmology, in which πνεῦμα serves as an ordering activating agency (e.g. Aristotle, Gen. an. 728a, Galen, Sem. 1.2, Philo, Cher. 127). Given his education and hermeneutical disposition, this is unlikely to be accidental, and it is doubtful that it was obscure to his readers. This is to observe, with Troels Engberg-Pedersen, that though there is no smoking gun to locate Paul’s use of πνεῦμα in ancient physics and cosmology, the register he uses and the ways in which he uses it suggest such a move.102 For Engberg-Pedersen, this takes the form of a ‘Stoicising’ approach to the question of both the elements and the πνεῦμα, with the contrast of the passage being between ‘the freedom generated by God’s (physical, cognitive and quasi-personal) pneuma and enslavement under any other force’.103 One difficulty with this is locating Paul’s usage vis-à-vis the plethora of related terms in antique cosmology. Is Paul’s πνεῦμα a Stoic mix of air and fire? If so, then how does it differ from the celestial ‘creative fire’ (πῦρ τεχνικόν) or the ‘aether’ (αἰθήρ)?104 This leads John Barclay to suggest that Paul’s account of the divine spirit is ‘undetermined’, and that this follows from it being an eschatological novelty.105 This seems to me to be correct; Paul’s engagement with the substance of ancient material discourse is genuine, but it is also eccentric and not wholly clear.106 101. On the elemental hierarchy in antiquity, see Martin, Corinthian Body, 6–15; also chapters 6 and 7 of Wright, Cosmology in Antiquity, 93–125. 102. Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul, 53; also see the discussion of Gal 4:1–10 on p. 69. 103. Ibid., 92. Emphasis added. 104. See Wright, Cosmology in Antiquity, 119–20. 105. John M. G. Barclay, ‘Stoic Physics and the Christ Event: A Review of Troels Engberg-Pedersen’, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010)’, JSNT 33, no. 4 (2011): 411. 106. This is to adopt a position somewhere between Engberg-Pedersen and Volker Rabens on the topic of the materiality of πνεῦμα. See Volker Rabens, The Holy Spirit and Ethics in Paul: Transformation and Empowering for Religious-Ethical Life, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013).

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What is clear is that Paul’s baptismal theology involves some form of metaphysical transformation, one that is continuous with yet penultimate to the total renewal of the bodily self at the eschaton. Hence, even though Paul’s notion of the πνεῦμα is ‘undetermined’, there is nonetheless a real contrast between pre- and post-baptismal conditions. On the one hand, one can hardly think of a more apposite description of the cosmological status of sarkic corporeality as ‘enslaved to the elements’. On the other, it is difficult to avoid the implication that in liberating human beings from subordination to these realities, the gift of the πνεῦμα also liberates human agency to be more than it has hitherto been (cf. Gal 5:16–29, Rom 8:1–4). This is to suggest that Paul understands human beings as having been freed to be more than they are, which perhaps explains his pejorative use of ἄνθρωποί in 1 Cor 3:4: οὐκ ἄνθρωποί ἐστε (‘are you not [mere] humans?’). Of course, as Barclay notes, this is not straightforwardly a cosmological promotion, if by that one means progression along an existing scala naturae.107 Rather, it is the irruption of the animating power of the New Creation into the somatic, social and cosmological fields of this age (cf. Gal 6:14–15). It is significant for the present argument that this irruption is baptismally located. 3.3.3 Temples, Bodies and Boundaries: 1 Cor 3:16, 5–6 It was seen above108 that the somatic, social and cosmological space formed by the church is, for Paul, coterminous with the field defined as in Christ or inhabited by the irruption of the spirit (cf. 1 Cor 8:6). This suggests that in addition to exploring Paul’s thought in terms of time (eschatology), or a metaphysics of relative cosmological status or of materiality, it is important also to locate his ideas in relation to the category of space. The present discussion does this by means of the metaphor of the church as temple. The idea of the church as space is crucial for describing its social, ritual and cosmological boundedness. As Walter Burkert has observed in relation to Greek cult, and Tyson Putthoff in regard to Jewish cult, boundedness is intrinsic to ancient religion.109 Every sanctuary is constituted by a τέμενος, or precinct, which serves as an outer boundary delimiting the spheres of the sacred and the profane.110 In separating the interior it ensures that it is kept free from exterior defilement, and

107. Barclay, ‘Stoic Physics and the Christ Event’, 411. 108. See 3.2.1; also Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 86–92. 109. See Walter Burkert, Greek Religion, trans. John Raffan (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1985), 86–7; Tyson L. Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology: The Malleable Self and the Presence of God, ed. Alan J. Avery-Peck and William S. Green, The Brill Reference Library of Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2017), esp. 8–12. 110. For example the τέμενος τοῦ Πρωτέος which contains the Temple of Aphrodite, in Herodotus, Hist. 2.112.

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this is closely related to the idea of the god inhabiting the space.111 Even bearing in mind Jorunn Økland’s caution that sanctuary nomenclature, topography and architecture vary between contexts and cultures,112 it is nonetheless clear that Paul invokes something akin to cultic-spatial purity in his question: ‘don’t you know that you are (pl. ἐστε) the temple of God, and God’s spirit dwells within you?’ (1 Cor 3:16). Since Robertson and Plummer are probably correct that the καί introducing the second clause is epexegetical,113 the implication naturally follows: It is the spirit they received that constitutes the Corinthian Christians collectively as a cultic space. The church as temple space gives some leverage over Paul’s discussions of purity boundaries in 1 Corinthians.114 The case of πορνεία in 1 Cor 5:3–5 illustrates this well. The issue is that a man has his father’s wife (5:1–2). By way of brief explanation, the situation is concerned with prohibited biological degrees, even though there is no hint that the father’s wife is the offender’s mother. Rather, the prohibited degree for Paul is most likely rooted in the Levitical prohibition of ‘uncovering the nakedness’ of close kin (Lev 18:6–18). In this case, the close kin is the father, whose ‘nakedness’ is closely identified with his wife’s (Lev 18:8, cf. 1 Cor 7:4). As such, Paul’s response, though not explicitly halakhic, is entirely in keeping with Jewish purity codes.115 Discipline takes the form of social death, described as a ritual handing back of the man to the cosmic agencies from which he had previously been liberated: he is ‘to be delivered over to Satan’ (παραδοῦναι … τῷ σατανᾷ 1 Cor 5:5).116 The spatial and cultic imagery here is apparent: The excommunication is pronounced at a community gathering (4:4); and the speech-act itself notionally passes the excommunicant between the spheres of Christ and of Satan (5:10). This boundary is also cosmological, in that members of the congregation (5:11) stand in contrast to those ‘of this world’ (τοῦ κόσμου τούτου 5:10). Similar concerns are apparent in the case involving coitus with a prostitute (1 Cor 6:15). One of the key ideas underlying this discussion is that human bodies participate in the cosmological spaces to which they belong and in the metaphysical

111. See Walter Burkert, ‘The Meaning and Function of the Temple in Classical Greece’, in Temple in Society, ed. Michael V. Fox (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1988), 29–30. 112. Økland, Women in Their Place, 71–4. 113. Robertson and Plummer, First Corinthians, 66–7. 114. On Paul, the temple metaphor and purity, see Bertil E. Gärtner, The Temple and the Community in Qumran and the New Testament: A Comparative Study in the Temple Symbolism of the Qumran Texts and the New Testament, Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), 49–59. 115. See relevant sections of William R. G. Loader, The New Testament on Sexuality (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012). 116. Conzelman observes the similarity here to curse forms, though the text he cites is actually an exorcism rather than an excommunication. See Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 97; PGM 4.1227–64.

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realities that constitute those spaces.117 As such, the body of the man implicates himself, his community and its constitutive reality in his bodily union. Hence, the act involves taking the ‘body parts of Christ’ (μέλη τοῦ Χριστοῦ 6:15) and uniting him with the prostitute. Though Paul does not spell this out, the corresponding implication is that this also involves union with whatever cosmological and metaphysical realities constitute the prostitute. Dale Martin astutely observes the ironic reversal here: In penetrating the prostitute, the man inadvertently allows the cosmos to penetrate Christ.118 The upshot is that somatic, particularly sexual, contact across the Christ-world boundary presents a cultic risk.119 Yet, in the case of coitus with a spouse who is ἄπιστος (1 Cor 7:12–16), Paul reverses this logic. Here, it is the holiness of the believing spouse (whether woman or man) that is decisive (1 Cor 7:14, cf. Ezra 9–10), and this is evident in their offspring being ἅγιά (‘holy’) rather than ἀκάθαρτά (‘unclean’). What seems to me likely is that for Paul some uses of material realities epitomize the general character of ὁ κόσμος οὗτος (1 Cor 5:10) as the sphere of Satan (5:5), whereas others do not. As such, there is nothing irredeemable about the body of a prostitute (1 Cor 6:15) or about the space occupied by the sanctuary of a demon (10:20–21), but one cannot penetrate either without becoming implicated, thus polluted, by their misuse. In that sense, their redemption (qua body, qua space) entails their abolition (qua prostitute, qua sanctuary). By contrast, an ἄπιστος spouse is holy qua spouse, and food from the sanctuary bought at the μάκελλον (10:25) may be rendered comestible by means of ‘thanksgiving’ (χάρις 1 Cor 10:30 cf. Rom 14:6, 1 Tim 4:4–5).120 In addition to ecclesial space being bounded, there is also the notion of it as cosmically representative. Again, comparison with temple space is apt. The furnishings of the Solomonic temple are variously described as being pictographic of cosmological realities. So, for example, Jon Levenson observes that the metal sea (1 Ki 7:23–26) denotes the subdued waters of chaos (Gen 1:2), with decorations on the menōrôt (‘lampstands’ 1 Ki 7:49) representing some of the ‘arboreal imagery’ of an idealized, edenic, account of the Creation.121 In relation to the Second Temple, Josephus connects its tripartite structure to the cosmic topography of earth, sea

117. On this, see for example Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, 100–2. 118. Martin, Corinthian Body, 178–9. 119. Cf. the cleansing of Asenath’s ‘space’ in Jos. Asen. 10:12. 120. Pace Martin, Martin, Corinthian Body, 179–89. 121. Jon Douglas Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence, 1st ed. (San Francisco: Harper, 1988), 92–4; for an excellent survey of the various correspondences, see Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, ‘Jesus, the Temple, and the Dissolution of Heaven and Earth’, in Apocalyptic in History and Tradition, ed. Christopher Rowland and John Barton, JSP Supplement Series (London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 122–9; also Margaret Barker, The Gate of Heaven: The History and Symbolism of the Temple in Jerusalem (London: SPCK, 1991).

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and heavens (A.J. 3.181–87). Philo is more esoteric, treating the sanctuary as a comprehensive cosmological allegory: The different colours in the sanctuary veil correspond to the four στοιχεῖα (Mos. 2.88); the lampstands represent the motions of the planets (§102–103); and even the division of the sacrificial animal represents the coming together and separation of all things (Spec. 1.208). As such, in various corpora, temple imagery is a form of indirect cosmology, a cultivation of correspondences between local and universal reality that enables the world to be understood as liturgically (re-)ordered towards its creator.122 Of course, the logic here is not unidirectional, as Levenson notes: The Temple was conceived of as a microcosm, a miniature world. But … the world – or, as I should say, the ideal or protological world, the world viewed sub species creationis – was conceived, at least in Priestly circles, as a macro-temple.123

The point here is not to mount a defence of temple theology. It is merely to outline some areas of possible intersection with aspects of the preceding discussion. The idea of sanctuary space as a bounded, idealized, representative microcosm of the universe is closely related to the idea advanced above that in 1 Cor 8:6 the ecclesial community is a ‘cosmic space … the boundaries of [which] … circumscribe that part of the κόσμος that is ordered correctly εἰς God’.124 When Paul’s own description of the community as a temple (1 Cor 3:16) and his concerns for culticspatial purity (5:3–5) are factored in, this similarity looks more substantial than coincidental. Of course, as has also been seen, Paul’s ideal universe is not only protologically defined; the resurrection of Christ has presented a novel set of cosmological possibilities that exceed those indicated by the Creation narrative, and these are partly appropriated in the spirit when one is baptized.125 Hence, any talk of the Pauline church as temple involves brief mention of the eschatology of sanctuary space. There is evidence of an eschatologically renewed and vastly expanded temple idea in the prophetic and apocalyptic literature. So, for example, Isa 4:2–6 hints that the whole of Zion shall become the resting place of the cloud of the presence; Jer 3:16–17 identifies Jerusalem itself as the Ark-throne of the Lord, which, if we extend the image, perhaps indicates the nation as the Holy of Holies. The Enochic corpus anticipates an eschatologically renewed temple, larger and more substantial than the old one (1 En. 90:28–36). Significantly, it is vast enough to house all living

122. The correspondence between the cosmos, the temple and the self is apparent in the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice (4Q400–407). See Christopher R. A. Morray-Jones, ‘The Temple Within’, in Paradise Now: Essays on Early Jewish and Christian Mysticism, ed. April D. De Conick, Society of Biblical Literature Symposium Series (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006), 155–6; Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, 126–9. 123. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil, 86. 124. See 3.2.1; also Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 91. 125. See 3.3.1 and 3.3.2.

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things (90:33), which indicates that it is cosmic in scale as well as in purpose. Finally, the Sibylline Oracles extends this imagery, proposing that the scale of the cosmic temple will be such as to permit it to be seen across the world (Sib. Or. 5:414–33). The purpose of this is that ‘all the faithful and all the righteous may see the glory of God’ (5:426–7).126 This aspect of the temple-as-cosmos exceeds the semiotic function of the cosmos in some Graeco-Roman philosophical texts (e.g. Plato, Tim. 92c, Xenophon, Mem. 4.3.13). Whereas there the visible cosmos represents an invisible god, here the logic is concerned with mediating presence and accessibility. The eschatological sanctuary expands to incorporate the cosmos in order that the entire world becomes the dwelling place of the fullness of the presence of God. Though there are no unambiguous examples of this in the Hauptbriefe, there are partial parallels. The reference in 1 Cor 15:25 to the heavenly enthronement and cosmic victory of Christ, and particularly the temporal condition of the reign (‘until [ἄχρι] he has put all enemies under his feet’ cf. Ps 109:1[110:1] LXX), is suggestive of this form of cosmological recovery/expansion. Here, it is framed in terms of kingdom rather than temple, though priestly and kingly imagery is known to elide at various points in the Hebrew Bible (e.g. 2 Sam 6:14, 1 Chr 15:27 cf. 2 Sam 24:25). Indeed, the completeness of Christ’s victory is itself the precondition for God becoming τὰ πάντα ἐν πᾶσιν (1 Cor 15:28).127 Inter alia, the ecclesial aspect of this correspondence is clearer in certain passages in the disputed epistles, especially in Eph 1:21–23 where, in the context of the same intertextual matrix and cosmological conquest ideas, the church is described as the ‘fullness (πλήρωμα) of the one who is filling (πληρουμένου) all in all (τὰ πάντα ἐν πᾶσιν)’ (1:23).128 Though it could be either, the participle πληρουμένου is probably middle rather than passive, and continuous in aspect. This suggests that the church, as the one whom Christ already fully inhabits, is engaged in the ongoing process of filling up the cosmos. 3.3.4 Section Summary This section of the chapter has explored some of the Pauline texts that bear upon the place of humanity and the church within the cosmological framework examined in the first main section of the chapter. The discussion commenced with a brief consideration of the eschatological elevation of human beings above the

126. See G. K. Beale, The Temple and the Church’s Mission: A Biblical Theology of the Dwelling Place of God, New Studies in Biblical Theology (Leicester: Apollos, 2004), 123–68. 127. See for example Richard B. Hays, Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul (New Haven: Yale, 1989), 84; Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 272–3. 128. See John Muddiman, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Ephesians, Black’s New Testament Commentaries (London: A.&C. Black, 2001), 94–6; Markus Barth, Ephesians 1-3: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, The Anchor Bible (New York: Doubleday, 1974), 183–209.

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angels, and of the glorification of humanity at the resurrection. This was followed by a discussion of Gal 4:1–10, regarding eschatological liberation and the baptized state. Key to this discussion was the contrast between pre-eschatological human subordination to the στοιχεῖα τοῦ κόσμου and Baptism, sonship and participation in Christ through the πνεῦμα. The section closed with a discussion of the significance of the metaphor of temple space as a way of expressing both the cultic identity of the ecclesial community and as a way of reifying its boundedness. This was then applied to the πορνεία texts in 1 Cor 5–6. The notion of the expansion of the eschatological temple from being a microcosm of the cosmos to encompassing the whole of reality was particularly interesting given the argument of the preceding sections. It remains to reflect upon what the relevance of this might be for Baptism and the Lord’s Supper in 1 Corinthians.

3.4 Conclusion In terms of the broader aims of this chapter, there is little in the examination of texts to suggest that a fundamental reconsideration of the position advanced in the first main section is necessary. The different frames of reference deployed there by Paul are evident in different ways in relation to the texts being examined. Paul’s deployment of ancient material and cosmological discourses is seen in the discussions of materiality and resurrection, and in the contrast between the στοιχεῖα and the πνεῦμα. The emphasis upon apocalyptic eschatology and his somewhat oppositional account of the Geisterwelt can be seen in both the temporal aspects of the arguments of Gal 4 and 1 Cor 15, and especially in the accounts they present of the defeat of and liberation from the Powers/Elements. The notion of the church as a cosmologically bounded entity redemptively directed towards its end in God is apparent in the discussion of the ecclesial community using the metaphor of the eschatological temple. Of course, it is also the case that Paul deploys these arguments, ideas and tropes in a manner that suggests a real, though idiosyncratic and at times ambivalent synthesis. This is clearest in his discussion of Torah as either one of the στοιχεῖα or perhaps as a temporary regulative agent for those within the covenant though not yet liberated from their influence. Whatever his meaning, this is an unusual usage, because it tends to relegate the ordinary, elevated sense of angelic transmission of divine speech to something penultimate (Gal 3:13). The idiosyncrasy is also apparent in the contrast between the στοιχεῖα as materially constitutive realities and Paul’s radically undetermined approach to the πνεῦμα. As an eschatologically constitutive reality it genuinely stands in a corresponding relationship with the material στοιχεῖα, yet Paul is somewhat reserved about making too definite assertions regarding its nature or materiality. We can guess, but such guesses are not entirely secure. In terms of conclusions, it is evident from the preceding discussions that Paul’s approach to the cosmological promotion of humanity in Christ above the inhabitants of the Geisterwelt described in the first half of this chapter involves

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the attainment of a novel and improved standing as human beings. This derives from the qualitative contrast between Adam and Christ in 1 Cor 15:47–49 being not wholly accounted for by the idea of the reversal of the fall. Rather, the contrast between the ‘man of dust’ and ‘the man from heaven’ (1 Cor 15:47) turns on a description of Adam qua created (cf. Gen 2:7) rather than of Adam qua fallen (cf.  Gen 3). As such, the Pauline eschatological narrative includes a strong though tacit element of recapitulation, in which the primeval state of humanity is transcended at the very moment it is both restored and fully realized (cf. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 5 Pref. [ANF 1:526]). That this eschatology forms one of the temporal poles of Paul’s baptismal theology is noteworthy. This is evident in Gal 4:1–10, specifically in the contrast between pre-eschatological human subordination to the στοιχεῖα τοῦ κόσμου and Baptism, sonship and participation in Christ through the πνεῦμα. To be sure, the irruption of the undetermined animating agency of the New Creation must be lived out in bodies that remain permeable to the influences of the present epoch. However, this is uncontroversial, since it follows from the idea of the overlap of the ages. This notion, that the eschatological era commences with Christ’s resurrection, but that the penultimate era does not cease until the parousia, gives shape to the idea that those with the πνεῦμα bear within themselves two sets of eschatological possibilities (cf. Gal 5:16–25).129 Moreover, that those who are baptized should collectively constitute a cultically and cosmologically bounded community is also worthy of note. This was particularly evident in Paul’s use of the temple metaphor (1 Cor 3:16), the influence of which was apparent in the discussions of πορνεία in 1 Cor 5–6. Arising from these discussions, it was seen that Paul understands human bodies as microcosms of the material and cosmological realities in which they participate. This is not a novel observation; as Peter Brown has famously observed, in the ancient world bodies were understood to be ‘little fiery universes, through whose heart, brain and veins there pulsed the same heat and vital spirit as glowed in the stars’.130 However, in the context of the discussion of the στοιχεῖα and the Powers, and particularly of the liberation of the baptized from the necessity of their influence, it is hardly surprising that Paul treats boundary-crossing coitus as a particular locus of somatic, hence cultic, pollution. Indeed, it is in such terms that it poses a threat to the christological integrity of the community. Finally, the expanding yet bounded nature of the eschatological cosmos-temple is a useful image for thinking about the negotiation of the cosmological transition between the ecclesial community and the present epoch. The telos of the temple is to expand to fill the entire cosmos. Yet, is this an outward movement or an inward movement? It is a matter of point of view. Construed from within, the movement is centrifugal; the boundary expands to penetrate and assimilate the cosmos.

129. See for example Dunn, Theology, 466–81. 130. Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (London: Faber, 1989), 17.

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However, from without, the movement is centripetal, the dynamic being one of entry. Something like this is at work in the relationship between Baptism and the spirit in 1 Cor 12:13: Baptism is simultaneously a moment of entry ‘into one body’ (εἰς ἓν σῶμα), with Robertson and Plummer, Conzelmann and Allo all suggesting that the ‘element in which the Baptism takes place’ is the spirit.131 Yet the reference to ‘hav[ing] been given one spirit to drink’ (ἓν πνεῦμα ἐποτίσθημεν) appears to suggest that the moment at which entry into the cosmological and social sphere of the spirit is effected is simultaneous with the moment at which the spirit enters the somatic sphere of the baptisand. This is, in effect, to suggest Baptism as a moment of cosmic and somatic interpenetration involving the transmission of πνεῦμα. It will be interesting to see how an ecclesiology formed by the discussion in this chapter might aid in the interpretation of 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 11:17–34.

131. Robertson and Plummer, First Corinthians, 272; Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 212; E. B. Allo, St. Paul: Première Épitre Aux Corinthiens, 2nd ed. (Paris: Gabalda, 1934), 329.

Chapter 4 ‘A PARTICULAR STYLE OF LIFE’: PAUL AND COMMUNITY ORDER

4.1 Introduction The argument advanced here commenced with a survey of issues attached to the study of Paul’s religion, and an overview of some of the scholarship of the previous century.1 The aim was to establish a backdrop for the exegetical analysis that followed. This analysis is structured heuristically around Clifford Geertz’s threefold taxonomy of metaphysics, style of life and symbol. Whereas the preceding chapter addressed some of the Pauline writings by means of the first of these, metaphysics,2 the current chapter examines the distinctive form of life Paul attempts to cultivate in his communities and some of the textual means by which he does so. In terms of Paul’s account of cosmic order, the previous chapter located him at the intersection of multiple cultural fields: apocalyptic, cosmological, sapiential, Jewish, Graeco-Roman. Borrowing from Bhabha, it was argued that Paul’s discursive location resembled a form of ‘third space’,3 in which his engagement with Jewish and Graeco-Roman cultural fields is both idiosyncratic and eschatologically ambivalent. This was evident in the discussions of the eschatological exaltation of the baptized and of their present condition vis-à-vis the material στοιχεῖα due to their reconstitution by the eschatological πνεῦμα (Gal 4:1–10). Finally, Paul’s approach to space, especially cultic space (cf. 1 Cor 3:16–17), was seen to give voice to his notion of the moral and material boundedness of the ecclesial community and its representatively ordered, cosmically mimetic function vis-à-vis God. The present chapter develops this argument by exploring some of the ways Paul orders a faithful Jesus movement form of life around this account of reality. To this end, the chapter is organized into two main sections: the first considers some of the issues, concepts and ideas germane to the identification of a Pauline style of life, whereas the second offers a reconstruction of this by means of a consideration of select passages from Philippians, Galatians and 1 Corinthians. The aim is to show

1. See Chapter 2. 2. See Chapter 3. 3. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 212–35.

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some of the ways in which Paul attempts to cultivate an eschatological, ecclesial mindset among his communities and to connect this with the preceding material.

4.2 Issues and Themes 4.2.1 Terminology: Ethics, Ethos, Form of Life, Habitus Religion is never merely metaphysics. For all peoples the forms, vehicles, and objects of worship are suffused with an aura of deep moral seriousness. The holy bears within it everywhere a sense of intrinsic obligation: it not only encourages devotion, it demands it; it not only induces intellectual assent, it enforces emotional commitment. … Never merely metaphysics, religion is never merely ethics either. The source of its moral vitality is conceived to lie in the fidelity with which it expresses the fundamental nature of reality. The powerfully coercive ‘ought’ is felt to grow out of a comprehensive factual ‘is’, and in such a way religion grounds the most specific requirements of human action in the most general contexts of human existence.4

In his study of the interplay between ethos and world view among the peoples of Java, Clifford Geertz exposes some of the ways in which across a wide cultural field there is a tendency towards congruence between how things are understood to be and the affective, normative and ideological means by which behaviours are ordered within that assumed world. For the Javanese, this sense of congruence or fit is summed up by the evaluative term tjotjog,5 which denotes a harmonious agreement between different fields, whether conceptual, relational or aesthetic. However, as Geertz notes, congruence between an imagined world and a form of life is unrestricted to the Javanese setting, even if the specific terms vary between cultures. Geertz’s terminology and concepts for denoting the evaluative aspects of a culture can be difficult to pin down. At times, he refers to ‘ethics’; at other times, ‘ethos’, ‘way of life’, ‘approved style of life’ or ‘social values’.6 It is unclear whether these terms all refer to the same reality or in the same manner. Whilst ethics describes the regulative criteria by which behaviours may be evaluated, values denotes the underlying ideals that order and prioritize the social experience of individuals in communities. Ethos apparently denotes something yet more comprehensive: the ‘tone, character, and quality of [a people’s] life, its moral and aesthetic style and mood’.7 As such, ethos contains both a society’s ethics and its values, whilst

4. Clifford Geertz, ‘Ethos, World-View and the Analysis of Sacred Symbols’, The Antioch Review 17, no. 4 (1957), 421. 5. Geertz, ‘Ethos, World-View’, 424–5. 6. See variously Ibid., 421–6. 7. Ibid., 421.

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exceeding them both in scope. It is something of this sort to which Geertz refers when he talks of styles of life. So, a religious behaviour can be construed in relation to its status as an obligation (ethics), its enactment of an ideal (value), its capacity to perform a mindset, institutional character, or orientation towards material reality (ethos). In that sense, a Geertzian form of life potentially encompasses the totality and the concreteness of a culture, invoking and cultivating a set of socially given dispositions, cognitions, moods and affects that are associated with this performance. This goes some way towards responding to criticisms of Geertz, such as those raised by Talal Asad, that his work is cognitivist and privatized.8 For Asad, that Geertz asserts that a religion involves a metaphysic is a de facto reduction of religious adherence to propositional assent and thus to individual belief. In fact, Geertz’s insistence that the noematic and symbolic contents of a religion are organically related to a community’s specific form of life, and his broad, practiceoriented account of this form suggests otherwise. In this, Geertz’s account of religion has broad affinities with Ludwig Wittgenstein’s account of language, even given the latter’s reticence regarding metaphysics. For Wittgenstein, a language is rooted in (and roots) the concrete, human forms of life (Lebensformen) out of which it arises. For Geertz, the forms of life of religious communities root (and are rooted by) the noematic and symbolic orders which those communities use to describe and organize their understanding of reality. Nevertheless, Wittgenstein mentions Lebensformen only infrequently (PI §§19, 23, 241) and with a degree of opacity.9 In §19 he hypothesizes about a language comprised ‘only of orders … or … only of questions and expressions for answering yes and no’. He employs this thought experiment to illustrate that the structure of such a language would presuppose a form of life within which the presumed style of communication was meaningful. This is to assert that linguistic behaviours emerge in a dialectical relationship with concrete forms of social existence, including material and technological realities.10 The character of such activity is summed up in the term ‘language-game’, highlighting the ordered, socially conventional aspect of communication (PI §23). The relevance of this for Geertz, and via Geertz for the present discussion of Paul, is that it projects the practical, enacted aspects of the analysis onto a wider stage than either ethics or ethos. This is not to say that Paul’s ethics are extraneous to the form of life he imagines for himself or his communities. It is to say that the question for Geertz, and arguably for Paul

8. See Kevin Schilbrack, ‘Religion, Models of, and Reality: Are We Through with Geertz?’, JAAR 73, no. 2 (2005); also see the discussion in Talal Asad, Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 29. 9. See Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, ed. G. E. M. Anscombe and R. Rhees, trans. G. E. M. Anscombe (Oxford: Blackwell, 1953). Hereafter, PI. 10. See the various options in J. F. M. Hunter, ‘“Forms of Life” in Wittgenstein’s “Philosophical Investigations”’, American Philosophical Quarterly 5, no. 4 (1968), 233–43.

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and Jesus movement adherents, is more comprehensive than the identification of which norms might be adduced to regulate behaviour. Nevertheless, in his focus upon the coherence between metaphysics and form of life, Geertz has occasionally been taken as emphasizing stasis and structure at the expense of the possibility of social change, or of failing to credit individuals with the agency to lever change. Jason Springs’s analysis of and response to Talal Asad’s and Sherry Ortner’s suggestions to this effect is helpful. He rejects the notion that Geertz ‘solidifies “culture” into an overly integrated and rule-bound whole [that] … reduces practices to rule-following’,11 instead proposing a Geertzian account of culture-description that is more akin to ‘“getting a feel” for what is going on, rather than consulting a rule book or detecting a deep structure’.12 This is insightful. Accordingly, the function of form of life for the process of acquisition of cultural competence in Geertz is redolent of, though not identical to, the roles of habitus in practice theory. Take, for example, the following statement by Pierre Bourdieu: One of the fundamental effects of the orchestration of habitus is the production of a commonsense world endowed with the objectivity secured by consensus on the meaning (sens) of practices and the world. … The homogeneity of habitus is what … causes practices and works to be immediately intelligible and foreseeable, and hence taken for granted.13

Bourdieu’s observation here is important, and concerns the way in which both individual and social history is habitually embodied in present practice so as to frame the subjectivity of individuals in the community and to delineate ideologically the scope within which agency may be exercised.14 As such, for Bourdieu, habitus constitutes the modus operandi by which agents develop a feel for the congruence of a course of action and, being unconscious but nonetheless real, it has its own ‘“objective intention” … which outruns the conscious intentions of its apparent author’.15 Hence, in determining the meaning of a ritual, Bourdieu insists that the semiotic task of decoding it is ultimately less significant than that of relating it to the concrete conditions which it emerged to address. According to this view, ritual events are concerned with embodying and resolving the contradictions between productive and communicative existence.16 That is to say that rituals attest to and mediate a logic which is primarily embodied rather than conceptual in character.

11. See Jason A. Springs, ‘What Cultural Theorists of Religion Have to Learn from Wittgenstein; or, How to Read Geertz as a Practice Theorist’, JAAR 76, no. 4 (2008): 953. Italics in original. 12. Ibid., 957. 13. Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, 80; cf. Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 90. 14. Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, 56. 15. Ibid., 57. 16. Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, 116.

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The relevance of this for the interpretation of Paul is as follows: The discussion of Geertz and Wittgenstein serves as a reminder of the human tendency to construct cultural worlds such that their descriptive and evaluative moments are complementarily ordered, and that this is visible, perhaps especially so, during moments of transition, when experience of the harmony of the world is disrupted. This gives some leverage over Paul’s strategic aims at various points in 1 Corinthians. For example, both Edward Adams and John Barclay have noted the way in which Paul’s cosmological language dislocates the Corinthians culturally from their environment and reifies the social boundary between the church and the world.17 As such, it provides a critical tool for discussing how the metaphysic advanced in the preceding chapter, specifically the irruption of the eschatological πνεῦμα, the liberation from the στοιχεῖα and the constitution of the church as a cosmos/temple, might become practically embedded in concrete and distinctive patterns of life. One might also consider some of the ways in which this analysis bears upon Paul’s literary aims. Modes of communication, including Paul’s epistles, encode ways of being and doing in the world. Both Paul Heil and Troels Engberg-Pedersen have, in different ways, explored how the forms of Pauline communication enact ways of being and relating in ecclesial space.18 Finally, there is the question of habitus. As Bourdieu indicates, this is inculcated largely unconsciously by means of participation in a shared embodied history. But the Pauline communities are recent, which begs the question of how the relatively novel practices Paul commends for adoption (e.g. the Lord’s Supper) might intersect, challenge and be challenged by the practices that have hitherto shaped the members of his congregations (e.g. Graeco-Roman dining conventions). This is, in effect, to ask how Paul might be understood to use practice to shape a nascent Jesus movement identity?19 4.2.2 Pauline Ethics Though the ‘particular style of life’ examined here does indeed have a wider footprint than the question of whether and how Paul warrants norms for his communities, the question of ethics is nonetheless a major element of that larger picture. This question is itself far from straightforward. Both the occasional nature of the Pauline correspondence and his concentration upon pastoralia tend

17. See Adams, Constructing the World; John M. G. Barclay, ‘Thessalonica and Corinth: Social Contrasts in Pauline Christianity’, in Christianity at Corinth: The Quest for the Pauline Church, ed. Edward Adams and David G. Horrell (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004). 18. See John Paul Heil, The Letters of Paul as Rituals of Worship (Cambridge: James Clarke, 2012); Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul, 141–7. 19. These issues are raised in different ways in the literature. See for example Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence; Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul, 172–207.

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to make the clear identification of a consistent ethical logic difficult to say the least. Accordingly, it is something of a commonplace to suggest that Paul’s moral reasoning is ad hoc, and like all commonplaces there is truth in this assertion. Nonetheless, ad hoc does not mean that the moral outlook that stands behind Paul’s paraenesis is incoherent or piecemeal. That would be to judge Paul harshly for writing as an ancient, as a particular sort of Jewish Jesus devotee, and as an apostle. Previous studies of Pauline ethics reveal some important theological questions. Chief among these is the question of why Paul seeks to cultivate moral norms at all. This arises out of the apparent inconsistency in giving normative instructions to human beings whom he describes as having already been transformed by God (cf. Gal 5:16, 25). It is to hint at the longstanding problem of whether Paul’s indicative statements obviate the need for his imperative statements, or vice versa. The classic expression of this is found in an article by Rudolf Bultmann, entitled ‘Das Problem der Ethik bei Paulus’,20 though Bultmann’s discussion is neither the first nor the last word on the matter.21 As he expresses it, Bultman’s account of the problem arises from previous studies not having adequately addressed the relationship between indicative and imperative. His criticism of previous scholarship is that it prematurely resolves the tension between indicative and imperative by prioritizing one element or another. So, for example, some accounts (e.g. Weinel) emphasize the indicative of union between the believer and Christ, such that the ‘moral life’ (sittliches leben) flows from this inexorably.22 Since by this account believers have both ‘the will and the force to do the Good’ (dem Willen und der Kraft, das Gute zu tun),23 the Pauline imperatives appear arbitrarily imposed. Understood thusly, they are a retrograde step, a slippage into ‘Law religion’ (Gesetzesreligion).24 Other accounts (e.g. Baur, Juncker) prioritize the Pauline imperatives, such that justification is understood as a ‘principle of Law fulfilment’ (Prinzips der Gesetzerfüllung) injected into the human will. Bultmann criticizes these for resolving into a theology of human selfredemption, thereby denying the indicative of present righteousness.25

20. See Rudolf Bultmann, ‘Das Problem der Ethik bei Paulus’, ZNW 23, no. 1 (1924). 21. Space considerations preclude a comprehensive survey, but see for example Victor Paul Furnish, Theology and Ethics in Paul (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1968), 242–79; David G. Horrell, Solidarity and Difference: A Contemporary Reading of Paul’s Ethics (London: Continuum, 2005), 10–12; John G. Lewis, Looking For Life: The Role Of ‘Theo-Ethical Reasoning’ In Paul’s Religion, JSNT Supplement Series (London: T.&T. Clark, 2005), 4–6; Richard A. Burridge, Imitating Jesus: An Inclusive Approach to New Testament Ethics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 105–6; Rabens, The Holy Spirit and Ethics in Paul, 273–6; also see Turley, The Ritualized Revelation of the Messianic Age, 62–3. 22. Bultmann, ‘Das Problem der Ethik bei Paulus’, 125. 23. Ibid., 124–5. 24. Ibid., 125. 25. Ibid., 127–9.

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The solution, for Bultmann, lies in regarding both elements as correlating aspects of a ‘genuine antinomy’ (eine echte Antinomie).26 That is, they are mutually entailing though tensively arranged, and they ‘develop out from circumstances that are undivided’ (die aus einem einheitlichen Sachverhalt herauswachsen). The apparent tension is held by a single reality that provides a larger theological framework. For Bultmann, this resolving reality is Paul’s account of justification as it operates in the person of the Jesus devotee, who is always a sinner in receipt of divine grace. Accordingly, justification is a verdictive activity of God, by which the identity of the redeemed person is declared free from sin by divine fiat without reference to ethical behaviours. This renders sin and justification as empirically unobservable (die Sünde nichts empirisch Wahrnehmbares ist), that is without distinctive or novel content.27 One simply believes God’s verdict and with the same faith acts in obedience to that verdict. Construed as the obedience of faith, Bultmann understands Paul’s imperatives to arise from the indicative of free and open standing before God. Arguably, this account of the obedience of faith is Bultmann simultaneously at his most existentialist and his most Lutheran. On the one hand, he understands one to be always simul iustus et peccator, such that the concrete empirical person is the justified person.28 On the other, one is always subject to the crisis of decision between faith and unfaith, but the character of the crisis is seen in its existential quality not in its moral content, for controversially it has none! Of course, the merits of both Lutheran and existential readings of Paul are open for discussion, but that is beyond the scope of the present volume. Suffice it to observe the historical locatedness of Bultmann’s hermeneutical framework and its arguable distance on both fronts from that of Paul. The second major treatment of Pauline ethics mentioned here is the volume Theology and Ethics in Paul by Victor Paul Furnish. Observing that Pauline moral discourse is indebted to various sources, whether scriptural, Jewish, Hellenistic or Dominical,29 Furnish presents Paul’s deployment of those sources as complex, multi-layered and, at times, anomalous. Paul is simultaneously an inhabitant of the various frames of reference that comprise his own social world and an inhabitant of the coming age.30 In terms of the present volume, this is a helpful observation, since it indicates that Furnish’s description of Paul’s moral universe is not incongruent with the analysis of his cosmology in the preceding chapter.31 As such, Paul’s moral thinking, like his metaphysical thinking, represents a real, though idiosyncratic and at times ambivalent, engagement with the substance of the traditions upon which he depends. However, unlike Bultmann, according to whose

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

Ibid., 123. Ibid., 136. Cf. the reference to Luther in ibid., 139. Furnish, Theology and Ethics, 28–65. Ibid., 66. See Chapter 3.

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early work Paul’s imperatives contained no novel content, Furnish treats Paul’s moral teaching as concrete, specific to circumstances, yet ‘inclusive’.32 By this, he denotes a moral appeal that is bounded below by definite content, norms, virtues and vices, but unbounded above. He writes: Paul’s ethic is not indeterminate, if by this one means that its content is problematic or elusive. But it is indefinite, in that it sets no limits (and therefore no neatly definable or readily attainable ‘goals’) to what is required.33

On the character of Pauline moral deliberations, Furnish treats the normative content of Pauline preaching, teaching and epistolography as inseparable from his underlying theology, eschatology and Christology.34 This is to locate Paul’s moral reasoning at the turning of the ages. Apart from Christ, humanity is enslaved to hostile cosmic powers but, for those who belong to Christ, the freedom to enact a total transformation of allegiance is enabled.35 Because the obedience, death and resurrection of Christ are the means by which God’s sovereign power is established in this rebellious world, belonging to Christ is ritually enacted through solidarity with those events in Baptism (cf. Rom 6), and lived out in free imitation of Christ (cf. Phil 2:5–11).36 The upshot of this for Furnish is that there is a unity between indicative and imperative in Paul’s thought. He hints at the covenantal context that establishes this unity. Using the analogy of an ancient marriage, he argues that the norms that pertain to the relationship are neither pre- nor post-conditions of entry. Rather, they are the constitutive patterns of mutual obligation characteristic of such a state of life.37 Subsequent treatments of Pauline ethics cluster around closely related sets of ideas and concerns. So, for example, Wolfgang Schrage, J. Paul Sampley and Richard Hays all insist, with Bultmann, that Pauline indicatives and imperatives are aspects of a single theo-ethical moment38; yet, like Furnish, they demur by insisting that this moment is not devoid of normative content and that it is eschatologically conditioned. As such, they each situate Pauline moral discourse in

32. Furnish, Theology and Ethics, 72–7. 33. Ibid., 77. Italics in original. 34. Ibid., 213. 35. Ibid., 177. 36. Ibid., 216–24. 37. This is a prescient analogy insofar as subsequent Pauline studies have taken up the question of Paul and covenant obligation. See for example James D. G. Dunn, ‘The New Perspective on Paul’, BJRL 65, no. 2 (1983); also see Barclay on the unconditioned but not unconditional nature of the gift, in Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 500. 38. Wolfgang Schrage, The Ethics of the New Testament, trans. D. E. Green (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1988), 167–9; J. Paul Sampley, Walking between the Times: Paul’s Moral Reasoning (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 2–3; Richard B. Hays, The Moral Vision of the New Testament (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1996), 16–19.

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the eschatological interim. They each also in slightly different ways mirror Furnish’s Christocentric formulation of Pauline ethics as participation in the irruption of a novel, norm-constituting, obedience-enabling, reality that is an embodied rather than a merely deliberative option. Schrage is eloquent regarding this: In the death of Jesus, God demonstrates his righteousness, which also benefits and claims every human being. This saving act is the basis for justification and reconciliation. At the same time, it shapes the concrete reality of those justified and reconciled … they are so incorporated into this eschatological event that Christ now lives and reigns ‘in them’ (Gal 2:20).39

Nonetheless, there remains the question of how such ‘incorporation’ is mediated and how such mediation might relate to ongoing processes of individual and corporate moral transformation. Whereas Hays couches this in terms of ‘union with Christ’ (Rom 6:2–5), Schrage frames this in terms of ‘participation’ and strongly implies that the effectual and substantial cause of this is the spirit, which he understands in christological terms.40 Significantly for the present study, both Hays and Schrage regard this mediation to be ritually effected in Baptism, and for Schrage, this is renewed in the Lord’s Supper.41 Another more recent study accounts for the role of the spirit in the moral transformation of Jesus devotees by locating Paul’s Christocentric ethic in more metaphysical terms. David Litwa compares Paul’s notion of cosmic elevation with notions of connaturality between elevated humans and God/the gods in Stoicism and the Ruler cult. Though he regards these two sets of ideas as non-identical, he nonetheless understands Paul to be ‘working with the logic, and sometimes the language’ of these traditions so as to give shape to the conviction that participation in the πνεῦμα of Christ involves assimilation to his divine identity.42 The corresponding idea in the ethical sphere is that, for Paul, moral transformation is a consequence of and signal of such assimilation to Christ. The πνεῦμα functions as a divinely imparted higher faculty (cf. 1 Cor 2:13),43 which enables the subjugation of the passions (Gal 5:24, 1 Thess 4:5).44 But in assimilating the πνεῦμα into one’s

39. Schrage, The Ethics of the New Testament, 172. 40. Hays, Moral Vision, 38; Schrage, The Ethics of the New Testament, 175–9. 41. Schrage, The Ethics of the New Testament, 177. 42. M. David Litwa, We are Being Transformed: Deification in Paul’s Soteriology, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), 166–71. 43. A similar suggestion is made in Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 59; also see Martyn, ‘Epistemology’, 100; and Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, 76–84. 44. Litwa, We are Being Transformed, 196–209; on the relationship of the πνεῦμα to desire, see Martin, Corinthian Body, 216; also useful are David E. Aune, ‘Passions in the Pauline Epistles: The Current State of Research’, in Passions and Moral Progress in GrecoRoman Thought, ed. John T. Fitzgerald (London: Routledge, 2008); Troels Engberg-

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very self, one is correspondingly assimilated to the divine life, and this is evident not least because it is not always easy to differentiate between one’s faculty of moral reason and the mind of Christ mediated by the πνεῦμα (1 Cor 2:16). Litwa writes, Christ’s pneuma becomes so integrated into Paul’s thinking and being that he can occasionally identify his true self with the pneumatic and divine Christ. This does not mean that Paul’s self is obliterated; it does mean that Paul’s false self is transcended.45

Notwithstanding, for Litwa, Pauline ethics do not resolve into a tidy indicative, such that moral transformation is deterministically effected by assimilation into God. Rather, alongside the emphasis upon theosis is a corresponding attention to mimesis. That is, the indicative of being progressively assimilated to God in Christ has its appropriate complement in the imperative of enacting assimilation to Christ by means of imitation.46 This is particularly evident in the suffering-glory narrative topos, which organizes much of Paul’s thought (cf. Phil 2:5–11, 2 Cor 4:16–17). There are analogies here with Furnish’s use of the dual motifs of participation and imitation, though the conceptual matrix to which Litwa appeals is significantly different from that of Furnish. This matrix of ideas fundamentally resembles that advanced by Engberg-Pedersen and others, in that Litwa regards the infusivetransformative power operative in Pauline accounts of moral formation to be the divine πνεῦμα construed in material terms redolent of popular Stoic physics.47 This view has been challenged by Volker Rabens, whose work on pneumatology and ethics proposes that Paul’s account of the πνεῦμα is undetermined.48 This is not to say that Rabens contrasts an immaterial πνεῦμα with the materialism of his interlocutors.49 Rather, it is to say that he locates the role of the πνεῦμα outside of ontological debates altogether, situating Pauline ethics in a relational rather than in a material-physical setting.50 The position here attempts to mediate between these alternatives. As argued in the preceding chapter,51 Paul’s approach to the πνεῦμα may well be undetermined, because it is an irrupting, hence unprecedented, hence mysterious, eschatological reality. His epistemological reserve is thus no

Pedersen, ‘The Logic of Action in Paul: How Does He Differ from the Moral Philosophers on Spiritual and Moral Progression and Regression?’, in Passions and Moral Progress in Greco-Roman Thought, ed. John T. Fitzgerald (London: Routledge, 2008). 45. Litwa, We Are Being Transformed, 211. Italics added. 46. Ibid., 212–16. 47. Ibid., 129–39; Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul, 66–7; also see the antecedent of this idea in the notion of ritual mediation of πνεῦμα in Baptism and the Lord’s Supper, in Käsemann, ‘The Pauline Doctrine of the Lord’s Supper’, 113. 48. See also Barclay, ‘Stoic Physics and the Christ Event’, 411. 49. Rabens, The Holy Spirit and Ethics in Paul, 82–6. 50. This forms the latter half of the argument; see ibid., 146–241. 51. See Chapter 3.

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indication that his logic is relational to the exclusion of it also being ontological. Rather, it indicates that in texts where the πνεῦμα and material terminology are closely proximate, Paul is reluctant to specify the precise ontology of the reality that eschatologically correlates to the material ordering of the current epoch. This was seen in case of the πνεῦμα and the στοιχεῖα (Gal 4:1–10), but one might also point to other passages in the corpus (e.g. 1 Cor 15:45–49).52 The salient points here are as follows. Firstly, from Bultmann onwards, there is widespread recognition that Pauline ethics is a matter of theo-logic, his imperatives and indicatives belonging and functioning together. This relationship is expressed in various ways: in Bultmann by means of a Lutheran Existentialism; in Furnish, Schrage, Sampley, Hays and Litwa by means of situating Paul eschatologically. Secondly, there is Furnish’s seminal insight that the central theo-ethical reality in Paul is the person and work of Christ and the ongoing agency of the divine spirit. Christ is the one who defeats the powers, inaugurates the age to come, mediates the gift of the spirit and reclaims the cosmos (including humanity) for the Father. As such, Bultmann’s insight that ethics in Paul is a matter of obedience is taken up and adapted by Furnish, and those following him, whether in terms of the claims of Christ as eschatological Lord (e.g. Furnish), or the claims constituted by his own obedience of faith which is the ground of our own (e.g. Hays).53 Thirdly, the unity of the theo-ethical moment is evident in the careful balance in several works between transformation and imitation or ontology/participation and mimesis. This is significant, since it demonstrates that Christ is the one who constitutes and unifies the moral universe. Litwa’s work was significant because it indicates how some of the themes and tendencies in post-Bultmanian ethics might be deployed in an account of Paul that takes as given the collapse of the putative Judaism-Hellenism dichotomy. It was observed in relation to Paul’s metaphysics and cosmology that he likely draws upon Graeco-Roman popular moral-philosophical ideas.54 Litwa goes some way towards demonstrating the reverse movement, namely that in reasoning theoethically Paul draws in equal measure upon Graeco-Roman metaphysical ideas. Though the present argument questions Litwa’s account of some of those ideas (e.g. his specific ontology of πνεῦμα), the general approach he pursues is broadly congruent with the methodology here. His observation that the narrative and mimetic dimension of Pauline ethics is implicated in the theological/ontological aspect is particularly useful.

52. Outside of Paul, this apophatic eschatological ontology is particularly evident in 1 John 3:2, where the revelation of ‘what we will be’ (τί ἐσόμεθα) is deferred until we are ‘like him’ (ὅμοιοι αὐτῷ), and the constitutive precondition of this likeness is that ‘we will see him as he is’ (ὀψόμεθα αὐτὸν καθώς ἐστιν). The logic here is that of ancient perceptual models, in which ‘only like knows like’ (γινώσκεσθαι τῷ ὁμοίῳ τὸ ὅμοιον). See for example Aristotle, An. 404b–405b; also Empedocles, Fr. 109. 53. See for example Furnish, Theology and Ethics, 169; Hays, Moral Vision, 31. 54. See 3.2.1.

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4.2.3 Paul, Narrative and the Cultivation of Mindset It is important to note at the outset that there is nothing novel in considering Pauline religion by means of the lens of its narrative elements. In his response to Eduard Norden’s proposal regarding the Stoic provenance of some of Paul’s cosmological acclamations, Albert Schweitzer famously deployed narrative as a counterargument. His proposal was that the deep structure of Pauline theology is ordered by an apocalyptic narrative of Creation, fall, redemption and recapitulation.55 This has proved remarkably influential. Indeed, the preceding chapter’s account of Pauline metaphysics falls indirectly under its sway, albeit that it locates Paul in an intersectional rather than putatively Jewish cultural space. Likewise, the tensive structure of Pauline ethics post-Furnish attests to the ongoing significance of eschatology and redemptive narrative approaches in the present field. After Schweitzer, narrative elements in Pauline studies have come to cluster around several approaches: (i) Heilsgeschichte, (ii) apocalyptic and (iii) narrative theology. Heilsgeschichte, or salvation history, is exemplified by Oscar Cullmann’s work on the linear rather than cyclical character of the biblical narrative and the pivotal significance of the Christ event.56 For Cullmann, the story of salvation history is characterized by redemption, which necessarily constitutes it as an interweaving of twin threads of human rebellion and sin and divine activity in response. As such, it is a textured, though teleological, story, with its decisive moment and midpoint having already occurred.57 The second of these, apocalyptic,58 is associated with Ernst Käsemann and Christiaan Beker, but perhaps more recently typified by the work of J. Louis Martyn.59 The key theme in Martyn’s work is Christ, not as the mid-point of history, but as the locus of the irruption of the New Creation into the space-time of the old. Due to this emphasis on the singular and unprecedented character of the Christ event, Martyn would tend to regard the question of where in God’s story Paul’s readers might find themselves somewhat askance. It is to 55. Norden, Agnostos Theos, 240; Schweitzer, Mysticism, 11. 56. See for example Cullmann, Christ and Time, 33. 57. Ibid., 81–6. 58. We note here, with Barry Matlock, some of the complexities of applying notions of apocalyptic to the Pauline corpus, given that Paul’s primary oeuvre is the occasional epistle. See R. Barry Matlock, Unveiling the Apocalyptic Paul (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 261. 59. See for example J. Louis Martyn, Theological Issues in the Letters of Paul (London: T.&T. Clark, 1997); J. Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, The Anchor Bible (New York: Doubleday, 1997); also see Martinus C. De Boer, ‘Paul, Theologian of God’s Apocalypse’, Interpretation 56, no. 1 (2002); J. Christiaan Beker, Paul the Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1980); Ernst Käsemann, Commentary on Romans, trans. G. W. Bromiley (London: SCM, 1980); for a fine summary of and response to De Boer and Martyn, see Wright, Paul and his Recent Interpreters, 155–86.

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treat the old and the new as overly continuous. To be sure, one of Martyn’s key questions is ‘what time is it?’, but by this he means to ask ‘in what cosmos do we actually live?’.60 In truth, Cullmann and Martyn constitute thoroughgoing positions between which is ranged a spectrum of viewpoints. Most discussions of the narrative structure of Pauline soteriology and eschatology incorporate elements of both Heilsgeschichte and apocalyptic. So, for example, Käsemann’s discussion of Abraham in Romans 4 is indebted both to salvation historical and to apocalyptic ideas.61 Likewise, James Dunn’s discussion of the ‘eschatological tension’ in Paul draws on both Cullman and Beker. The broad structure of the narrative, with its mid-point in the Christ event resembles Cullman’s account of Christ in relation to salvation history. However, this is adapted by Dunn, who divides the Christ event itself into mid-point (Advent) and denouement (parousia). The resultant synthesis restores to salvation history some of the future-oriented elements of Beker’s apocalypticism, along with a more nuanced appreciation of the way in which, in Paul, the present and messianic ages overlap.62 In the context of the present project, the point of this brief account of some of the parameters within which narrative elements in Paul have been construed is to illustrate some of the factors that shape the form of life he commends to his communities. As Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann have observed, shared stories are one of the key ways by which a social world is constructed, articulated and maintained. They are thus one of the vehicles that enable the identity of those who populate that imagined reality to be replicated between generations.63 This has various consequences for understanding Paul. At one level, it draws attention to his role as foundational transmitter of Christian tradition (cf. 1 Cor 11:1, 15:3–8) and to his repeated instructions to his churches that in their attitude towards him they replicate his own mimetic orientation towards Christ (1 Cor 4:16, 11:1, Phil 3:17, 1 Thess 1:6). At another level, it highlights that at stake in divergent accounts of Paul’s understanding of the broader narrative structure of salvation, there are correspondingly divergent ways of situating Pauline communities vis-à-vis an imagined world. This is the basic issue which narrative theology is concerned to address.64

60. See Martyn, Galatians, 23; Martyn, ‘Apocalyptic Antinomies’, 121. Emphasis added. 61. Ernst Käsemann, Perspectives on Paul, New Testament library (London: SCM Press, 1971), 90–3. 62. Dunn, Theology, 461–6; also see Cullmann, Christ and Time, 154–5; Beker, Paul the Apostle, 160. 63. Berger and Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality, 78–80. 64. See for example Bruce W. Longenecker, ed., Narrative Dynamics in Paul: A Critical Assessment (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002); Ben Witherington, Paul’s Narrative Thought World: The Tapestry of Tragedy and Triumph (Louisville: Westminster/ John Knox Press, 1994).

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By way of an illustration of this latter concern, take the discussion between John Barclay and N. T. Wright regarding whether the Pauline corpus has an anti-imperial slant.65 For Wright, Rome is the latest socio-political manifestation of salvation historical opposition; Pauline practices are thus counter-imperial, slyly subversive and re-significatory. For Barclay, Rome possesses no special status whatsoever; the most revolutionary element of Pauline performance is his refusal to mention the empire, thereby relegating it to being a minor agent of the cosmic powers who are the only opponents worth naming. Though the underlying theological reasons for this difference are various, it is surely germane that Wright’s account of the narrative structure of Pauline theology has a more continuous (Heilsgeschichte) flavour than that of Barclay.66 By way of a sort of theological ‘butterfly effect’, what is in fact a quite slight narrative difference plays out in two very different accounts of how Paul’s mindset and practices are oriented in relation to his political environment. This illustrates the ways that narratives serve to consolidate and structure the mindsets by which a culture and world view becomes individually and communally replicated. Clifford Geertz advanced this point in relation to a religion’s role in establishing ‘powerful, pervasive, and long-lasting moods and motivations’ among its adherents.67 Clarifying the point, he makes the following observation: Motivations are ‘made meaningful’ with reference to the ends toward which they are conceived to conduce, whereas moods are ‘made meaningful’ with reference to the conditions from which they are conceived to spring. We interpret motives in terms of their consummations, but we interpret moods in terms of their sources. … Charity becomes Christian charity when it is enclosed in a conception of God’s purposes; optimism is Christian optimism when it is grounded in a particular conception of God’s nature.68

One might suggest, on this basis, that because the available narrative options regarding the structure of Pauline eschatology and soteriology provide a range of accounts of the meaningful ends of Christian existence, they also cultivate different sets of moods and motivations, namely mindsets. This is clear if one compares Wright and Martyn. For Wright, Scripture situates its readers within an overarching story of salvation that is akin to a five-act play, in which missing material in the final act must be cogently improvised in keeping with the continuity of the story.69 For Martyn, Paul provokes readers to address the stark apocalyptic65. The debate was held in November 2007 at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature (San Diego). Refined versions of the stances appear in Barclay, ‘Why the Roman Empire Was Insignificant to Paul’; and Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2:1307–19. 66. Wright obliquely alludes to this. See Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2:1309. 67. Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 90. Italics in original. 68. Ibid., 97–8. 69. N. T. Wright, The New Testament and the People of God, Christian Origins and the Question of God (London: SPCK, 1992), 142; see further N. T. Wright, ‘Israel’s Scriptures in Paul’s Narrative Theology’, Theology 115, no. 5 (2012).

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existential crisis of ‘in what cosmos do we actually live?’.70 Insofar as these textual strategies situate readers differently in regard to divine purposes, they encode different moods and motivations, which are in turn directed towards alternative ways of being and doing in the world. As such, one could say that narrative contrast is an index of contrasting styles of life.71 It is beyond the scope of the present argument to settle this issue decisively. Nevertheless, any account of the style of life Paul seeks to inculcate necessitates attending to the story that orders the motivations that direct that pattern. Based on the account of Paul’s ordering of the world in the preceding chapter,72 the following contours are discernible: (i) The ruptured sapiential account of the church and the world favours notions of apocalyptic discontinuity rather than salvation historical continuity. This is also apparent in the discussion regarding the contrast between the στοιχεῖα and the πνεῦμα. (ii) However, we note the protological-eschatological correspondence between Creation and New Creation (cf. 1 Cor 15:47–49) and the relationship implied between the bounded character of the church as eschatological temple and ideas like land, community and sanctuary in the Hebrew Scriptures. This tends to support salvation historical ideas of continuity, anticipation and fulfilment. (iii) Taken together, these features suggest that the event of Christ and the corollaries of the πνεῦμα and the church are unprecedented irruptions of divine agency, albeit viewed against the backdrop of a preceding narrative in which it is narratively congruent for God to act in this manner (cf. Isa 43:19). The resultant structure resembles the synthesis of salvation historical and apocalyptic frameworks advanced by Dunn, albeit with a greater focus upon the vertical, invasive character of divine agency mediated ecclesially.73 In terms of Pauline anthropology, it was seen that the two moments of cosmological status transformation, liberation from the στοιχεῖα and elevation over the angels, bookend what in Dunn’s schema corresponds to the eschatological interim. Yet, as the remaining section of the present chapter will show, this liberated, pre-glorified state is, for Paul, freedom for something, in this case mimesis of Christ (cf. Phil 5:2–11).74 4.2.4 Section Summary The preceding discussion has considered some of the key issues germane to an analysis of the style of life which corresponds to Paul’s sense of the ordering of reality. The first part of the analysis explored the idea in terms of the performative elements of a culture in all their comprehensiveness, concreteness and specificity, including the attached attitudes, thoughts, affects and mindset that give cultural 70. See Martyn, Galatians, 23. 71. Wright hints in this direction; see Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 1:458–61. 72. See Chapter 3. 73. Dunn, Theology, 461–6. 74. On this, see Michael J. Gorman, Cruciformity: Paul’s Narrative Spirituality of the Cross (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001).

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expression shape and significance. The second part considered Pauline ethics as a key element of this picture. This analysis was important for identifying some of the ways in which metaphysical and participatory ideas, such as those advanced in the preceding chapter, might sit alongside mimetic elements as part of a single theoethical movement. The third part built upon this discussion by considering some of the ways in which form of life might be related not just to practice and ethics, but also to narratives that give sense, shape and teleology to cultural expression. Though the field is somewhat fragmented over this question, it is nonetheless possible to sketch out some of the basic contours of Paul’s soteriological story. This discussion forms the basis for the discussion of texts to which the present chapter now turns.

4.3 Texts: Christ, the Church and Life in the Spirit This section builds upon the preceding analysis by developing the exegetical exploration commenced in the corresponding section of the previous chapter. To this end, the arrangement found there is mirrored here. The material there covering eschatological advancement in 1 Cor 6:2–3 and 15:45–49 is reflected here in an exploration of Phil 2:5–11 and 3:10–21. Likewise, the discussion of baptismal liberation from the στοιχεῖα is taken up in a corresponding discussion of Gal 5:13– 26. Finally, the analysis of cultic issues in 1 Cor 3:16 and 5–6 is complemented by an analysis of the use of the body metaphor in 1 Cor 12, which describes significant elements of the ethos and character of the baptismal community. The aim is not to offer an exhaustive account of the interrelationship between Pauline social aims and his metaphysic, only to demonstrate some of the ways in which the order of reality he assumes has its correlates in the practical sphere. 4.3.1 Christ, Humility and Mimesis: Phil 2:5–11 In Phil 2–3, Paul deploys three interlocking and mutually interpreting frames of reference. The first is the narrative of the coming, suffering and consequent exaltation of Christ as κύριος (Phil 2:5–11). The last is the reference to the parousia and the somatic transformation of the ‘body of our humiliation’ (τὸ σῶμα τῆς τα πεινώσεως ἡμῶν) into conformity to the ‘body of his glory’ (τῷ σώματι τῆς δόξης αὐτοῦ 3:21). Between these lies the exemplary figure of Paul himself (3:17) and his espousal of intentional conformity to the form of Christ’s death (συμμορφιζόμενος τῷ θανάτῳ αὐτοῦ 3:10) in anticipation of the resurrection. These passages are far from straightforward. Indeed, Phil 2:5–11 is one of the most contested passages in the discipline of New Testament studies. Following Lohmeyer, various proposals have treated it as pre-Pauline hymnody.75 Lohmeyer

75. See the recent discussion in Benjamin A. Edsall and Jennifer R. Strawbridge, ‘The Songs We Used to Sing? Hymn “Traditions” and Reception in Pauline Letters’, JSNT 37, no. 3 (2015).

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himself regarded the passage as Jewish in character,76 though with unmistakeable signs of intentional allusion to the Imperial cult.77 Conversely, Käsemann claims a gnostic background, which shapes his reading of the passage as a cosmicsoteriological drama and influences his kerygmatic, namely non-ethical, understanding of its significance.78 Contrasting both, James Dunn proposes an Adam-Christ comparison derived from Gen 1–3,79 suggesting ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ (‘in form of God’ Phil 2:6)80 and τὸ εἶναι ἴσα θεῷ (‘to be equal with God’ Phil 2:6)81 as oblique allusions to these materials. Other proposals include N. T. Wright’s salvation historical argument that the Adam echoes are taken up into the story of Israel and Israel’s representatives,82 Ben Witherington’s suggestion that the passage evokes the descent of Wisdom (e.g. Sir 24),83 Stephen Fowl’s appeal to the Servant

76. See for example Ernst Lohmeyer, Kyrios Jesus: Eine Untersuchung zu Phil. 2, 5-11, Zweite Aufl ed. (Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1961), 60. 77. See esp. Ernst Lohmeyer, Christuskult und Kaiserkult (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1919), 27–8; more recent and rhetorically sophisticated discussions of the significance of the Imperial cult include, E. M. Heen, ‘Phil 2:6-11 and Resistance to Local Timocratic Rule: Isa Theo and the Cult of the Emperor in the East’, in Paul and the Roman Imperial Order, ed. Richard A. Horsley (Harrisburg: Trinity Press, 2004); Peter Oakes, ‘Re-mapping the Universe: Paul and the Emperor in 1 Thessalonians and Philippians’, JSNT 27, no. 3 (2005). 78. Ernst Käsemann, ‘Kritische Analyse von Phil. 2, 5-11’, Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 47 (1950); on Lohmeyer and Käsemann see Larry W. Hurtado, ‘Jesus as Lordly Example in Philippians 2:5-11’, in From Jesus to Paul: Studies in Honour of Francis Wright Beare, ed. Peter Richardson and John C. Hurd (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1984), 114–16. 79. See for example James D. G. Dunn, Christology in the Making: A New Testament Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation, 2nd ed. (London: SCM, 1989), 115; Dunn, Theology, 285. 80. On the synonymity or otherwise of ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ and εἰκών θεοῦ, and the more closely corresponding form ἐν εἰκόνι θεοῦ (Gen 9:6 LXX), see for example Ralph P. Martin, ‘μορφή in Philippians ii. 6’, ExpTim 70, no. 6 (1959); David Steenburg, ‘The Case Against the Synonymity of Morphē and Eikōn’, JSNT 11, no. 34 (1988); Dunn, Christology, 115; Markus N. A. Bockmuehl, ‘“The Form of God”’ (Phil 2:6): Variations on a Theme of Jewish Mysticism’, JTS 48, no. 1 (1997): 8–9. 81. See for example Charles A. Wanamaker, ‘Philippians 2.6-11: Son of God or Adamic Christology?’, NTS 33, no. 2 (1987): 187–8; Dunn, Theology, 285; Gerald F. Hawthorne, ‘In the Form of God and Equal with God (Philippians 2:6)’, in Where Christology Began: Essays on Philippians 2, ed. Ralph P. Martin and Brian J. Dodd (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998), 104. 82. See N. T. Wright, The Climax of the Covenant (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1991), 57–61; more fully Part III of Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2:619–1042. 83. See Witherington, Paul’s Narrative Thought World, 92–105.

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in Isa 5384 and Richard Bauckham’s appeal to christological monotheism as a way of explaining Jesus’ apparent participation in the divine identity in Phil 2:10–11.85 The question here is how these passages bear upon a Pauline mindset and pattern of life. Aptly, Phil 2:5 begins with this issue: ‘think this among yourselves which was thought by Christ Jesus’ (τοῦτο φρονεῖτε ἐν ὑμῖν ὃ καὶ ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ 2:5). The verbal idea of φρονέω (‘think/have an attitude’)86 evidently applies to the entire expression, and agreement between τοῦτο and the relative pronoun ὃ indicates that in each case the content of the mindset is identical. Yet, it is uncertain whether the verbal idea is all that carries over. If the subject of φρονεῖτε (2nd p. pl.) also covers the entire expression, then Paul’s instruction would be to ‘think among yourselves what you think in Christ Jesus’. However, it is likelier that the implied subject of ὃ καὶ ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ is Christ; hence, ‘what was thought in Christ Jesus’ is what Christ Jesus thought. This is an invitation to replicate, or even participate in, Christ’s own mindset, the form of which is given in verses 6–11.87 This Christ mindset is initially expressed in terms of what it is not: ‘[he] did not consider it a prize to be equal with God’ (οὐχ ἁρπαγμὸν ἡγήσατο τὸ εἶναι ἴσα θεῷ Phil 2:6b). The bulk of this translation is not especially taxing. The immediate context (cf. v.5) indicates that the sense of ἡγήσατο is intellectual (‘he considered’),88 and the expression εἶναι ἴσα N is relatively straightforwardly rendered as ‘to be equal to N’. What is difficult is knowing how to determine the reference of these words and thereby to clarify the sense of ἁρπαγμός.89 Much depends upon the subclause ‘being in God’s form’ (ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ ὑπάρχων 2:6a), as this is the backdrop against which statements regarding Christ’s self-effacement occur. The suggestion of an Adamic Creation-fall allusion here, to the exclusion

84. See Stephen E. Fowl, Philippians, The Two Horizons New Testament Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 117. 85. See Richard Bauckham, Jesus and the God of Israel: God Crucified and Other Studies on the New Testament’s Christology of Divine Identity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 198–210; Richard Bauckham, ‘The Worship of Jesus in Philippians 2:9-11’, in Where Christology Began: Essays on Philippians 2, ed. Ralph P. Martin and Brian J. Dodd (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1998). 86. See the entry for φρονέω in BDAG. 87. For a fuller participatory reading of this verse see Michael J. Gorman, ‘A New Translation of Philippians 2:5 and Its Significance for Paul’s Theology and Spirituality’, in Conception, Reception and the Spirit: Essays in Honour of Andrew T. Lincoln, ed. J. G. McConville and Lloyd Pietersen (Eugene: Cascade Books, 2015). 88. Cf. ἡγήσατο in BDAG; LSL. 89. On this, see C. F. D. Moule, ‘Further Reflections on Philippians 2:5-11’, in Apostolic History and the Gospel: Biblical and Historical Essays Presented to F.F. Bruce, ed. W. Ward Gasque and Ralph P. Martin (Exeter: Paternoster, 1970), 266–8; Roy W. Hoover, ‘The Harpagmos Enigma: A Philological Solution’, HTR 64, no. 1 (1971); J. C. O’Neill, ‘Hoover on Harpagmos Reviewed, with a Modest Proposal Concerning Philippians 2:6’, HTR 81, no. 4 (1988); also see the tabulation of the various interpretative options in Wright, Climax, 81.

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of divine pre-existence, together with the corollary that ἁρπαγμός denotes the seizure of a prerogative not yet held, has already been noted, but the Achilles’ Heel of such a reading is the failure to demonstrate concretely the synonymity of μορφή and εἰκών, which the allusion requires. Erik Heen exposes some of the ways in which terminology used in this passage is redolent of the Imperial cult vis-à-vis the emperor, specifically expressions denoting the sharing in divine honours.90 Both Plutarch (Is. Os. 360c–d) and Philo (Legat. 95–111) attest to rulers representing themselves variously as living gods. Heen’s analysis of a wide body of such literature leads him to suggest that Phil 2:6– 11 subversively re-appropriates Imperial ideas of divine honours, applying them to ‘a non-enfranchised Jewish provincial of lower status’.91 Whilst such a paradoxical reversal is likely to be an element of the overall picture, Phil 2:6–7 does not really fit the Imperial model. Comparison with Philo’s discussion of Caligula’s pretensions to divine status is helpful. Deriding the emperor for dressing as the gods (Legat. 95) and for claiming ‘to be equal to them in honour’ (οἷς ἰσότιμος εἶναι, §98 cf. Phil 2:6b), he observes that Caligula emulates neither divine virtues nor benefactions (§98–109). Significantly, he associates the status to which Caligula aspires with being an ‘imitator of god’s form’ (μιμούμενος … θεοῦ μορφὴ, §110, cf. Phil 2:6a), albeit that Caligula’s vices reveal him to be a ‘counterfeit’ (παράκομμα). Unlike Caligula, Christ’s status as ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ (Phil 2:6a) is genuine and nonacquired. It is difficult to avoid the inference in the Philonic passage that being in divine form and being worthy of divine honours are interrelated, with both being associated with the performance of acts apt to divinity. Yet, Christ is ‘in God’s form’ at the outset of the narrative, in advance of the deeds of obedient humility (2:8) as a direct consequence of which (cf. διό, 2:9) he receives universal cult (2:10–11). This poses exegetes with the following dilemma: if one reads εἶναι ἴσα θεῷ in the light of the materials with which it is structurally paralleled (2:6a), then this disconnects being ‘equal with God’ from the deeds by which cult is obtained; however, if one treats the phrase being ‘equal with God’ as an anticipation of the receiving of divine honours in verses 10–11, then this neglects that, being ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ, Christ already fully possessed the reality of which Caligula was a mere parody. Either way, the acquisitive logic of the divine honours tradition is interrupted. Moreover, Christ’s self-effacement does not wholly cease at his exaltation, since the cult he receives is refracted via him to the Father (cf. εἰς δόξαν θεοῦ πατρός, 2:11). Whatever, ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ denotes, it contrasts with (cf. ἀλλά Phil 2:7) the reference to ‘a slave’s form’ (μορφὴν δούλου) in verse 7, and thus with the expressions that elaborate upon this description. As such, this usage draws attention to the lexical sense of μορφή as ‘visible exteriority’, even in the case of divinities. Examples of this sense include Diogenes Laertius’s reference to the animalistic appearance of Egyptian gods, which he explains by way of Egyptian ignorance of the divine form

90. Heen, ‘Phil 2:6-11 and Resistance to Local Timocratic Rule’, 126; for a useful history of ruler cults in the ancient Mediterranean see Litwa, We are Being Transformed, 68–84. 91. Heen, ‘Phil 2:6-11 and Resistance to Local Timocratic Rule’, 149.

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(μὴ εἰδέναι τὴν τοῦ θεοῦ μορφήν, Diog. Laert. 1.10).92 Even within the notionally more aniconic Jewish traditions, this sense is obliquely attested. Josephus states that God’s ‘form and greatness is unutterable’ (μορφὴν καὶ μέγεθος … ἄφατος, C. Ap. 2.190), but, as Bockmuehl correctly notes, asserting the ineffability of God’s form is a far cry from asserting formlessness.93 In terms of the metamorphic aspects of μορφή as ‘visible exteriority’, the story of Abraham’s encounter with Death in Testament of Abraham is illuminating. There, Death temporarily ‘wears the form of an archangel’ (ἀρχαγγέλου μορφὴν περικείμενος, T.Abr 16:10–11 A). This attests to both the glorious and adaptable nature of heavenly corporeality. Bockmuehl proposes that μορφή here corresponds to the use of tabnît in visionary literature (cf. 11QShirShabb 5–6.2, Ezek 8:2–3)94 to denote the exteriority of heavenly, even divine, corporeality.95 To be sure, tabnît is used to denote the visible manifestation or paradigmatic representation of various heavenly realities. 4Q403 refers to the ‘glorious form (tabnît) of the chiefs of the kingdom of the spirits’ (§1.2.3), namely the outward glory of the archangels, and to ‘the chiefs of the structure (tabnît) of the gods’ (1.2.16), namely the pattern of the heavenly tabernacle.96 Similarly, 4Q405 20–21–22.8 refers to the tabnît of the divine throne-chariot and that of the celestial beings. Lexically, these uses are continuous with the Hebrew Scriptures (cf. Exod 25:9, Ps 106:20, Isa 44:13, Ezek 8:3, 10:8), though we note that ὁμοίωμα is more commonly used as cognate (cf. Ps 105:20[106:20], Ezek 8:3, 10:8 LXX) than either παράδειγμα (Exod 25:9) or μορφή (Isa 44:13). Notwithstanding this difficulty, there is enough here to situate Paul’s usage of μορφή in the context of notions of paradigmatic, heavenly corporeality.97 Indeed, recent studies of the notion of glorious divine corporeality in the Rabbinic literature suggest that these ideas had ongoing currency well into the present era.98 The proposal here is that Phil 2:6–7 describes a transition, in which one who shares in the divine identity assumes the somatic status of an earthly human agent.99 This is principally about exterior corporeality, namely bodies or bodily

92. For this and other examples, see μορφή in BDAG. 93. Bockmuehl, ‘“The Form of God” (Phil 2:6)’, 15. 94. See García Martínez, The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated, 430–1; also see tabnît in Kœhler, Baumgartner, and Stamm, HALOT. 95. Bockmuehl, ‘“The Form of God” (Phil 2:6)’, 16–17; also see ch.5 of Litwa, We are Being Transformed, 119–51. 96. Translations from García Martínez, The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated, 423. 97. Bockmuehl, ‘“The Form of God” (Phil 2:6)’, 16–19. 98. José Costa, ‘Le corps de Dieu dans le judaïsme rabbinique ancien. Problèmes d’interprétation’, RHR 227, no. 3 (2010); David H. Aaron, ‘Shedding Light on God’s Body in Rabbinic Midrashim: Reflections on the Theory of a Luminous Adam’, HTR 90, no. 3 (1997); Alon Goshen Gottstein, ‘The Body as Image of God in Rabbinic Literature’, HTR 87, no. 2 (1994). 99. I have specifically avoided the expression angelomorphic here, as theomorphism is more in view.

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glory. This shift involves the relinquishment of a prior divine exteriority, congruent with divine identity, so as to assume earthly embodiment. This being the case, the expression ἑαυτὸν ἐκένωσεν (‘he emptied himself ’ 2:6) denotes something other than the metaphysical evacuation of the attributes of divinity signified by the modern dogmatic term ‘Kenosis’.100 This is not to say that there is no implied metaphysical movement here; it is just that this is principally about somatic transformation.101 The verse describes the assumption of human corporeality in view of the cosmic condescension involved. Indeed, if we understand the reference to μορφὴν δούλου λαβών (2:7b) as epexegetical of ἐκένωσεν, then it perhaps even suggests λαβών denotes ‘receiving’ rather than ‘taking’. Christ’s agency was not rapacious (ἁρπαγμός 2:6) but freely receptive. At the other side of humiliation and death (Phil 2:8), Christ’s divine honours are also received, as is the name that accompanies them. In my view, the reference to God granting (cf. χαρίζομαι 2:9) him a name at his exaltation rather precludes that name being ‘Jesus’. Instead, the logic of verses 9–11 is that God’s bestowal of the divine name is the effectual precondition (cf. ἵνα 2:10) by which Jesus’s name becomes proxy for God’s name. This is why the name ‘Jesus’ occasions the performance of the universal YHWH-Kyrios cult in Isa 45:23 (cf. Phil 2:10–11). Yet these honours are received by one who has not relinquished the human corporeality that he previously ‘received’ (2:7). This is not, at least not straightforwardly, a return to a prior state of being ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ (2:6a). Rather, the pre-existent sharer of divine identity and corporeality receives both earthly and angelic honours as a resurrected and glorified human being. The scope and scale of human glorification, broadly construed, in various Judaisms is fairly well attested (e.g. 4Q504 fr.8, 2 En. 22:8–9, Lev. Rab. 20.2),102 and this is occasionally expressed in terms of angelic honours (e.g. Gen. Rab. 8.5). Perhaps the most vivid example of this is Michael’s instruction to the angels to worship Adam as image of JehovahDominus (YHWH-Kyrios): adorate imaginem domini dei … adora imaginem dei Jehova (Vit. Ad. 14:2).103 Assuming that the tradition preserved in the Latin version

100. For a fine critical exploration of some of the main kenotic proposals see Sarah Coakley, ‘Kenōsis and Subversion: On the Repression of “Vulnerability” in Christian Feminist Writing’, in Powers and Submissions (Oxford: Blackwell, 2002), 11–25. 101. On the tacitly metaphysical elements of bodily transformation see Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, 223–4. 102. See for example Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 17, 91; Andrei A. Orlov, ‘Vested With Adam’s Glory: Moses as the Luminous Counterpart of Adam in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Macarian Homilies’, Xristianskij Vostok 4, no. 10 (2002); Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, 189–95; also see Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 110–12. 103. References to the Latin text are taken from Wilhelm Meyer, Vita Adae Et Evae, vol. 14.3, Abhandlungen der koeniglichen Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philsoph.-philologische Klasse (Munich: Akad. der Wiss., 1878).

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of the Vita is of sufficient antiquity, the ideas in this text may well be germane to the emergence of early Christian cultic devotion to Christ.104 According to this analysis, the story of Phil 2:5–11 involves (i) cosmic condescension by a sharer in the divine identity (2:6), who pursues (ii) a practice of radical self-effacement commensurate with his assumed human corporeality (2:7–8), which (iii) is subsequently exalted (2:9–11).105 It is clear from this narrative that any performance of Christ’s mindset will involve significant elements of nonidentical replication, especially in regard to the transition between (i) and (ii). So, for example, Paul’s claim to have ‘forfeited all things for his [Christ’s] sake’ (διʼ ὃν τὰ πάντα ἐζημιώθην, Phil 3:8 cf. Gal 6:14) is not quite the same as Christ’s eschewal of ἁρπαγμός (2:6). Though forfeiture undoubtedly involves the effacement of Paul’s prior covenantal prerogatives (cf. Phil 3:4–6), and self-effacement at the level of his covenantal standing for the sake of other Jesus devotees (cf. 1 Cor 9:19–23), these moves also involve inversion at the level of value. Paul reckons all things σκύβαλα (Phil 3:8) so that (ἵνα) he may gain Christ. This is different from Phil 2:5–11. Nevertheless, Paul’s desire to be ‘conformed to his [Christ’s] death’ (συμμορφιζόμενος τῷ θανάτῳ αὐτοῦ, Phil 3:10) evidently evokes the symmorphic and kenotic mindset of Christ in Phil 2:6–8. Though it is risky to assume that the semantic fields of related verb and noun forms always coincide, this terminology is sufficiently unusual and the use of μορφή in 2:6–7 overlaps it enough to indicate that this is no accidental echo.106 The point here is that, for Paul, symmorphosis to Christ’s sufferings (3:10) is a form of participatory narrative mimesis that derives from Christ’s own action, both evoking and internalizing Christ’s own humility. Likewise, it is difficult to avoid the corresponding conclusion that Christ’s exaltation maps onto the promise of resurrection in a similarly paradigmatic manner. Hence, the claim that Christ ‘will transform’ (μετασχηματίσει 3:21) our bodies echoes the terminology of Phil 2:7 (cf. σχῆμα).107 This evidently bears upon the discussions of cosmological elevation of Jesus devotees in 1 Cor 6:2–3 and 15:45–49,108 in that it orients ontological transformation morally. It constitutes humiliation as a preparatory precondition for glorification, thereby locating the

104. Fletcher-Louis, Jesus Monotheism, 1:250–92; David Steenburg, ‘The Worship of Adam and Christ as Image of God’, JSNT 12, no. 39 (1990): 96; also see Geurt H. van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context: The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 28–31. 105. See for example Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.19.1 (ANF 1:448); Athanasius, De Incarnatione 54.3 (NPNF2 4:65). 106. See Markus N. A. Bockmuehl, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Philippians, Black’s New Testament Commentaries (London: A.&C. Black, 1997), 216–17. 107. See the useful table of terminological correspondences between Phil 2:6–11 and 3:20–21 in Blackwell, Christosis, 208. 108. See 3.3.1.

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hope of resurrection within an embodied practice of non-identical mimesis of the Christ mindset.109 Ben Blackwell writes, As believers suffer with Christ and experience his resurrection life as heavenly glory, they do not become the μορφή θεοῦ/κυρίου, but they do share in divine attributes of life and glory. The shape of this soteriology is decidedly christiform in nature, both in present suffering and in future resurrection.110

4.3.2 Freedom, Service and the πνεῦμα: Gal 5:13–26 The prevailing mindset-related idea in Gal 5:13–26 is ‘freedom’ (ἐλευθερία 5:1, 13) rather than humility. This is in keeping with the entire mid-section of the epistle up to and including the present passage (3:23–5:13). It features in references to being guarded by the law (3:23) and enslaved to the στοιχεῖα (4:1–10), precisely because these temporal restrictions are described as lifted at the coming of Christ (3:24) and the reception of the πνεῦμα (4:6). The allegory of the two women in Gal 4:21–31 is a transitional passage, aimed at illustrating and consolidating this stance. Here, Paul responds to the teaching of those advocating circumcision (cf. 4:17)111 by painting his opponents as children of the slave and his gentile interlocutors as children of the free woman (4:25–26). This is a rhetorically bold move, since it inverts arguments about covenantal identity the agitators might be imagined to deploy.112 As such, the peroration in Gal 5:1–26, which commences with the assertion ‘Christ freed us for freedom’ (Τῇ ἐλευθερίᾳ ἡμᾶς Χριστὸς ἠλευθέρωσεν, 5:1), is not arbitrarily attached to the material which precedes it. Nevertheless, much of the debate regarding the passage has been dominated by the question of the relationship between the main body of the epistle and the paraenesis in Gal 5:13–6:10. Though the topic of freedom continues until 5:13, the argument thereafter moves directly into a discussion of how love and mutual service (5:13) are the means by which the law ‘has been fulfilled’ (πεπλήρωται 5:14). This is, in turn, followed by a discussion of what looks like virtue and vice lists (5:16-23), framed in terms of the spirit-flesh contrast. Various proposals have sought to account for this transition. Burton describes it as a ‘striking paradox’ that Paul should discourage Torah observance for most of the epistle, only at the end to deploy the law as an ethical standard.113 O’Neill is sufficiently disquieted

109. Also see Tyson Putthoff ’s discussion of the mimetic potential of the self more generally in various Jewish texts, in Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, esp. 207–12. 110. Blackwell, Christosis, 208. 111. See for example Philip F. Esler, Galatians (London: Routledge, 1998), 209–10. 112. See for example C. K. Barrett, ‘The Allegory of Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar in the Argument of Galatians’, in Essays on Paul (London: SPCK, 1982); also Dunn, Galatians, 242–59; Matera, Galatians, 167–78. 113. Burton, Galatians, 294.

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by this and by what he understands as the deficiencies of attempted explanations that he writes it off as an interpolation.114 Other proposals have included the idea that Paul here opens a second front against different agitators, or that the shift in focus aims to offset potential misreadings. John Barclay offers a fine summary of these and the other main options.115 More recently, J. Louis Martyn situates the discussion in what he describes as the ‘two voices’116 of the law, its imprecatory and promissory aspects. In the final analysis, Troels Engberg-Pedersen’s observation that the difference between the present passage and what precedes it turns on the distinction between ‘freedom from’ and ‘freedom for’ is simple and persuasive.117 It informs the discussion here. Beginning with Gal 5:13, Paul refines his notion of freedom by juxtaposing it with the statement ‘but be slaves (δουλεύετε) to each other through love’ (5:13).118 The status of the middle clause of the sentence, ‘only not freedom for (εἰς) an occasion to the flesh’ (5:13), is not entirely clear, since one must infer both the verbal idea and its likely mood. The arrangement μή … ἀλλά … would suggest that the middle and final clauses are structurally coordinated with one another, thereby indicating that the implied verb here is a command of some sort.119 Hence, Hans Dieter Betz’s: ‘do not (μή) let this freedom become … but (ἀλλά)’.120 Despite this being an instruction not to abuse freedom, when the verse is taken as a whole, it reads less as the correction of a fault and more as the spelling out of the normative consequences of the specific form of liberation for Paul.121 The paradox of this liberation is that one is emancipated from cosmic slavery so that one might freely enslave oneself in love to one’s neighbour. This is to say more than that one is freed for, not just from, something;122 it is to indicate that servitude freely chosen is the character of the Jesus movement style of life.

114. J. C. O’Neill, The Recovery of Paul’s Letter to the Galatians (London: SPCK, 1972), 66–71. 115. John M. G. Barclay, Obeying the Truth: A Study of Paul’s Ethics in Galatians, Studies of the New Testament and Its World (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1988), 9–23. 116. Martyn, Galatians, 506–14. 117. Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 2000), 136. Engberg-Pederson is by no means the only person to propose this. 118. δουλεύετε could be either imperative or indicative, but the context makes the former the only real option. Note also that D F G denote the agency of the love using with the phrase τη αγαπη του πνευματος. See critical apparatus at Gal 5:13 in NA28. 119. See Gordon D. Fee, God’s Empowering Presence: The Holy Spirit in the Letters of Paul (Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 1994), 425n199. 120. Betz, Galatians, 271–2; cf. Matera, Galatians, 192; Burton, Galatians, 291. 121. See the options in R. Y. K. Fung, The Epistle to the Galatians, ed. Joel B. Green, New International Commentary on the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 244–5. 122. This is, of course, a valid observation. See Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics, 136.

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This makes for an interesting comparison with the popular-level Stoicism/ Cynicism which, as I have argued elsewhere,123 corresponds to aspects of Paul’s thought. As Betz observes, there is no direct textual evidence that the Hellenistic moral slogans of 1 Corinthians (cf. 1 Cor 3:22, 6:12) appear on the Galatians’s radar.124 However, they do appear on Paul’s radar; hence the comparison remains valid. Yet, though slavery might well be regarded as an external in popular moral philosophy,125 namely irrelevant to the practices of virtue, that is hardly to say that it is a state to be emulated. Paul’s argument regarding freedom and the slavery of love would appear incongruous, even irrational, to a Stoic observer. Cicero is helpful in illustrating this point. Observing that wisdom endows the sage with self-sufficiency, hence freedom, he defines the character of freedom as potestas vivendi ut velis (‘power to live as you will’, Parad. 34). As such, the wise person does ‘nothing unwillingly (nihil invitus), nothing regretfully (nihil dolens), nothing under duress (nihil coactus)’ (§34). Conversely, the wicked are incapable of deliberate judgement or action, and this renders them ‘all slaves’ (omnis inprobos esse servos §35).126 Of course, Cicero’s reference to slavery here is metaphor and ethics rather than the literal slavery of the social institution or the embodied practices of voluntary service. There again, Paul’s cosmological-eschatological slavery to the στοιχεῖα is metaphysics rather than a social institution. What is important about the contrast between these thinkers is that Paul’s account of the Jesus movement form of life as other-centric, willed servitude both resembles and differs from Stoic notions of moral formation. For the Stoics, οἰκείωσις enables otherwise egotistical agents to acquire a concern for the interests of agents besides themselves, the overall aim being a rational owning of the other’s interests as one’s own.127 For Paul, formation in Christ appears more demanding than Stoic οἰκείωσις, the owning of the other’s interests looking more like the ἀλλοτρίωσις (‘alienation’) of the self or its interests. Thematically, this is evident across a range of Pauline texts (cf. 1 Cor 9:22, 2 Cor 4:5–12, Gal 2:20, 6:14, Phil 3:8). As such, Gal 5:16 is a dense evocation of the pattern of Christ’s own life (cf. Phil 2:6),128 one that makes Paul’s form of life radically communitarian and christiform. One is freed from the cosmos to

123. See 3.2.1. Of course, the discussion elsewhere concerned a different audience, occasion, context and argument. 124. See Betz, Galatians, 273n18. 125. On Stoics and externals, see Epictetus, Diatr. 1.22.11–14. 126. On the relationship between moral action and deliberative freedom/slavery see Epictetus, Diatr. 3.12.4–6; Seneca, Ep. 116.5. 127. On οἰκείωσις, see A. A. Long, From Epicurus to Epictetus: Studies in Hellenistic and Roman Philosophy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2006), 351–7; Troels Engberg-Pedersen, The Stoic Theory of Oikeiosis: Moral Development and Social Interaction in Early Stoic Philosophy, Studies in Hellenistic Civilization (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1990), 122–6. 128. See Dale B. Martin, Slavery as Salvation: The Metaphor of Slavery in Pauline Christianity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 123–9.

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expend one’s freedom re-performing Jesus’s practice, and he alienated himself for the sake of others (Gal 1:4).129 However, Paul understood that for Jesus alienation anticipated glorification, as will also be the case for his devotees. Accordingly, as Barclay puts it, Paul is ‘both more self-sacrificial and (paradoxically) more brazenly “self-interested”’ than the Stoics.130 Given the discussion of baptismal transformation in the preceding chapter of this volume,131 it is unsurprising that Paul introduces the agencies of πνεῦμα and σάρξ in verses 16–18. These are mentioned as opposed realities in Gal 3:3, though the main emphasis in earlier material is upon the eschatological-cosmological contrast between the πνεῦμα and the στοιχεῖα (4:1–10). The present moral contrast is not a signal that the topic has shifted from cosmology towards anthropology, since the earlier discussion situated the anthropological experience of the reception of the divine πνεῦμα in its cosmic and eschatological context, and the present discussion of flesh and spirit in the lives of Jesus devotees has that earlier discussion as its background. In any event, the fields of anthropology and cosmology are related and intersecting in ancient philosophical and religious thought.132 For convenience, one might treat σάρξ in this section as being the anthropological correlate of the στοιχεῖα, that aspect of present human psychosomatic existence that corresponds to their influence.133 This makes clear the association without getting bogged down in definitions.134 Whatever the precise significance of σάρξ for Paul, he regards it as a locus of ‘desire’ (ἐπιθυμία Gal 5:16). In this, he is not alone. Take, for example, ancient philosophical reflection on the relationship between flesh, ‘desire’ (ἐπιθυμία) and ‘pleasure’ (ἡδονή). In Epicurus, this is apparent in the relationship between desire and satisfaction (cf. Diog. Laert. 10.144–45). Epicurus understood the mind’s ability to attain calm to be limited by its tendency to stray from the simple satisfaction afforded by the present (§145). In the case of ‘pleasure in the flesh’ (ἐν τῇ σαρκὶ ἡ ἡδονή §144), satisfaction is straightforwardly attained either by acquiring one’s desires or by extinguishing them. As such, his philosophy involves a technology of the self aimed at differentiating between modes of pleasure and managing the

129. See Barclay’s description of this as ‘a paradoxical pattern of reciprocal asymmetry … in oscillating relations of disequilibrium’ in Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 510. 130. John M. G. Barclay, ‘Benefiting Others and Benefit to Oneself: Seneca and Paul on “Altruism”’, in Paul and Seneca in Dialogue, ed. Joseph R. Dodson and David E. Briones, Ancient Philosophy and Religion (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 111. 131. See Chapter 3. 132. See for example Wright, Cosmology in Antiquity, 69–74; Adams, Constructing the World, 64–9; Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 128–9. 133. Bultmann, Theology, 1:236–39. 134. The discussion in TDNT continues to be helpful. See Eduard Schweizer and Rudolf Meyer, ‘σάρξ, σαρκικός, σάρκινος’, in TDNT, ed. Gerhard Kittel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans), 7:98–151.

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desire to acquire them.135 Unsurprisingly, Epicureanism was routinely accused of hedonistic excess, though this charge was rejected by Epicurus (cf. Diog. Laert. 10.131–32). Undertones of this critique are clear in Plutarch (Virt. vit. 101a–b), who castigates the indulgence of ‘the passions’ (τά πάθη §101a) as disordered and morbid. Like Epicurus, Plutarch employs a stratified moral-affective taxonomy, though he deploys it to very different ends. Indeed, he criticizes even temperate indulgence of the ‘pleasures of the flesh’ (αἱ τῆς σαρκός ἡδοναί), since it results only in transient satisfaction, unlike the enduring delight arising from the possession of virtue (§101b). Some of the strongest comparisons with Paul on flesh and desire are found in the Jewish materials. Philo (Her. 267–69) describes the virtuous person living in the body like a ‘foreigner’ (ἀλλοδαπός, §267), whereas the wicked person lives there as a native. This, of course, draws attention to the capacity of the flesh to be a doorway through which the self might be invaded by passion, which Philo describes as ‘slave-born and foreign’ (νόθος καί ξένος, §268). Perhaps the closest correspondence in Philo to the Pauline usage is to be found in De gigantibus. There, Philo, commenting on Gen 6:3 (LXX), observes the antagonistic relationship between the divine πνεῦμα and σάρξ, in a way that evokes Gal 5:17 (cf. Gig. 28–31). This notion of a mutually frustrating struggle between two impulses within the self is also discernible in the Qumran literature. In 1QS 3.15–4.25,136 the Treatise of the Two Spirits describes humanity as having been created under the tutelage of spirits of truth and iniquity (3.17–24). These rival angels influence all human beings and direct the hearts of the elect and non-elect alike. Whichever spirit one ‘walks in’ (4.8–10, 12–15, cf. περιπατεῖ τε, Gal 5:16) determines one’s standing at the time of the Lord’s visitation, when the evil impulse will be removed from the elect forever and Adam’s glory will be restored (1QS 4.20–25).137 Though there are similarities between some of these materials and Paul, none offers an entirely satisfactory comparison. The Graeco-Roman materials and Philo highlight the affective and impulsive terminology associated with the flesh, but they lack Paul’s strong preference for distinguishing the mostly neutral or positive σῶμα from the mostly threatening or ambiguous σάρξ. Indeed, as Barclay has shown, Philo contrasts with Paul by treating σῶμα and σάρξ as interchangeable, and even when they are opposed to πνεῦμα, the wider theological framework gives them a significance other than what they have in Galatians.138 Lastly, the Qumran text does not oppose spirit and flesh, but rather spirits of truth and iniquity, though we note the expression ‘spirit(s) of flesh’ in some sapiential fragments of other

135. On the management of desire in Epicurean thought, see Martha Craven Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics, Martin Classical Lectures (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 102–39. 136. The edition used here is Vermes, DSS. 137. See Barclay, Obeying the Truth, 185–91. 138. Ibid., 186.

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texts (cf. 4Q416 fr.1.12) along with its possible use to denote fleshly inclinations.139 Besides this, there is also the issue of theological framework: The author of the Treatise understands the duality of impulses to be part of human constitution qua created (1QS 4.15), whereas Paul understands the σάρξ-πνεῦμα duality to arise from an eschatological gift that only the baptized share. And whilst in 1QS 4.20–25, the ‘spirit of holiness’ will eschatologically purify humanity, in Paul, this process has already been inaugurated. None of this is to suggest that these comparisons lack utility, only to observe that they do not fully account for the Pauline usage of πνεῦμα and σάρξ or, by way of the aims of this section of the present chapter, indicate how this might bear upon Paul’s espoused form of life. Fortunately, the general contours of Paul’s argument are discernible. The expression ‘walk by the spirit’ (πνεύματι περιπατ εῖτε, Gal 5:16) is an instruction to enact in one’s embodied practice the character (5:22–23) of the divine spirit infused at Baptism (4:6–7). Though περιπατέω+ dat. ordinarily denotes the character or manner of life, rather than the sphere or agency that directs that pattern,140 the context indicates that Paul has in mind both ideas simultaneously. The second half of the verse, ‘and you will not carry out the desire of flesh’, is both indicative and emphatic (οὐ μὴ τελέσητε: ‘you [certainly] will not’)141 and draws attention to the effectiveness of heeding the instruction in the first half of the verse. Gal 5:17 builds on this, presenting σάρξ and πνεῦμα as agencies each of which ‘desires’ (ἐπιθυμεῖ) contrary to (κατά+gen.) the other. As such, the confidence of the preceding verse is rooted in an understanding of the πνεῦμα as an agent within the self, limiting the desires of the flesh insofar as one walks according to the spirit (cf. Rom 8:4). Nevertheless, there remains a question as to whether the final clause in this verse, ‘in order that you might not do what you want’ (ἵνα μὴ ἃ ἐὰν θέλητε ταῦτα ποιῆτε, 5:17), refers to the desiring self qua σάρξ alone or whether it denotes a more thoroughgoing and reciprocal frustration. Betz frames this question in dialogue with the putatively ‘divided I’ of Rom 7:7–25, thus treating the body as a battleground of rival impulses that stymie one another.142 The problem with this is that Paul does not explicitly present the agency of the spirit as having been limited; the only limiting explicitly mentioned relates to the fleshly impulse (5:16). As such, the ‘you’ who does not get to do what ‘you might want’ (θέλητε, 5:17) is

139. See Loren T. Stuckenbruck, ‘The Interiorization of Dualism within the Human Being in Second Temple Judaism’, in Light against Darkness: Dualism in Ancient Mediterranean Religion and the Contemporary World, ed. Armin Lange, Journal of Ancient Judaism / Supplements (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 157–9. 140. See the options in defn. 2a of περιπατέω in BDAG; also Fee, God’s Empowering Presence, 430. 141. It is possible to take τελέσητε here as aor. act. subj. and to read it as having imperative force, but this is not the likeliest reading. See Dunn, Galatians, 294. 142. See Betz, Galatians, 279–81; also Dunn, Theology, 472–6.

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unlikely to refer to both aspects of a divided self simultaneously.143 Indeed, it is not even entirely clear that Romans sustains this comparison, since the division of the self there is somewhat offset by the agency of the πνεῦμα, which is able to facilitate, without frustration, the fulfilment of the law and the doing of deeds of righteousness (cf. Rom 8:4–6). The subsequent reference to those led by the spirit not being ‘subject to the law’ (ὑπὸ νόμον) in Gal 5:18 appears to be an abrupt change of emphasis, but only if one assumes that the subject matter of verses 16–17 is unconcerned with the law. But if one takes the basic problem of verse 16 to be ‘how can the fleshly desire be restrained?’, then a perfectly acceptable Jewish answer would be character formation through diligent attention to the law (Ps 19:7, 119:9; cf. Gal 3:19, 23). Indeed, one might plausibly imagine this being an aspect of the agitators’ apologia for the law. Against this backdrop, Paul’s mention of the law appears to be one of a piece with his reference to the command in verses 13–14. That is, he asserts that a Jesus movement form of life, whether construed as christiform love or life in the πνεῦμα, achieves the goods commonly, though inaccurately, attributed to law adherence (cf. Rom 8:3) though without lapsing into eschatological immaturity (cf. Gal 4:1–10). This informs the subsequent assertion that there is no law ‘contrary to’ (κατά+gen.) the dispositions generated by the πνεῦμα (5:23), and perhaps also the reference to the positive content of Jesus movement behaviour as the ‘law of Christ’ (ὁ νόμος τοῦ Χριστοῦ Gal 6:2, cf. ἔννομος Χριστοῦ, 1 Cor 9:21). The overall effect of this is to generate confidence in the capacity of the πνεῦμα to shape a non-nomistic, yet not morally unbounded, form of life in a manner commensurate with the eschatological status of Paul and his readers. Or to put it differently, the metaphysical transformation explored in the corresponding section of the previous chapter is the ontological basis of the pattern of life discussed here. Just as mimesis of the servanthood of Christ is preparatory of the total renewal of the bodily self, here the novel epistemic, impulsive and praxic possibilities described as ‘walking by the spirit’ are congruent with baptismal liberation from the στοιχεῖα. As such, freedom to become more than one (and to manage the residual disruption attached to what one was), for the Galatians, involves the responsibility to attend to the spirit one received and to perform, as well as receive, one’s baptismal identity. John Barclay sums this up as follows: The indicative of ‘life’ is a statement not of status, divorceable from practice, but of existence, whose reality is necessarily evidenced in practice. That ‘life’ is not humanly generated (it derives from the Spirit) but it is humanly expressed, and it can hardly be said to be real without such expression.144

143. In this regard, Fee is more convincing than Betz. See Fee, God’s Empowering Presence, 433–7; also see the options in Barclay, Obeying the Truth, 113–14. 144. Barclay, Paul and the Gift, 429–30.

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4.3.3 Unity, Diversity and Collective Identity: 1 Cor 12:4–13 By way of drawing the present examination of texts to a close, attention turns now to 1 Corinthians, specifically 1 Cor 12:4–13. As will be seen, there are continuities between this passage and the previous discussions. By way of opening comment, because the masculine and neuter forms of the genitive plural of the substantive adjective πνευματικός are identical, the topic statement in 1 Cor 12:1 (περὶ δὲ τῶν πνευματικῶν) could refer to ‘spiritual things’ or to ‘spiritual persons’. Most critical commentaries raise this point, usually to observe that there is no way of knowing which is the likelier reading and that it does not, in any case, make much difference, since ‘spiritual persons’ are those who practice the ‘spiritual things’.145 Regardless of the answer to this question, the argument of the passage remains discernible, namely (i) that the various pneumatic practices referred to in this section of the epistle are manifestations of a single πνεῦμα (1 Cor 12:4–11), (ii) that the one πνεῦμα is received at Baptism and is the constitutive basis of incorporation into Christ’s body (12:12–13) and (iii) that it is the animating and organizing energy of the ecclesial body (12:14–31). Accordingly, sharing in a single spirit is the metaphysical basis for Paul’s social claims regarding concord, mutual necessity and mutual regard. Though this is not an especially controversial point, it bears making because in this passage the focus on homonoia is directed towards these aims in a pointed way.146 That is, Paul is oriented towards unity, but the insistence on the spirit being one is more than a rhetorical device in service of that end. Rather, the oneness of the spirit constitutes the oneness of the community.147 There are more than passing similarities here with the Qumran designation of the community as a Yahad in 1QS (Serekh ha-Yahad) and the corresponding idea of divine unity (cf. Deut 6:4).148 There too the unity of God constitutes the unity of the community. Clint Tibbs has recently proposed an alternative view, specifically that the primary referent of the Pauline usage of πνεῦμα is to the ‘spirit world’ rather than to a singular 145. See Barrett, First Corinthians, 278; Collins, First Corinthians, 446; Thiselton, First Corinthians, 909; David E. Garland, 1 Corinthians (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2003), 558. 146. On homonoia, see Martin, Corinthian Body, 92–4; Mitchell, Rhetoric of Reconciliation. 147. Dunn is probably correct that Paul here addresses the congregational level (‘churches’ rather than ‘Church’), though the cosmological elements of his ecclesiology indicate that his underlying thought is wider in scope. See Dunn, Theology, 540–2. 148. On this relationship, see for example Stephen C. Barton, ‘The Unity of Humankind as a Theme in Biblical Theology’, in Out of Egypt: Biblical Theology and Biblical Interpretation, ed. Craig Bartholomew (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2004); Robert Hayward, ‘“The LORD Is One”: Reflections on the Theme of Unity in John’s Gospel from a Jewish Perspective’, in Early Jewish and Christian Monotheism, ed. Loren T. Stuckenbruck and Wendy E. S. North, JSNT Supplement Studies, vol. 263 (London: T.&T. Clark, 2004), 142–9; more recently, Andrew Byers, ‘The One Body of the Shema in 1 Corinthians: An Ecclesiology of Christological Monotheism’, NTS 62, no. 4 (2016); for a discussion of 1QS, see Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, 107–13.

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divine agent, maintaining this stance even in the case of the singular, articular usage (e.g. 1 Cor 12:4).149 The basis of his proposal is the claim that dogmatic concerns have been retrojected into the text by scholars, when historical study indicates that the idea of a single, good holy spirit is absent from extant early Jewish writings.150 Whilst Tibbs raises important issues, doing so with acuity, the difficulty with his proposal is the excluded middle term. It is true that interpreters ought to exercise historical sensitivity, as is also true of parallel discussions of early Christology.151 But observing the anachronism involved in reading back late patristic doctrines into the New Testament is a long way from demonstrating the scale of discontinuity suggested by Tibbs; nor does it exclude the possibilities of innovation or doctrinal development in the early church. In this regard, Jörg Frey’s recent discussion is more balanced.152 In any case, the absence of plural or anarthrous forms when describing the πνεῦμα as animating agency of the χαρίσματα, together with the repeated adjectival use of αὐτό (‘same’, 1 Cor 12:4–6, 8–10) and ἕν (‘one’, 9–10), suggests that Paul refers to the spirit as the ontologically singular basis for the charismatic activities in the congregation (12:11). This is confirmed when one looks ahead to verse 12, where the relationship between the body and its members is described in terms of the ‘one’ (ἕν)/‘many’ (πολλά) contrast and underpinned pneumatically (12:13). It is clear from verses 4–6 that the spirit stands in a correlative relationship with the Lord, who in turn stands in a correlative relationship with God. These verses are structured around the repetition of the following phrase: ‘There are varieties (δ ιαιρέσεις) of X, but/and (δέ/καί) the same (αὐτό/ς) N.’153 The contrast, both at the level of number and content, between plural διαιρέσεις and the singular αὐτό/ς, together with the coordinating effect of δέ/καί, indicates the unity of the origin of the gifts, orientation of the service and activation of the workings to which they refer. The closing expression of verse 6, ‘[God] the worker of all in all’, is unprecedented, given the ecclesial context. ‘All in all’ (τά πάντα ἐν πᾶσιν) occurs very rarely in the undisputed Pauline writings, only in 1 Cor 15:28 and in the

149. See the translation to this effect in Clint Tibbs, Religious Experience of the Pneuma: Communication with the Spirit World in 1 Corinthians 12 and 14, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2 Reihe, (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 279; also see Clint Tibbs, ‘The Spirit (World) and the (Holy) Spirits among the Earliest Christians: 1 Corinthians 12 and 14 as a Test Case’, CBQ 70, no. 2 (2008). 150. Tibbs, Religious Experience of the Pneuma, 72. 151. See my argument to this end regarding God and gender, Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 134–5. 152. Jörg Frey, ‘How Did the Spirit Become a Person?’, in The Holy Spirit, Inspiration, and the Cultures of Antiquity: Multidisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Jörg Frey and John R. Levison (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014). 153. I have followed Fee in rendering διαίρεσις as ‘varieties’. See Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, ed. Joel B. Green, New International Commentary on the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 586; Barrett’s reading of ‘distributions’ tends only to fit the first clause comfortably. See Barrett, First Corinthians, 281.

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present verse. Based upon the usage of τά πάντα elsewhere in the Pauline corpus, this expression belongs squarely in Paul’s cosmological register. This is the case in 1 Cor 15, where it is used to denote the scope of the Father’s rule at the handing over of the kingdom following Christ’s cosmic victory. However, as was seen above,154 Paul’s apocalyptic and sapiential ecclesiology is open to a cosmological reading. Indeed, the present verse arguably addresses the role of the spirit in the charismatic practices of the Corinthian congregation in terms that are redolent of what, for Paul, would be idealized cosmological language.155 This presents the church as a space in which, by means of the activity of the spirit, the harmonious relationship of the eschatological cosmos is anticipated and enacted congruently with the analysis of cultic space in the preceding chapter.156 First Corinthians 12:12–13 is a transitional section of the chapter. Here, the focus shifts away from demonstrating the relationship between the oneness of the πνεῦμα and the interrelationship of the χαρίσματα, towards exploring the relationship between the members of the community and the community itself. It is in this context that Paul introduces the somatic metaphor. The use of bodily imagery to signify communal interrelatedness, order and structure is one of the most recurrent features of human culture-making. It occurs in a disparate and mostly unconnected set of texts, which includes ancient Indian and Norse cosmogony, Stoicism and Graeco-Roman civic discourse (e.g. Ṛg Veda 10.90, Vaf þrúðnismál 21, Livy, Urb. cond. 2.32.7–12, Marcus Aurelius., Med. 7.13, Dio Chrysostom, Apam. 9, Admin. 3). Writing about the capacity of the body to sustain symbolic representations of the community, Mary Douglas notes: The human body is always treated as an image of society and that there can be no natural way of considering the body that does not involve at the same time a social dimension.157

In the Puruṣa-sūkta (Ṛg Veda 10.90), this is seen in the way in which the dismembered body of the cosmic man constitutes both the cosmos and also the ranks (varnas) of ancient Indian society. The most commonly cited Graeco-Roman example is Livy’s (Urb. cond. 2.32.7–12) famous account of the homonoia address by Agrippa Menenius to a group of striking plebeians.158 Likening the strike to the

154. See 3.2.1. 155. Barrett’s reading of ‘all things in all men’ is, thus, to be rejected. Barrett, First Corinthians, 281. 156. See 3.3.3. 157. Mary Douglas, Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 1996), 74. 158. See for example Michelle V. Lee, Paul, the Stoics, and the Body of Christ, Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 31; Garland, 1 Corinthians, 593–4; Thiselton, First Corinthians, 992–3; Collins, First Corinthians, 458–9; Martin, Corinthian Body, 268n15.

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limbs of a body declining to feed an apparently indolent belly but inadvertently starving themselves along with it, Agrippa’s speech sought to convince the plebs that the interests of all are advanced by the maintenance of the status quo. Because, in both cases, the purpose of the somatic metaphor is to cultivate the impression of the community as an organic rather than an agonistic group, the metaphor gives most leverage to socially conservative readings.159 As will be seen, Paul’s use is not entirely in keeping with this tendency. Paul’s deployment of the metaphor begins in 1 Cor 12:12 with a tightly argued description of the relationship between unity and plurality in a body. The expression ‘the body is one (ἕν) and has many (πολλά) members’ (12:12a) describes this relationship from the point of view of the collective, whereas the corresponding expression ‘and the bodily members, being many (πολλά), are one (ἕν) body’ (12:12b) has in focus the point of view of the constituent parts.160 The symmetry here is crucial to the normative force of the statements. On its own, the first statement could be understood as a quality that is capable of being differentially realized, some members being of greater social or pneumatic status and others being passed over or disregarded. The reverse formulation excludes this by indicating that it is as all of the members are regarded together that the true character of the Christ identity is corporately realized. Verse 13 develops this point (cf. καί γὰρ), though with some translation difficulties. The description of having been baptized ἐν ἑνὶ πνεύματι depends for its sense upon whether one takes ἐν to be locative (‘in one spirit’)161 or causal (‘by one spirit’),162 and this is uncertain.163 Alongside this, there is the possible reading of ἐ ποτίσθημεν in the final clause of the verse as either ‘we were watered’ or ‘we were given to drink’. Whilst ποτίζω is used in 1 Cor 3:6–8 to describe Apollos’s ministry to the Corinthians, including with likely baptismal overtones (cf. 1:12–17),164 the imagery here is different. Perhaps a stronger parallel is to be found in 1 Cor 10:1–4. There, the exodus is described in baptismal terms165 as ‘into (εἰς) Moses’ (10:2, cf. εἰς ἓν σῶμα, 12:13) and as ‘in (ἐν) the cloud and in (ἐν) the sea’ (10:2, cf. ἐν ἑνὶ πνεύματι, 12:13). The exodus allusions suggest a locative reading of ἐν, since the reading ‘baptized by the sea’ is patently absurd, and given that the similarities between these passages are unlikely to be coincidental, the locative reading ought to be understood here also. Likewise, 1 Cor 10:3–4 refers to the consumption of spiritual food and drink, and though the verbs for consumption used differ from

159. Dale Martin has also made this point. See Martin, Corinthian Body, 93–6. 160. On the body metaphor, see Lee, Paul, the Stoics, and the Body of Christ; Martin, Corinthian Body; also see Douglas, Natural Symbols, 69. 161. So, for example Collins, First Corinthians, 462; Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 212; Barrett, First Corinthians, 288. 162. So, for example Thiselton, First Corinthians; Moffatt, First Corinthians, 186. 163. See ἐν in BDAG; LSL; also see the discussion in Thiselton, First Corinthians, 997. 164. See Barrett, First Corinthians, 289. 165. Cf. the aor. pass. ind. of βαπτίζω in both 1 Cor 10:2 and 12:13.

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the present verse (ἐσθίω/πίνω, 10:3–4 cf. ποτίζω, 12:13), the narrative allusion is strong enough to suggest that ‘given to drink’ is the correct reading here, quite possibly with overtones of the Lord’s Supper. This locative understanding of Baptism coheres well with the spatial and cosmic understanding of the ecclesial community, and the pneumatic language suggests that the community functions as a repository or sphere of operation of the divine πνεῦμα. The model of baptismal initiation this implies is spatial and interpenetrative.166 The community as ideally representative cosmic space must be entered if its animating and organizing reality is to be shared. Entry into the community, in the form of Baptism, involves immersion in the spirit, and this achieves its completion when the spirit is imbibed. The image of this is somewhat convoluted, but it is helpful to think of it in terms of ancient notions of the permeability and porosity of bodies to elemental influences.167 In this case, the image of initiation involves the individual body of a Jesus devotee and the social/cosmic body of the church. Both are permeable, otherwise initiation would be impossible. As it is, the permeability of the social/cosmic body permits the baptisand ritually to enter the sphere of the spirit’s manifestation and, in turn, to experience his or her self permeated, possessed (and transformed) by the πνεῦμα. In terms of the way in which Paul understands this to involve the reorientation of the self, perhaps the most important point to note is that once again the text being examined incorporates elements of mindset construction, metaphysics/ ontology and embodied practice, with these being congruent with one another. Here, the mindset Paul seeks to foster among the congregation is unity and concord. This is given ontological footing by the assertion regarding the unity of the spirit and this is, in turn, locatively expressed using the metaphor of the community as Christ’s body. A good example of the consequences arising from this can be seen in the statement regarding the χαρίσματα being exercised πρὸς τὸ συμφέρον (‘for [mutual] advantage’, 1 Cor 12:7).168 At first glance, talk of ‘mutual advantage’ appears to place Paul in a less obviously radical position than in the other texts examined in this chapter. This impression is mistaken. It is true that the non-identical replication of Christ’s humility (Phil 2:6–7) and Paul’s incongruous advocacy of the slavery of love (Gal 5:13) suggest that his basic ethical move involves going beyond the ordinate recognition of the commonality of one’s own interests

166. I agree with Barrett here that there is little in the text to suggest that Paul has in mind anything except water baptism; see Barrett, First Corinthians, 289. 167. On the pores and the absorption of heat and moisture, see Clement of Alexandria, Paed. 3.9; on the materially penetrative capacity of the πνεῦμα, see Tertullian, Bapt. 4.5-4.9 (ANF 3:670–1). For a discussion of the latter text, see 6.3.2. 168. On the mutuality of τὸ συμφέρον, see Thiselton, First Corinthians, 936; Mitchell, Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 146; Kei Eun Chang, The Community, the Individual and the Common Good: τὸ ἴδιον and τὸ συμφέρον in the Greco-Roman World and Paul, LNTS (London: Bloomsbury T.&T. Clark, 2013), 135–206; Martin, Corinthian Body, 94.

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and those of other members of the community. This, however, is not some postKantian altruism, since Paul is keenly aware that these moves are made with the anticipation that those who serve Christ will share his glory. Moreover, these are stances Paul commends to entire social groups, presumably with the expectation that all members, regardless of their individual state of life, will replicate them in their own practice.169 The likely de-stratifying effects of this can begin to be seen in 1 Cor 12:21– 26. We have already noted the tendency of the somatic metaphor to serve the interests of the status quo, or more precisely those whose interests are served by the status quo. According to this, there is nothing inconsistent about the idea of mutual identification and solidarity across status difference. A relationship may be asymmetric in regard to some quality (e.g. honour, benefactions), but that does not thereby render it non-reciprocal. Hence Paul’s flat denial of the stance he attributes to the ‘eye’ or the ‘head’ vis-à-vis the ‘hand’ or ‘feet’: χρείαν σου/ὑμῶν οὐκ ἔχω (‘I have no need of you’, 1 Cor 12:21). All the members, of whatever status, need one another. Yet, according ‘greater honour’ to those regarded as ‘less esteemed’ (ἀτιμότερα, 12:23) is less a sign of mutual need or reciprocity as it is a sign that, in a community where everyone non-identically replicates the kenotic practice of Christ, all are to be regarded as being in the position of giving benefaction to another. 4.3.4 Section Summary This section of the present chapter has explored the congruence between the metaphysical ideas discussed previously and the patterns of life that Paul espouses by means of three texts: Phil 2:5–11; Gal 5:13–26 and 1 Cor 12:4–13. In the case of Philippians, cosmic elevation (Phil 2:9–11; cf. 1 Cor 6:2–3, 15:45–49) was situated in the context of a narrative that commences with Christ’s embodied refusal of ἁρπαγμός (Phil 2:6). This indicates the dialectic of humility (2:8) and exaltation to be central to Paul’s understanding of the normative consequences of Christ’s work. The upshot of this is that present participation in Christ’s sufferings is related to future participation in his glory. This relates to some of his baptismal ideas (e.g. Rom 6:1–5) and is directed towards consolidating the community in the face of external opposition (Phil 1:27–29, 2:14–15). The Galatians passage explored the interplay of freedom and the animating agency of the πνεῦμα (Gal 5:13–26). This demonstrated that liberation from cosmic subjection is not entry into an abstract freedom, but rather initiates entry into a definite form of life, christiform service, which the πνεῦμα activates and energizes. Finally, the 1 Corinthians passage considered the cultivation of a mindset of unity and mutual concord in the light of participation in the spirit, and entry into the one body.

169. Barclay, ‘Benefiting Others and Benefit to Oneself ’, 119.

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4.4 Conclusion In terms of the aims of this chapter, the first major section explored some of the ideas germane to a Pauline ‘style of life’. This involved a discussion of some of the work of Geertz, Wittgenstein and Bourdieu in this area, particularly in relation to the issue of congruence between the practices, values, norms and mindsets of a community and its underlying view of the world. There was also the significant question of the relationship of theology and ethos in Pauline ethics. This has been a nodal question for Pauline scholarship since before the work of Rudolf Bultmann, with the mutual entailment of indicative and imperative being now a wellestablished option within the field. There was also a discussion of the significance of narrative for understanding Paul and particularly for some of the ways in which he cultivates apocalyptic and eschatological mindsets in his congregations. The second main division of the chapter further explored these issues in relation to three Pauline texts, Phil 2:5–11; Gal 5:13–26 and 1 Cor 12:4–13. In each case, examination of the passage demonstrated elements of congruence with the discussions of Paul’s ordering of the world in previous chapters. The first of these texts revealed a sophisticated narrative interweaving of divine condescension, christological suffering/humiliation and the consequent experience of human glorification, namely cosmological elevation. This narrative provided a theologically thick counterpoint to those texts discussed in relation to eschatological elevation in the previous chapter. Moreover, the discussion indicated that a key element of Paul’s distinctive form of life is the non-identical replication of Christ’s mindset and narrative. In short, suffering and glorification were presented as dialectically and sequentially arranged in the life of a Jesus devotee, with the former occurring in anticipation of the latter. The Galatians text also alludes to the pattern of Christ’s life as normative for Jesus devotees. Here, the emphasis is upon the free re-performance of Christ’s servanthood in the context of the community (Gal 5:13) and upon the capacity of the πνεῦμα to do what the law could not, namely to reconstitute the obedient self such that the fleshly passions might be aptly dealt with (5:24–25). By freedom, Paul has in mind the liberation from cosmic minority in Gal 4:1–10. The text from 1 Cor 12 builds on this still further. The focus in this passage is upon the corporate nature of the Jesus movement form of life. That is to say, one can imagine framing other-directed activity as interaction between individuals, whereas here the focus is upon the acquisition of an aptly communal identity underpinned by the oneness of the πνεῦμα. The recentring of the self is an important aspect of all three of these passages, though in different ways. Recentring does not occur by means of reorientation towards the other-as-peer, but rather occurs by means of a primary reorientation towards Christ-as-Lord. This resembles Troels Engberg-Pedersen’s now famous I→X→S model for both Stoic and Pauline moral thought. Pedersen proposes that as individuals (I) perceive themselves to be identified with a transcendent reality

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(X), they acquire a new capacity to be oriented towards the group (S).170 However, it would be possible to overplay the continuity between Stoicism and the Jesus movement using this model. For Paul, the reorienting aspects of Christ’s activity are to be found pre-eminently in a person rather than a principle. This is not οἰκείωσις by means of rational reflection upon the nature of things, but mimesis of one whose own condescension and altruistic orientation is the example for his devotees. As such, the Christically identified self becomes at a practical level the Christ-imitating self and it is this that forms the recentred self. Whether this is construed in terms of the relinquishment of covenantal prerogatives (Phil 3:4–6), of ministerial hardships (cf. 1 Cor 9), of mutual slavery (Gal 5:13) or of honouring the dishonoured (1 Cor 12:22–23), the elevation that accompanies identification with Christ and freedom from the στοιχεῖα is the basis for the other-directed activity that results. Having now explored some of the salient elements of Paul’s notion of the ordering of the world, and related these to a non-exhaustive discussion of significant elements of his style of life, the volume now turns to the third element of Geertz’s model of religion, namely symbol. The chapter which follows will do this by means of a consideration of the Lord’s Supper in 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 11:17–34.

170. Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics, 34–7.

Chapter 5 ‘RELIGIOUS SYMBOLS’: PAUL AND RITUAL ORDER

5.1 Introduction The previous two chapters have set the scene for the present discussion of 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 11:17–34 by exploring aspects of Paul’s understanding of cosmic order1 and some of the ways in which he cultivates a distinctive Jesus movement form of life in his congregations.2 The aim of this analysis was to construct a theological framework using Clifford Geertz’s systemic analysis of religion. According to this, metaphysical ideas are sustained in a dialectic with concrete forms of life by means of religious symbols.3 Since, for Geertz, the elements of a world view tend towards congruence with one another, the interrelationship between Paul’s cosmology, ecclesiology and form of life ought to provide a relatively rich context in which to situate discussions of symbolic significance of the ritual meal. To this end, the chapter is organized into three sections: The first explores the role of symbols in Geertz’s account of religion, and discusses some ways in which this bears upon the present topic; the second and third offer a translation, commentary and discussion of relevant passages, before presenting some concluding observations. The aim is to illustrate how this mode of reading Paul might be useful for understanding not only his immediate objectives but also how he informs the tradition that follows. This sets the scene for the case study in the next chapter.

5.2 Issues and Themes 5.2.1 Geertz, Langer and Sacred Symbols Sacred symbols function to synthesize a people’s ethos – the tone, character, and quality of their life, its moral and aesthetic style and mood – and their world

1. See Chapter 3. 2. See Chapter 4. 3. Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 87–125.

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view – the picture they have of the way things in sheer actuality are, their most comprehensive ideas of order.4 I use ‘symbol’ broadly in the sense of any physical, social, or cultural act or object that serves as the vehicle for a conception.5

The preceding quotations both illustrate the significance of symbols to Clifford Geertz’s theory of culture and hint at its philosophical genealogy in the work of Susanne Langer. The aim here is to offer a brief examination of these ideas. For Geertz, all of the conceptual and praxic richness of a culture is funnelled through its symbols. Indeed, the integration of these other aspects of cultural activity is one of their main purposes. Geertz understood the symbols deployed by a culture or religion to be the substance of that culture, its deepest expression of identity, the representation of its highest values and its organizing centre.6 Symbols are the silk threads out of which are formed ‘the webs of significance’ of which Geertz regards culture and religion to be comprised.7 Crucially, they are expressed by means of rituals, which connect the public meaning of the symbol with its anticipated psychological correlate: mindset. As such, the ritual performance of the symbol serves to sustain the overall cogency of the world view, perhaps especially during periods of chaos, contestation or absurdity. Its performance accomplishes this by generating ‘such an aura of factuality that … the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic’.8 This process of cognitive and affective alignment between a devotee and a world view also disposes him or her towards congruent social ends. By way of further elaboration, it is necessary to consider Geertz’s similarities to and differences from Susanne Langer. He alludes to Langer at various points in his work, and is most deeply indebted to her discussion of signs and symbols. In her volume, Philosophy in a New Key, she advances the work of Peirce and Cassirer by proposing the following semiotic taxonomy. Signs, whether natural or artificial, are indices of the presence of a thing, the occurrence of an event or existence of a state of affairs, but they accomplish little more than this. The examples she offers include wet pavements as a sign of rain, smoke as a sign of fire and a train’s whistle signalling departure. Such signs announce the presence or absence of their designate and correspond to it on a simple, that is one-to-one, basis.9 By contrast, symbols represent a level of abstractability from signs in that they announce not objects, but concepts. Hence, to utter a name is not to announce the presence of the

4. Ibid., 89. 5. Geertz, ‘Ideology as a Cultural System’, 208n19. Italics added. 6. Geertz, ‘Ethos, World-View and the Analysis of Sacred Symbols’, 424. 7. Geertz, ‘Thick Description’, 5. 8. Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 90. 9. Susanne K. Langer, Philosophy in a New Key: A Study in the Symbolism of Reason, Rite, and Art (New York: Penguin Books, 1948), 45–7.

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owner of that name, but rather to invoke their ‘concept’.10 This has two implications. Firstly, it suggests an additional moment of abstraction, in that the invocation of a concept requires the corresponding evocation of a ‘conception’, that is the mental re-presentation of the concept within the mind(s) of the subject(s).11 Secondly, it renders the relationship between symbol and conception less immediate than that between a sign and its object. Langer understood symbols to divide into various types.12 Discursive symbols (e.g. words, narratives) are experienced diachronically, whereas presentational symbols (e.g. images) are experienced synchronically.13 For Langer, this means that presentational symbols are unrestricted by the limits of memory, since their content is appropriated wholistically. It is unclear if this difference, though certainly one of kind, entails any difference of degree. Texts are experienced diachronically rather than seen whole; indeed, this renders most of them non-commutative, since narratives have a direction. Yet this is hardly a deficiency in their symbolic potential; take, for instance, the non-reversible sequence of humiliation-thenexaltation in Phil 2:5–11. Lastly, there are sacramental symbols. For Langer, the most fundamental and powerful of our conceptions are those to which we attribute the greatest significance. The ritual realization of these by means of the performance of their symbols can be a lightning rod for the management of what would otherwise be a disturbing level of semiotic power. However, in being handled thusly, these events are transformed. They are no longer spontaneous, but are mimetic, gestured and representational, namely choreographic.14 This bears upon the present discussion, which concerns the transformation of quotidian experiences into ritual performances bearing cosmic significance.15 It is beyond the remit here to offer a full evaluation of Langer’s work, since she is only germane insofar as she illuminates elements of Geertz, and Geertz only as a heuristic framework for understanding Paul. Yet echoes of her work are discernible in Geertz’s analysis of the various definitions of symbol: In some hands [symbol] is used for anything which signifies something else to someone: dark clouds are the symbolic precursors of an oncoming rain. In others it is used only for explicitly conventional signs of one sort or another: a red flag is a symbol of danger, a white of surrender. In others it is confined to something which expresses in an oblique and figurative manner that which cannot be stated

10. Langer, Philosophy in a New Key, 48. There is, of course, an interesting side question regarding the divine name in the biblical tradition, which at various levels does not fit this model. 11. Ibid., 58. 12. See further Thomas A. Sebeok, Signs: An Introduction to Semiotics, 2nd ed., Toronto Studies in Semiotics and Communication (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001). 13. Langer, Philosophy in a New Key, 75. 14. Ibid., 123–4. 15. Ibid., 130; also see Turley, The Ritualized Revelation of the Messianic Age.

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in a direct and literal one, so that there are symbols in poetry but not in science, and symbolic logic is misnamed. In yet others, however, it is used for any object, act, event, quality, or relation which serves as a vehicle for a conception – the conception is the symbol’s ‘meaning’ – and that is the approach I shall follow here.16

Though some of these descriptions correspond more with Langer’s definition of sign, Geertz’s final definition is redolent of her understanding of symbol. In eliding the symbolic and the conceptual, Geertz, like Langer, imagines the following semiotic sequence: [Subject]→Symbol→Conception→[Object]. However, the nomenclature of ‘conception’ is a difficulty attached to this. As noted above, Langer deploys ‘conception’ as the interior complement to the public, communally mediated ‘concept’. For her, symbols have a private and a public signification, a stance that Geertz apparently eschews. He asserts that symbolic forms, hence the conceptions of which they are vehicles, are ‘events … as public as marriage and as observable as agriculture’.17 This reticence regarding the idea of private signification is redolent of another of his influences, Wittgenstein, whose scepticism regarding the possibility of private language is well known (cf. PI §§256–76). Indeed, this tendency to regard signification as explicit, communal and conventional is common to most post-Wittgensteinian semiotic theories.18 In the end, as Stephen Bush has noted, this represents a persistent tension in Geertz’s work.19 Another important observation to make regarding Geertz’s account of symbol is that he is less concerned with unpicking the aetiology, force, direction and so on of a ritual than he is with elucidating its meaning as it is deployed in its context. That is, he treats culture as ‘an acted document’;20 the script consists of symbols, but it is the meaning of the script and not the symbol per se that concerns Geertz. The script metaphor is useful in that when a text is performed, its meaning is connected with the artefact of the script and not just with the creativity of individual performers. As such, the meaning of a cultural symbol is cultural; its significance derives not from individual creative imagination, volition or self-assertion. Rather, there are constitutive rules that shape the communal language of ritual exchange. Note, however, that this is not to reify the script, since it remains subject to interpretation.21

16. Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 91. Italics added. 17. Ibid. 18. See for example John R. Searle, Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), 54–71; also Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity, 113–15. 19. See the fine discussion in Stephen S. Bush, Visions of Religion: Experience, Meaning, and Power, Reflection and Theory in the Study of Religion (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 95–8. 20. Geertz, ‘Thick Description’, 10. 21. On the performance analogy for hermeneutical activity, see Stephen C. Barton, ‘New Testament Interpretation as Performance’, in Life Together: Family, Sexuality and Community in the New Testament Today (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 2001).

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This discussion illustrates the nodal significance of symbols for Geertz in ordering and synchronizing cognitions regarding reality with congruent sets of behavioural dispositions, both enduring and transient. That it is the meaning of the symbol that provides the group that performs it with much of this integrating power attests to a further element of his account of religion. Religious symbols offer mechanisms for coping with the limits of the ordering of social reality, whether those limit conditions are chaotic, absurd or sublime. Essentially, if ritual is centred upon semiotic activity, what cannot be signified is eo ipso deeply disturbing. As Geertz notes, what we are ‘least able to tolerate is a threat to our powers of conception’.22 He discusses three specific limit situations, though there is no reason why this must be an exhaustive list. Firstly, there are explanatory or analytic failures, which call into question the adequacy of the world-view model.23 Then there are experiences of suffering, which entail that the sufferer be sustained in an experience of otherwise unnameable discomfort.24 Finally, there is the absurdity of evil, which dislocates the relationship between act and moral consequence.25 Each condition threatens to render the entire system unintelligible, with the purpose of religious symbols (cf. Langer’s sacramental symbols) being to sustain the semblance of systemic rationality by managing the negative experience. This is effected by ritual, which cultivates a mood of ultimacy and reality and attaches this to the conception denoted by the symbol. 5.2.2 Baptism and Lord’s Supper as Sacred Symbols In terms of the significance of this for Paul, the idea of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper as symbols encapsulates their roles vis-à-vis the web of connections between Pauline cosmology and form of life alluded to in previous chapters. So, for example, the symbol of Baptism is concurrent with the reception of the divine πνεῦμα, along with liberation from the στοιχεῖα (Gal 4:1–10) and somatic incorporation into the cultic space of the eschatological community (1 Cor 3:16), in anticipation of future exaltation (1 Cor 6:2–3 and 15:45–49). Yet Baptism is also narratively evocative: one puts on Christ in the ritual (Gal 3:27), which is more than a participatory motif; it involves the adoption of a practice of nonidentical repetition of Christ’s own pattern of behaviour and mindset (Phil 2:5– 11). Paradoxically, this practice of the slavery of love for the other (Gal 5:13) is the epitome of metaphysically free action, and thus is the basis of genuine christiform obedience. Corporately, this involves the recognition of pneumatic solidarity with other baptized persons and the cultivation of affects that incline devotees towards homonoia (1 Cor 12:4–13). In short, this action, which is essentially a transformed initiatory ablution, manages the movement of devotees from ὁ κόσμος οὗτος

22. 23. 24. 25.

Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 99. Ibid., 100–2. Ibid., 103–5. Ibid., 105–7.

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(1  Cor 7:31) to καινὴ κτίσις (2 Cor 5:17), whilst simultaneously cultivating a mindset that inclines them towards the practices that replicate a pattern of life characteristic of the New Creation. Regarding the publicly scripted aspect of Geertzian symbols, the discussions of bodies and boundaries in 1 Corinthians are instructive. So, for example, the cultic and metaphysical incongruity of Christ devotees engaging in sexual liaisons with prostitutes (1 Cor 6:15) has already been mentioned,26 as has the fact that individual bodies and the ecclesial body are representative of one another.27 These points together would be sufficient to indicate the impropriety, hence danger, of boundary violation. However, Paul’s response to his interlocutors indicates that the distance between them and Paul is symbolic in character, for the rival statements of somatic teleology in 1 Cor 6:13 (οὐ τῇ πορνείᾳ ἀλλὰ τῷ κυρίῳ) are nothing if not rival interpretations of the meaning of the body. As such, the disagreement between Paul and his interlocutors is not simply metaphysical (‘how are bodies united?’), nor is it simply ethical/cultic (‘with what is it licit to unite the body?’); it is semiotic. This disagreement regarding the exercise of freedom (6:12) concerns the meaning of baptized bodies (1 Cor 6:15). This begs the question of who determines the meaning and thus the parameters of use of bodies. A Geertzian understanding that the meaning of a symbol is a public matter is helpful here. For Paul, the Corinthian strong lack the prerogative of determining idiosyncratic meanings for their own bodies, since the symbol of Baptism has already ascribed somatic meaning publicly. His assertions that his interlocutors are ‘united with the Lord’ (6:17), have become a ‘sanctuary of the Holy Spirit’ (6:19) and have been ‘bought at a price’ (6:20) are reminders of key elements of what for Paul is Baptism’s scripted meaning (holiness) and they aim to cultivate dispositions congruent with it. 5.2.3 The Communication and Contestation of Symbols Despite Geertz’s assertions regarding the public, rather than private, character of religious symbols, it is far from clear that this serves to effect consensus. Symbols can be contested. This was evident in the example above regarding the meaning of the body. In the sense of Baptism being the common Jesus movement experience (cf. Gal 3:27–28, 1 Cor 12:13), one might argue that the Corinthians have already subscribed to a commonly scripted meaning, regardless of whether they are fully aware of the script. However, to leave the discussion there would be to neglect the complexities attached to the processes by which symbols are communicated. Even if their stance is only unintentionally incongruent with Paul’s own, namely that they draw from Paul’s initial teaching conclusions that he would reject, it is unlikely that the beliefs and practices of Paul’s interlocutors reflect a thoroughgoing internalization and accommodation of his teaching. Apart from

26. See 3.3.3. 27. See 4.3.3.

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any other consideration, 1 Corinthians would be a shorter and duller epistle had this occurred. It may be that some of the difficulties derive from the Corinthians having assimilated some of Paul’s ideas to fit with existing norms.28 This is plausible in the case of some of the popular philosophical maxims of which the Corinthian strong are fond.29 It is not imaginatively taxing to picture some of their sloganeering with regard to status (cf. 1 Cor 4:8), freedom (6:12, 10:23), pneumatic wisdom (2:16, 7:40) and the recognition of the nature of things (8:4) as receptions of similar Stoic-like (cf. Diog. Laert. 7.122–25) elements of Paul’s teaching regarding the elevating quality of the spirit’s activity, though without the concomitant Pauline emphasis upon Christ-like self-sacrifice.30 Indeed, it would be unusual if this sort of communication misfire did not occasionally occur, especially in socially innovative groups. This is to develop Langer’s point regarding the abstraction involved in symbolic expression and the consequent openness this implies at the level of performance.31 Certain bodily experiences such as bathing, dining and coitus are so fundamental to individual and collective existence that their necessity and ubiquity give them vast symbolic potential.32 Paradoxically, this also leaves them open to all sorts of competing meanings, hence, the apparent divergence within the Corinthian congregation between those who regard the sexual behaviour criticized in 1 Cor 5 as something worthy of ‘boasting’ (καύχημα 5:6) and those who wrote to Paul to commend sexual abstinence (cf. 7:1). These stances could be regarded as rival enactments of the idea of freedom, worked out in relation to the symbol of the body in regard to the embodied practice of coitus: the one enactment involving liberation from restraint,33 the other, liberation from undisciplined desire.34

28. I use the terms ‘accommodation’ and ‘assimilation’ here without implying any particular cognitive theory. The point is to distinguish between understanding something in terms of knowledge already acquired (assimilation) and integrating new and existing data into a revised model (accommodation). 29. On the slogans, see Witherington, Conflict and Community, 167. 30. On this contrast see, Terence Paige, ‘Stoicism, ‘Ελευθερία and Community at Corinth’, in Christianity at Corinth: The Quest for the Pauline Church, ed. Edward Adams and David G. Horrell (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 215–18. 31. Langer, Philosophy in a New Key, 58. 32. Douglas, Natural Symbols, 74. 33. Thiselton’s rendering of πεφυσιωμένοι as ‘you remain complacent’ and καύχημα as ‘self-satisfaction’ underplays the sense in which this action is regarded by some as an occasion for pride. See Thiselton, First Corinthians, 384. 34. On abstinence and pneumatic status, especially among women, see Margaret Y. MacDonald, ‘Women Holy in Body and Spirit: The Social Setting of 1 Corinthians 7’, in Christianity at Corinth: The Quest for the Pauline Church, ed. Edward Adams and David G. Horrell (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004); Antoinette Clark Wire, The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruction Through Paul’s Rhetoric (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990).

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A similar logic applies to the discussion of meal practices. Mealtime rituals are ubiquitous, yet socially specific. Dining is not simply eating, and cult-dining is not simply dining. As an event, a meal is not spontaneous but is scripted; its prescribed behaviours have been ritualized as gestures. As various studies have shown, meals are able symbolically to reify and to circumscribe the relationships of diners with one another, with God/the gods, with the wider community, with patrons, with subordinates, with the departed and so on.35 Meals thus form and perform the character and purposes of the social group that consumes them. Accordingly, when a group dines, it imbibes its own narratives and norms, its own local and universal history, whether it is egalitarian or stratified, integrated or segregated. Yet the meal is also the medium for the group’s expression of these narratives, histories and relationships.36 It follows, therefore, that there are potentially as many rival meanings for a meal as there are alternative accounts of the history, narratives and ends according to which a community directs and organizes itself. Accordingly, the capacity of a meal to be a site of semiotic discord between groups within a community is substantial. Part of the difficulty is that people are not always aware of the rival meanings they perform.37 The repeated nature of dining constitutes a meal symbol as gestured yet habitual, and habitual meanings are not always publicly espoused, though they are always present. In terms of the relevance of this for 1 Corinthians, the reference to the συνήθεια (‘habituation’ 1 Cor 8:7)38 by which the weak are incapable of consuming ‘idol foods’ without defiling their conscience represents an acknowledgement of the tensions involved in bringing to the surface some of these habitual meanings. In this case, it exposes the relevance of pre-Jesus-conversion habitus for post-conversion practice.39 Though the weak here may well be gentiles, συνήθεια to the idol could also apply to Jews anxious about contact with the taint of idolatry. The symbolic potency of taboos has long been known, and it is also quite possible to be habituated to these! Regarding the meal rituals referred to in 1 Cor 10 and 11, a key consideration in the literature relates to the way in which Graeco-Roman dining symbolically enacted stratified and agonistic patterns of organization. Both Martial (Epig.

35. See variously, Dennis E. Smith and Hal Taussig, Meals in the Early Christian World: Social Formation, Experimentation, and Conflict at the Table (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012); Taussig, In the Beginning Was the Meal, 68–85; Crossan, The Historical Jesus, 361; Stephen C. Barton, ‘Paul’s Sense of Place: An Anthropological Approach to Community Formation in Corinth’, NTS 32 (1986): 235–7. 36. On this point, see the useful discussion in Jerome H. Neyrey, ‘Ceremonies in LukeActs: The Case of Meals and Table Fellowship’, in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, ed. Jerome H. Neyrey (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1991), 363. 37. See for example Mary Douglas, Implicit Meanings: Essays in Anthropology (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975). 38. See the relevant definition in LSL. 39. See the comment in Thiselton, First Corinthians, 639–40; Collins, First Corinthians, 324; on habitus, see Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice.

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3.60) and Juvenal (Sat. 5) attest to the unequal dining experience in patron-client dinners.40 Martial’s hilarious, yet withering, comment that Ponticus, his host, enjoys the fattened rump of a turtle dove, whilst he must make do with ‘a magpie that died in its cage’ (Epig. 3.60.8) attests to dining practices as vehicles for the reification of status within relationships (cf. §3.60.9). By way of a brief comment, Martial’s insistence that his host and his guests should ‘eat the same’ (edamus idem §3.60.10) is not an especially radical critique of this practice. Rather, it occurs in the context of the abolition of the patronal sportula (‘dole’) at dinners (cf. Epig. 3.7).41 Consequently, his objection seems to be that the cessation of the sportula ought to be compensated for with a corresponding improvement in fare. That said, Juvenal’s discussion of the issue seems much more abhorrent of the underlying social order symbolized by this practice (cf. esp. Sat. 5.120–45). David Horrell and Peter Lampe are correct to point out that social stratification symbolized by means of differences in the quality of food is not the only explanation of difficulties associated with the practice of the Lord’s Supper when viewed against the backdrop of ancient dining norms.42 They point to the architecture of a Graeco-Roman banquet, observing that the tripartite arrangement of a first course, a second course and a drinks party presents ample opportunity for the wealthier members of the congregation to adapt the form so as to eat their fill in the absence of poorer members, who were perhaps unable to arrive in time. Moreover, if this earlier course was brought by individual attendees rather than provided by the host, poorer members would have been of insufficient means to bring food of decent quality or quantity. The effect would have been to consign those of lower social status to doing without. Whatever the specific occasion for the passage, it is evident that there is scope for various types of interaction and interference between what Paul understands to be the symbolic significance of the Jesus meal under ideal circumstances and his understanding of what he believes to be the ways in which the Corinthians deviate from this script. As has been seen, this semiotic gap may be due to misunderstanding or miscommunication or it may be the result of other causes. Certainly, there is enough evidence from Graeco-Roman parallels to suggest social stratification as a viable explanation. However, we also note that Stephen Barton’s and Greg Horsley’s examination of the Philadelphian oikos cult indicates that less stratified arrangements are not unknown in other forms of association

40. These examples are widely cited; see for example Coutsoumpos, Paul and the Lord’s Supper, 48; Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence; Witherington, Conflict and Community; Theissen, Social Setting. 41. This occurred under Domitian. See for example George W. M. Harrison, ‘Martial on Sportula and the Saturnalia’, Mouseion, Series III 1, no. 2 (2001): 300–01. 42. See Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence, 103–5; Peter Lampe, ‘Das korinthische Herrenmahl im Schnittpunkt hellenistisch-römischer Mahlpraxis und paulischer Theologia Crucis (1Kor 11,17-34)’, ZNW 82, no. 3–4 (1991): 187.

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dining, even when a group patron is identifiable.43 On the part of those in whose interests social stratification operated, one might imagine a degree of complacent, even naïve, expectation that this form of inequity reflects a natural social order. However, Juvenal’s and Martial’s satirical comments would suggest that those on the receiving end of such behaviours are unlikely to be habituated as comfortably. Add to this that meals involving meat would probably involve produce from the μάκελλον (‘meat market’ 1 Cor 10:25), with this hardly being free of the taint of idol cult, and we see that socioeconomic and cultic habituations may both be at play. The point here is to demonstrate some of the symbolic interactions that could underlie the crisis over the Lord’s Supper, though without offering a final resolution. Rather, it is to observe that Paul’s discussion of the Lord’s Supper assumes some form of symbolic disruption has occurred. To be sure, the text offers clues regarding this disruption – the σχίσματα/αἱρέσεις in 1 Cor 11:18–19, the reference to ἴδιον δεῖπνον in verse 21 and the instruction to ‘wait for one another’ (ἀλλήλους ἐκδέχεσθε) in verse 33. However, it remains necessary to generalize from available parallels what may be the actual matter at hand, and this process is, by definition, uncertain. So, for example, the reference to eating one’s ‘own supper’ (ἴδιον δεῖπνον, 1 Cor 11:21) negatively contrasts with eating the ‘Lord’s Supper’ (κυριακὸν δεῖπνον 11:20), but is the problem one of the violation of the ethos of a communal shared meal tradition,44 or one of sequence, freedom and social status,45 or one of differential quality of fare?46 Certainty is elusive, though one wonders whether certainty is, in fact, required in order to discern the salient features of Paul’s argument. Inter alia, this serves to highlight that 1 Cor 11:17–34 is not primarily teaching but correction, specifically correction of what Paul understands as invalid enactments of his initial teaching regarding the Lord’s Supper. As such, neither 1 Cor 10:15–22 nor 11:17–34 are dispassionate answers to the question ‘what is the significance of the Lord’s Supper?’ The terms Paul uses may not be those he might otherwise have chosen, since he engages here on terrain determined by his interlocutors’ behaviour. Though we would be on solid ground to suppose that the reification of social inequity is incongruent with the Jesus meal in 1 Corinthians, since Paul says as much (1 Cor 11:17–22), we need not suppose that his view of the Supper is organized around socioeconomic concerns per se. Compare, the discussion in 1 Cor 10:15–22. There, Paul contrasts κοινωνία (‘fellowship/partnership’, 10:16) in Christ’s body and blood and in the ecclesial

43. Barton and Horsley, ‘A Hellenistic Cult Group and the New Testament Churches’. Also see the debate regarding different forms of social relation reified by patterns of commensality in 5.4.1. 44. John Dominic Crossan, The Birth of Christianity: Discovering What Happened in the Years Immediately after the Execution of Jesus (Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1998), 424–35. 45. Lampe, ‘Das korinthische Herrenmahl’, 192. 46. Theissen, Social Setting, 153–63.

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body (10:17), with the idea that ‘to participate in’ (μετέχειν, 10:21) the table of a demon is tantamount to being κοινωνοί (‘fellows/partners’, 10:20) with the demonic patron of the cult.47 Of course, here too Paul’s terms are shaped by the situation he addresses and nothing excludes there being a socioeconomic aspect to this argument – indeed, economics bear upon any discussion of the consumption of meat in the ancient world. Nonetheless, in 1 Cor 10 the primary distinction Paul constructs is between the Supper and meals implicated in Graeco-Roman cult.48 This invites consideration of a more comprehensive frame of reference for the Supper than socioeconomic realities alone, hence, the present chapter’s focus upon both passages. 5.2.4 Section Summary This section has set the scene for the discussion that follows by exploring symbol in the work of Clifford Geertz. The aim has been to explore the idea of symbols as integrating realities and to demonstrate some of the contours of Geertz’s account of them. It was seen that the notion of symbol is useful for parsing some of the controversies regarding the body in 1 Corinthians, not least because it assists in clarifying how the same symbol might inform divergent sets of practices. This invites consideration of the ways in which a symbolic analysis of Pauline writings might be complicated by various factors associated with the symbolic communication. Part of the issue may be misunderstanding, or it could be the polyvalence of certain forms of expression. In terms of the κυριακὸν δεῖπνον, it will likely involve interaction between the meaning Paul seeks to inculcate and the symbolic function of mealtimes and cult-dining in the past experience of members of the congregation. As such, neither 1 Cor 10:15–22 nor 11:17–34 ought to be read as idealized descriptions of Paul’s initial teaching regarding the meal, but as witnesses to what happens when rival accounts of a symbol, and consequently rival identities, collide. The argument which follows builds upon this discussion by examining two passages that address the Lord’s Supper: 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 11:17–34.

5.3 Texts: 1 Cor 10:14–22, Translation and Comment 5.3.1 Preliminary Observations For this reason, my beloved, flee from idol-worship. (1 Cor 10:14)

47. See for example Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians, 390–5; Thiselton, First Corinthians, 750– 78; Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 172–4. 48. See for example the excellent discussion in Jens Schröter, ‘Die Funktion der Herrenmahlsüberlieferungen im 1. Korintherbrief ’, ZNW 100, no. 1 (2009): 83–5.

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Any adequate discussion of the Corinthians and idol worship in 1 Cor 10:14–22 entails some consideration of the argument in verses 1–13, not least because the opening conjunction (διόπερ, 10:14) draws attention to the preceding argument as the basis for what follows. The preceding argument seeks to establish a correspondence between Corinthians and the Israelites of the exodus and wilderness generation. Paul’s aim is to show that since Israel and the Corinthians share analogous prerogatives (10:1–4), analogous misdemeanours (10:7–10) will provoke analogous consequences (cf. 1 Cor 10:22, 11:30). The chapter begins with allusions to the main soteriological events in the exodus and wilderness narratives: the pillar of cloud (1 Cor 10:1, cf. Exod 13:21), the crossing of the sea (cf. Exod 14:21), the manna incident (1 Cor 10:2–3, cf. Exod 16:1–18) and the giving of water from the rock (Exod 17:6). These allusions establish a correspondence between the privileges of the Corinthians and those of Israel, and this is signalled by the reference to ‘our fathers’ (οἱ πατέρες ἡμῶν, 1 Cor 10:1). However, the bulk of the passage emphasizes Israel’s infidelity: the Golden Calf crisis (1 Cor 10:7, cf. Exod 32:6 LXX);49 the incident at Peor (1 Cor 10:8, cf. Num 25:1–9);50 the plague of serpents (1 Cor 10:9, cf. Num 21:4–9)51 and a nonspecific reference to grumblers dying at the hands of the ‘destroyer’ (ὀλοθρευτής 1 Cor 10:10).52 It is noteworthy that the prerogatives of the wilderness generation are described in terms of retrojected Jesus movement ritual terminology. This includes both the references to Baptism ‘into Moses’ (εἰς τὸν Μωϋσῆν ἐβαπτίσθησαν, 1 Cor 10:2) and to consuming ‘spiritual food’ (πνευματικὸν βρῶμα, 10:3) and ‘spiritual drink’ (πνευματικὸν πόμα, 10:4). There are traditions that understood Israel to have received proselyte Baptism prior to receiving Torah, and expressions of quasiparticipative Moses piety in certain texts (e.g. 1 En. 89:36–38). However, nowhere

49. 1 Cor 10:7 is a direct quotation of the LXX of Exod 32:6. See the discussion in Wayne A. Meeks, ‘“And Rose up to Play”: Midrash and Paraenesis in 1 Corinthians 10:1-22’, JSNT 5, no. 16 (1982): 69–71. 50. Note the discrepancy between the numbers in the present verse (23,000) and those given in Num 25:9 (24,000). See further Barrett, First Corinthians, 225; Collins, First Corinthians, 371; and the summary in Thiselton, First Corinthians, 740. 51. The exhortation, ‘let us not tempt Christ’ (μηδὲ ἐκπειράζωμεν τὸν Χριστόν, 1 Cor 10:9), may also indicate allusions to Massah (Exod 17:1–7, cf. Ps 95:8) or to the retelling of Num 21 in Ps 78[77]:18. 52. The context for this reference is uncertain. Exod 12:23 is unlikely. Hays suggests Num 14:1–25, which has merit but which fails to account fully for the allusion. Garland suggests an echo of Ps 106[105]. See Richard B. Hays, First Corinthians, ed. James Luther Mays, Patrick D. Miller and Paul J. Achtemeier, Interpretation, a Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville: John Knox Press, 2011), 165; Garland, 1 Corinthians, 464.

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is this described as baptism into Moses.53 Nearly all commentators agree that the description is unusual,54 with the likeliest explanation being the intentional evocation of Jesus movement terminology (cf. Gal 3:27, 1 Cor 12:13). Once this point is conceded, a similar logic pertains to the references to ‘spiritual food/drink’. Acknowledging antecedent developments in the manna tradition, not to mention the complexities associated with the reference to Christ as the rock (1 Cor 10:4), is important here.55 Hence, expressions such as ‘bread/food of angels’ (ἀγγέλων ἄρτος/τροφή Ps 77:25[78:25], Wis 16:20) highlight the cosmic incongruity of those on earth consuming heavenly food, and the description of the manna as ἡ ὑπόστασίς σου (‘your substance’, Wis 16:21 LXX) perhaps even denotes some participation in the divine presence.56 In any case, the vocabulary Paul deploys is characteristic, πνευματικός being significant for both the apostle and his interlocutors (cf. 1 Cor 2:13–15, 3:1, 9:11, 12:1, 14:1, 37, 15:44–46). The corresponding analogy between the misdemeanours of the wilderness generation and the Corinthians is also clear. The occasioning circumstance in the church is whether it is licit for Jesus devotees to consume sacrificial food (ἱερόθυτόν, 1 Cor 10:28). Paul’s selection of examples is apt: The Golden Calf quotation (10:7 cf. Exod 32:6) highlights the connection between dining, idolatry and revelry; the Peor incident, especially the hortatory subjunctive μηδὲ πορνεύωμεν (‘let us not fornicate’, 1 Cor 10:8), emphasizes the link between idolatry and sexual transgression. This is a topos in the Hebrew Scriptures (cf. Hos 4:12–14, Jer 2:23, Ezek 23), and the corresponding association between dining and sexual entertainment in the Graeco-Roman banqueting tradition is well attested (e.g. Theophrastus, Char. 20.10–11, Philo, Contempl. 48–52).57 Regardless of whether there was any actual sexual encounter at the meals to which the Corinthians were invited, the stereotypes are widespread enough to connote the association. Likewise, the remaining allusions evoke stories in which Israel’s dissatisfaction with God’s material provision is a factor in their disobedience (cf. Num 21:4–5).

53. See Garland, 1 Corinthians, 450; also see John Lierman, The New Testament Moses: Christian perceptions of Moses and Israel in the setting of Jewish religion, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2 Reihe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 175–208. 54. See for example Garland, 1 Corinthians, 450; Collins, First Corinthians, 368; Schrage, Erste Brief, 2: 390. 55. For discussions of this, see Linda L. Belleville, ‘Scripture and Other Voices in Paul’s Theology’, in Paul and Scripture: Extending the Conversation, ed. Christopher D. Stanley, Early Christianity and Its Literature (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012), 250–8; Larry Kreitzer, ‘1 Corinthians 10:4 and Philo’s Flinty Rock’, CV 35, no. 2 (1993). 56. On the manna as divine presence, see Tyson L. Putthoff, ‘Aseneth’s Gastronomical Vision: Mystical Theophagy and the New Creation in Joseph and Aseneth’, JSP 24, no. 2 (2014): 103–5; on consuming the divine presence in Rabbinic Judaism, see Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, 167–73. 57. See further, Karl Olav Sandnes, Belly and Body in the Pauline Epistles, SNTS monograph series (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 80–3.

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Given the likely dissatisfaction with Paul’s prohibition, the correspondence between the Israelites and the Corinthians is clear. For present purposes, the exodus events and Jesus movement practice need not be regarded identical in significance.58 The point here is the narrative correspondence between Israel’s cultic misconduct in the wilderness accounts and the problem in 1 Cor 10:14–22. Indeed, within the ambit of the wider argument, verses 1–13 provide the major premise for what follows, namely that initiation into the covenant people entails a monolatrous commitment to the god of Israel, with divine judgement being a consequence of infidelity. Verses 14–22 advance the minor premises, namely that participation in a cult meal implicates one in cult (1 Cor 10:18–20), and that Christ affiliation is also monolatrous (10:21–22). Of course, this is to treat the issue in this passage as participation in cult meals rather than the more general theological problem of sacrificial meats.59 5.3.2 Example 1: The Lord’s Supper I speak to you as to sensible people: you judge what I say. (16) The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a participation in the blood of Christ? The bread that we break, is it not a participation in the body of Christ? (17) Since there is one bread, we, the many, are one body, for we all partake from one bread. (1 Cor 10:15–17)

Despite suggestions to the contrary,60 it is unnecessary to treat the opening instruction of verse 15 as ironic. The instruction ‘you judge’ (κρίνατε ὑμεῖς) is not an invitation that the Corinthians make up their own minds. Rather, the negative particle οὐχί in the subsequent questions signals Paul’s expectation of an affirmative response.61 What he expects them to affirm is likely to be known already. Hence, the references to ‘the cup of blessing’ (τὸ ποτήριον τῆς εὐλογίας, 10:16) and to ‘participation’ (κοινωνία) in the body and blood of Christ were probably familiar expressions introduced in Paul’s initial teaching (cf. 1 Cor 11:23).62 Inter alia, that Paul opts for the sequence cup-then-bread is noteworthy because it contrasts with

58. For example, Witherington observes that it is not essential to suppose a ‘sacramental’ understanding of the events Paul describes, though the terminology of sacrament is anachronistic. See, Witherington, Conflict and Community, 219. 59. For a discussion of the relationship between these related issues, see Fee, First Corinthians, 463; and the response in Alex T. Cheung, Idol Food in Corinth: Jewish Background and Pauline Legacy, JSNT Supplement Series (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999); also see the helpful setting of possible cultic and social context in Bruce W. Winter, After Paul Left Corinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 269–98. 60. Pace. Witherington, Conflict and Community, 224; Hays, First Corinthians, 166. 61. See defn. 3 of οὐχί in BDAG. 62. On the likelihood of instructions regarding idol foods as well as the Jesus meal being part of the initial layer of Pauline teaching, see Cheung, Idol Food in Corinth, 38.

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1 Cor 11:23–25 and because one early tradition mirrors this sequence (cf. Did. 9.2–4 [ANF 7:379]).63 However, the order is explicable, given that the question in chapters 8–10 is ‘food’ (βρῶμα, cf. 1 Cor 8:8). Ordering the clauses as he does permits Paul to mention the cup, and then to elaborate on what is eaten in a way that would be more unwieldy if the bread were mentioned first.64 The reference to the ‘cup of blessing’ (τὸ ποτήριον τῆς εὐλογίας, 1 Cor 10:16) is original despite the variant reading εὐχαριστίας (‘thanksgiving’), which is probably a concession to later usage.65 This makes the expression ὃ εὐλογοῦμεν (‘which we bless’) appear pleonastic,66 though in fact it performs two functions. Stylistically, it emphasizes formal parallelism between the clauses (‘the X, which we Y’, cf. τὸν ἄρτον ὃν κλῶμεν, 10:16b). It also clarifies what is blessed, and by whom, since the genitive τῆς εὐλογίας could have various meanings. It has already been noted that this expression and the verb κλάω (‘break’) likely reflect Jewish ritual idiomata.67 Strack and Billerbeck cite similar expressions and note their redolence of the Passover,68 which is a connection that has been advanced elsewhere.69 However, a blessing cup would be intelligible in various meal settings: the Sabbath Kiddûsh, Ḥaburot, sectarian meals and Todah or thanksgiving meals.70 The difficulty in determining the relevance of these comparisons lies in the question of whether one focuses upon meal architecture, terminology, biblical allusions or theology. The expression ‘cup of blessing’ tends in a paschal direction, but it is not decisive. If, however, it is taken together with the paschal allusions in 1 Cor 5:7–8, and the midrash upon the exodus accounts in 10:1–4, then the proposal that Passover is a primary literary frame of reference for understanding the Lord’s Supper is convincing even if the structure of the meal differs. However, if, as seems likely, Paul has Passover imagery in mind then he substantially reworks it. Taking the Rabbinic tractate Mishnah Pesaḥim as a heuristic comparison, various contrasts are evident.71 Paul inverts the usual Rabbinic

63. Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians, 391; Coutsoumpos, Paul and the Lord’s Supper, 96; Fee, First Corinthians, 466n19; Barrett, Church, Ministry, and Sacraments, 62. 64. Hays makes a similar point to this. See Hays, First Corinthians, 167. 65. Some later western witnesses (F, G). 66. See the discussion in Jean Héring, The First Epistle of Saint Paul to the Corinthians, trans. A. W. Heathcote and P. J. Allcock (London: Epworth Press, 1962), 93–4. 67. See 2.4.1; also Käsemann, ‘The Pauline Doctrine of the Lord’s Supper’, 109. 68. Str-B, 3:419. 69. For example, I. Howard Marshall, Last Supper and Lord’s Supper (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1997), 57–106; Barrett, First Corinthians, 231; Jeremias, The Eucharistic Words of Jesus, 110. 70. See Collins, First Corinthians, 379; also Coutsoumpos, Paul and the Lord’s Supper, 25–32; Jerome Kodell, The Eucharist in the New Testament (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1988), 38–52. 71. For a recent discussion of this topic, see Clemens Leonhard, ‘Pesach and Eucharist’, in The Eucharist – Its Origins and Contexts: Sacred Meal, Communal Meal, Table Fellowship

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(cf. m. Pesaḥ. 10.4j) sequence of recounting Israel’s disgrace (1 Cor 10:5–11) before recounting Israel’s glory (10:1–4). He also omits mention of otherwise typical elements of the Passover ritual (m. Pesaḥ. 10.5b), and those which he does mention in 1 Corinthians, such as leaven, he modifies for paraenetical purposes (1 Cor 5:6– 8, cf. m. Pesaḥ. 10.5c).72 Significantly, Passover entailed a hermeneutic of salvation historical identification, but Paul’s appeal to the exodus story operates differently. To be sure, even for the gentile Corinthians, the Israelites are ‘our fathers’ (οἱ πατέρες ἡμῶν, 1 Cor 10:1), but this is not the first-person anamnesis identification of the Passover Haggadah: ‘He brought us forth from slavery to freedom’ (m. Pesaḥ. 10.5e).73 Rather, Jesus devotees identify with the eschatological event of Christ’s death and resurrection, and though there is analogy with the exodus (cf. 1 Cor 10:2), the two events are non-identical. This approach bears comparison with the eschatological hermeneutic found in 1QpHab 7.1–4, especially given Paul’s mention of ‘the ends of the ages’ (1 Cor 10:11).74 Accordingly, it would be over-interpretation to infer a specific meal architecture for the Lord’s Supper based on references to the cup (1 Cor 10:16). Rather, the relationship Paul constructs is allusive and involves adapting symbols. As a symbol, Passover encoded specific relationships between the present and a sacred past, in the areas of soteriology, communal identity, shared memory and the distinctively covenantal form of life these sustain and express. In utilizing echoes of Passover, Paul maintains a rootedness in the meaning of this narrative,75 but this rootedness is eschatologically reworked. Both the Passover ritual (m. Pesaḥ. 10.5e) and the Jesus meal (1 Cor 11:24–25) are anamnetic, the former signifying the identification of present-day devotees with liberation from Egypt, the latter participation in the death of Christ as cosmic liberation.76 In the light of the foregoing discussion regarding Baptism, the πνεῦμα and liberation in Gal 4:1–10, one might speculate that in Paul’s hands the exodus has been cosmologized.77 In any case, literary echoes of Passover fail to explain the transition to the more general comparison with Israelite and Graeco-Roman sacrificial meals in the rest of the passage. Verse 17 is crucial for clarifying this move, since it is epexegetical of the reference to the fraction in verse 16, and thus of the character of the κοινωνία established in the Lord’s Supper. ‘Since/that’ (ὅτι, 1 Cor 10:17) the loaf prior to

in Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, ed. David Hellholm and Dieter Sänger (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), esp. 287–304. 72. On the ritual removal of leaven, see m. Pesaḥ. 1.1–3. 73. Emphasis added. 74. I am grateful to Dr Hywel Clifford for reminding me of this. 75. See Stephen C. Barton, ‘Memory and Remembrance in Paul’, in Memory in the Bible and Antiquity, ed. Stephen C. Barton, Loren T. Stuckenbruck and Benjamin G. Wold, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 333–4. 76. See 4.3.1. 77. See 3.3.2. See Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2:1333–6.

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fraction was one, consumption of the fragments constitutes ‘the many’ (οἱ πολλοί) as a single social body (cf. Did. 9.4 [ANF 7:380]).78 This is the primary sense of the present verse. Here, as elsewhere, Philo provides a useful counterpoint to Paul.79 In his discussion of ‘the sacrifice of well-being’ (ἡ θυσία τοῦ σωτηρίου, Spec. 1.212–23 cf. Lev 3), participation in the cult meal has a role in solidifying relationships both human and divine. So, for example, Philo depicts God as a munificent host sharing a meal with diners (§221) and describes the one who dines as ‘a participant of the altar’ (κοινωνὸν … τοῦ βωμοῦ, cf. 1 Cor 10:16, 18), namely a ‘table companion’ (ὁμοτράπεζον) in the sacrifice. The similarity with Paul is non-trivial. Yet it is debatable whether an account of Jesus movement κοινωνία that focuses entirely upon solidarity through commensality is metaphysically thick enough to do justice to the way that, in Paul, sociopoiesis is bound up with cosmology. To elaborate, Paul’s ecclesiology is a cosmic temple/body ecclesiology that shares common preoccupations with other Second Temple liturgical cosmologies, which treat certain rituals as mimetic of universal processes.80 It is apt to consider whether something similar is implied here and, again, comparison with Philo is instructive. In his discussion of the holocaust offering (Spec. 1.194–211 cf. Lev 1), Philo advances a cosmic interpretation of the dismemberment of the sacrifice, specifically that it signals that ‘all things are one, or that they are from one and to one’ (ἓν τὰ πάντα ἢ ὅτι ἐξ ἑνός τε καὶ εἰς ἕν, §208).81 By comparison, Paul treats the division and consumption of a single loaf as an enaction of divine agency as it animates and integrates the community as the cosmic temple/body of Christ.82 One might leave the comparison there, were it not for the similarity between the unitive function of the bread here and the baptismal ‘one body’ statement in 1 Cor 12:13. There, the unity of the ecclesial σῶμα is constituted metaphysically by the spirit, mediated in Baptism. Here, it is ritually and rhetorically constituted by participation in one loaf.83 Given the earlier retrojection of the expression ‘spiritual food’ (πνευματικὸν βρῶμα, 1 Cor 10:2),84 it is hardly going too far to suggest that for Paul the unity

78. Also see, John Chrysostom, Hom. 24.4 (NPNF1 12:139–40); for the converse position, see the account of Pythagorean teaching in Diog. Laert. 8.34–35. 79. See the discussion in Jutta Leonhardt-Balzer, Jewish Worship in Philo of Alexandria, Texte und Studien zum antiken Judentum (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 241–51. 80. See 3.3.3. Also see Jonathan Klawans, Purity, Sacrifice, and the Temple: Symbolism and Supersessionism in the Study of Ancient Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 111–44. 81. For a useful account of the meanings of whole and partial offerings in Greek cult, see Gunnel Ekkroth, ‘Burnt, Cooked or Raw? Divine and Human Culinary Desires at Greek Animal Sacrifice’, in Transformations in Sacrificial Practices: From Antiquity to Modern Times, ed. Eftychia Stavrianopoulou, Axel Michaels and Claus Ambos (Berlin: Lit, 2008) 87–111. 82. See 3.3.3 and 4.3.3. 83. Mitchell, Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 254. 84. On ‘spiritual food/drink’, cf. πνευματικὴν τροφὴν καὶ ποτὸν in Did. 10.3.

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constituted by the bread is mediated by transmission of the πνεῦμα.85 One might even say that, for Paul, Jesus devotees ingest their own unification. None of this is to overlook the differences between Paul and Philo, or to propose a specific cultic archetype of the Lord’s Supper. Indeed, Paul’s hermeneutical style would tend to militate against there being a single corresponding idea. Rather, this comparison aims to provoke reflection upon what the distinctive elements of Pauline symbolism might have been. Whereas the divided animal in Spec. 1.194–211 signifies cosmic unity, and the animal that is eaten in Spec. 1.212–23 social solidarity, the fraction in 1 Cor 10:16 performs both functions. The bread constitutes in-group solidarity (10:17) by denoting Christ’s body (11:24), which is itself sacrificially representative (cf. 5:7). This ‘web of significance’86 – of Christ as meal host and as referent of the ritual, and of the meal as basis of solidarity and pattern of life – is ritually effected by the meal, but these meanings are difficult to integrate without also presuming the Dominical logia (cf. 11:23–25). This begs the questions of how the Lord’s Supper relates to Jesus’s dining practice and of the scope of Pauline παράδοσις, but such questions exceed the remit of the present argument. 5.3.3 Example 2: Israelite Sacrificial Dining Consider the case of Israel according to the flesh: are not those who eat the sacrifices participants in the altar? (1 Cor 10:18)

It is uncertain whether the discussion of idol cult commences at verse 18 or at verse 19. The difficulty lies in the ambiguity of the expression ‘Israel according to the flesh’ ( Ἰσραὴλ κατὰ σάρκα 1 Cor 10:18). If this simply denotes the ancestors,87 namely Barrett’s ‘historic Israel’,88 then the reference to ‘participants in the altar’ (10:18) denotes those referred to by cult instructions in the Hebrew Bible (cf. Lev 7:6, 15). However, σάρξ is not a generally positive term for Paul (cf. Rom 8:5, 8:13, 2 Cor 10:2–3); hence, some commentators treat expression as a reference to the wilderness generation.89 Thus the altars Paul has in mind could be those associated with the cultic transgressions of 1 Cor 10:5–13. The position here is that this is unlikely, since it would result in too abrupt a transition between the discussions of the Lord’s Supper and idolatrous cult. Rather, as Fee notes, the reference to Israelite practice is essential to mediating a gradual progression in the argument.90 The transitional example of licit cult directed towards the god of Israel establishes both

85. See also Käsemann, ‘The Pauline Doctrine of the Lord’s Supper’, 113. 86. Geertz, ‘Thick Description’, 5. 87. Romans 4:1 uses κατὰ σάρκα in this way to denote Abraham. 88. Barrett, First Corinthians, 235; also see for example Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 172; Fee, First Corinthians, 470; Héring, First Corinthians, 95. 89. See for example Garland, 1 Corinthians; Schrage, Erste Brief, 2:442–3. 90. Fee, First Corinthians, 471.

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the correspondence and the contrast between the Lord’s Supper and the meals Paul seeks to discourage the Corinthians from attending. An obvious discontinuity between the sacrificial practices alluded to here and the Lord’s Supper is the latter’s focus upon non-flesh items as its primary symbolic media. This is not to overlook those occasions in Israelite cult in which provisions for non-flesh sanctuary presentations were made, such as the ‘bread of the presence’ (cf. Exod 35:13, 39:35, Num 4:7) or the portions of ‘grain offerings’ (Lev 2:1–3). However, that the crisis in Corinth was occasioned by questions regarding the consumption of flesh makes it unlikely that Paul has in mind rituals in which flesh is absent.91 Moreover, direct allusion to the ‘bread of the presence’ is unlikely here, since the shewbred was not presented on an altar but a table (cf. τράπεζα in Exod 25:23, 1 Macc 1:22 LXX).92 Rather, Paul describes the Israelites sacrificing an animal, presenting some to the god and then consuming some or all of what remains, and he assumes a similar process to pertain in Graeco-Roman cult meals. In terms of the correspondence between the Lord’s Supper, Israelite cult and Graeco-Roman cult-dining, this suggests that whatever connections later Christian writers made between eucharistic practice and bloodless sacrifice (e.g. Cyprian, Ep. 63.4 [ANF 5:365], Cyril of Jerusalem, MC 4.5, 5.8 [NPNF2 7:152, 154]),93 Paul has no such association in mind.94 Indeed, the reference to θυσιαστήριον (‘altar’, 1 Cor 10:18) invites some consideration of whether Paul envisions the Jesus meal as a sacrificial meal, somehow entangled symbolically with Christ’s death, or whether it is invoked as only one of several instances of the formation of in-group solidarity through commensality. This is to raise the question of whether Paul understood Christ’s death as an antecedent sacrifice, whether actual or metaphorical. The answer to this is uncertain. On the one hand, Daniel Ullucci notes that accounts of Christ’s death correspond inexactly with the ideals and processes of ancient

91. See the entries under εἰδωλόθυτόν and ἱερόθυτόν in BDAG. 92. See the description of the table in m. Menaḥ. 11.5–6; also see the helpful account of the distinction between θυσιαστήριον and τράπεζα in David W. J. Gill, ‘Trapezomata: A Neglected Aspect of Greek Sacrifice’, HTR 67, no. 2 (1974): esp. 118–21. 93. The ANF enumeration of Cyprian lists this reference as 62.4 and the NPNF2 enumeration of Cyril lists these references as 22.5 and 23.8. Also see the allusion to the grain offering of Lev 14.10 in Justin, Dial. 41.1 [ANF 1:215]. 94. On this, see for example Daniel Ullucci, ‘Sacrifice in the Ancient Mediterranean: Recent and Current Research’, CurBR 13, no. 3 (2015): 389–90; Benedikt Eckhardt, ‘“Bloodless Sacrifice”: A Note on Greek Cultic Language in the Imperial Era’, GRBS 54, no. 2 (2014); Andrew McGowan, ‘Eucharist and Sacrifice: Cultic Tradition and Transformation in Early Christian Ritual Meals’, in Mahl und religiöse Identität im frühen Christentum, ed. Matthias Klinghardt and Hal Taussig, Texte und Arbeiten zum neutestamentlichen Zeitalter (Tübingen: Francke, 2012); Laura Nasrallah, ‘The Embarrassment of Blood: Early Christians and Others on Sacrifice, War, and Rational Worship’, in Ancient Mediterranean Sacrifice, ed. Jennifer Wright Knust and Zsuzsanna Várhelyi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011).

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sacrifice. He also observes that Paul ‘stops short of equating the bread and wine ritual with a sacrifice’.95 On the other hand, Paul stops only very slightly short of this. Both of the other ritual meals mentioned in this passage are, for Paul, entangled with antecedent θυσία. Relevant here are the references to Christ’s body and blood (1 Cor 10:16), which at a minimum signify Christ’s death as an event with which both the community and its ritual meal are symbolically associated. In short, if Paul had sought to exclude a sacrificial interpretation of the Jesus meal or of Christ’s death, then inviting these sorts of comparisons is an inept way to do it. 5.3.4 Inference: Graeco-Roman Cult-Dining Prohibited What then am I saying? That meat offered to idols is anything? Or that an idol is anything? (20) Rather, I say that what they sacrifice, [they sacrifice] to demons and not to God. Now I do not want you to become participants of/with/in demons.(21) You are unable to drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons; you are unable to partake of the table of the Lord and the table of demons. (22) Or do we intend to make the Lord jealous? Surely we are not stronger than he is, are we? (1 Cor 10:19–22)

The opening question here indicates that Paul has in mind to exclude specific inferences his interlocutors might make based on the preceding argument. The subsequent clauses signal the views he seeks to exclude, and why. The key is the final clause, ἢ ὅτι εἴδωλόν τί ἐστιν (‘or that an idol is anything?’). This makes sense as a reiteration of Paul’s earlier claim that ‘there is no idol in the world’ (1 Cor 8:4).96 That he reiterates this here signals that he understands that the preceding argument might be misconstrued as ascribing a status to εἰδωλόθυτα/ἱερόθυτα that is inconsistent with his stated position. The reference to the δαιμονία (10:20) clarifies this. Though Greek literature attests to δαιμόνιον as a neutral term for various divine and sub-divine entities,97 Paul’s contrastive usage (cf. δ. καὶ οὐ θεῷ, 1 Cor 10:20) indicates that he has in mind the polemic characteristic of some Second Temple writings: that the cult objects of the gentiles are not gods, but neither are they nothing – ontologically or morally (cf. Jub. 1:11, 22:17).98 Regarding the claim that the Corinthians are not to be κοινωνοί τῶν δαιμονίων (‘participants of/with/in demons’, 1 Cor 10:20b), scholarly discussion of the κοινωνία/κοινωνός word group has been shaped by both grammatical concerns and the history of religion. Grammatically, all three usages in this passage take

95. Daniel Ullucci, The Christian Rejection of Animal Sacrifice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 74; also see Stowers, A Rereading of Romans, 206–7. 96. This expression is likely common to both Paul and his interlocutors. See Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 87–8. 97. See Werner Foerster, ‘δαίμων, δαιμόνιον’, in TDNT, ed. Gerhard Kittel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964), 2:1–10. 98. This is congruent with Paul’s sombre view of the spirit world. See 3.2.3.

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the form ‘participation/participant of X’ (κοινωνία/κοινωνός+gen.),99 there being a wide range of possible senses because of the flexibility of the genitive case in Greek. Practically, this collapses to three proposals in the light of available parallels. Wendell Willis offers a useful summary and analysis of these options:100 (i) fellowship with other human diners, following an act of sacrifice to the god;101 (ii) fellowship with the god, who is a participant in the meal102 and (iii) fellowship in the substance of the god itself.103 These options are not distinct from one another at the level of conviviality, but rather in terms of the presence and disposition of the god. Is the god an observer (cf. i.) or a participant (cf. ii.) or is he consumed in the meal (cf. iii.)? Rejecting both the notion of the god as a fellow participant and that of the consumption of the god, Willis proposes that only human-human fellowship is plausible. This is overly cautious. At the very least, the notion of the god present as meal patron is viable, since this is implied in invitations given in its name. Consider the opening salutation from an invitation to the Sarapaeum: καλεῖ σε ὁ θεὸς εἰς κλίνην (‘the god invites you to dine’, P.Köln. 1.57.1–2).104 Moreover, Plutarch’s critical assessment of what he evidently regards as popular superstition makes reference to the desire of the demons for the substance of the sacrifice (cf. Def. orac. 417c–e).105 In terms of the consumption of a god itself, Willis rejects Gressmann’s quasi-sacramental interpretation of 1 Cor 10:18, and asserts that theophagy is practically unknown in ancient parallels.106 Though examples are indeed thinner on the ground than previous scholarship might have admitted, Hans-Josef Klauck has partially recovered the notion. Besides his discussion of the Orphics, he proposes a provocative reading of the Euripidean account of the

99. Cf. κ. τοῦ αἵματος/σώματος (10:16), κ. τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου (10:18) and κ. τῶν δαιμονίων (10:20). 100. W. L. Willis, Idol Meat in Corinth (Chico: Scholars Press, 1985), 190–1. 101. See for example Ibid., 62–4; and the critique of this stance in Cheung, Idol Food in Corinth, 310. 102. See for example John Scheid, ‘Roman Animal Sacrifice and the System of Being’, in Greek and Roman Animal Sacrifice: Ancient Victims, Modern Observers, ed. Christopher A. Faraone and F. S. Naiden (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), esp. 93–4; also Burkert, Greek Religion, esp. 55ff. and 107. 103. On symbolic theophagy in Graeco-Roman religion, see for example Smith, Symposium to Eucharist, 77–9; Hans-Josef Klauck, Herrenmahl und hellenistischer Kult: Eine religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum ersten Korintherbrief, Neutestamentliche Abhandlungen (Münster: Aschendorff, 1982), 110–11. 104. Also see P.Oxy. 1.110.2–3; on fellowship with the god as host, see Klauck, Herrenmahl und hellenistischer Kult, 163–6. 105. See also the later reference to demons licking up sacrificial blood in Athenagoras, Legatio pro Christianis 26.1 (ANF 2:143). 106. Willis, Idol Meat, 185; Hugo Gressmann, ‘ἡ κοινωνία τῶν δαιμωνίων’, ZNW 20 (1921).

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cannibalization of Pentheus by the Maenads (cf. Euripides, Bacch. 1075–200). Treating Pentheus as Dionysius’s proxy, Klauck proposes a degree of ontological and semiotic fluidity between a god, a proxy and a sacrifice such that consumption of the god is symbolically enacted in the story.107 Though this reading is certainly speculative,108 it nonetheless suggests ritually mediated indirect theophagy. Yet it fails to demonstrate a clear line between this and the religious hinterland of either Paul or of Jesus devotees in Roman Corinth. That Paul here is not describing gentile cult in its own terms further complicates the discussion. That is, Paul’s usage of κοινωνία/κοινωνός is likely to involve the idea of dining in the presence of and under the patronage of a named god, with the meal symbolically entangled with a prior act of sacrifice.109 Elements of this understanding are common to Jesus devotees, the Hebrew Scriptures and devotees of Graeco-Roman cult figures. However, the reference to the δαιμονία indicates that Paul’s focus is not upon what gentiles think they do in their ritual meals, but upon what he believes them actually to do. As such, he might regard it as beside the point that someone attending a cult meal at the Sarapaeum believed himself or herself to be dining with Sarapis, or indeed that if exposed to the Jesus meal, such a person would recognize commonality at the level of the definition of κοινωνία. Rather, Paul’s assessment of gentile religiosity is that they worship things the true nature of which they are ignorant. Hence, his studied indifference to the identity of the cult deities (cf. 1 Cor 8:5, Gal 4:8–9).110 Denied name and divinity but not existence, the δαιμονία constitute a threat to the Strong, who might wish to attend cult meals, because conceding the patronage of a δαιμόνιον is not nothing; it is to incur the jealousy of the Lord (1 Cor 10:21–22, cf. Exod 20:5).111 A similar logic applies in the case of theophagic accounts of cult-κοινωνία. If theophagic ideas underlie Paul’s account of the Lord’s Supper, then the cause of those ideas appears not to have been gentile cult meal theology. Rather, christophagic and pneumatophagic ideas seem to have been evoked by means of a series of intertextual associations, the retrojection of Jesus movement ritual terminology onto the exodus, the reference to Christ’s body and blood and developments in the

107. See Klauck, The Religious Context of Early Christianity, 110–11. 108. Karl-Gustav Sandelin, Attraction and Danger of Alien Religion: Studies in Early Judaism and Christianity, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 126–7. 109. The discussion of this in Young continues to be useful. See, Frances M. Young, The Use of Sacrificial Ideas in Greek Christian Writers from the New Testament to John Chrysostom (Cambridge, MA: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1979), 240–2. 110. I am reminded by my colleague, Dr Hywel Clifford, that this is far from unique to Paul and reflects trends in Diasporic Judaism. See also the discussion in Thiselton, First Corinthians, 775–6. 111. See for example Collins, First Corinthians, 381.

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manna traditions (cf. 1 Cor 10:1–4, 10:16).112 When, in the present passage, these are set alongside κοινωνία/κοινωνός terminology, participation in the sense of dining in the presence of and under the patronage of Christ acquires the additional connotation of participation in Christ/the pneuma. This neither necessitates nor excludes a comparable connotation in verses 18 or 20 though, given the flow of the present passage, it is reasonable to ask whether κοινωνοί τῶν δαιμονίων conveys any corresponding sense of participation in the demons. Such a sense is possible, but it is difficult to see what basis there might be for confidence. In any case, Paul’s polemical orientation in verse 20 weighs against treating gentile cult meal theology as the interpretative frame here. Dale Martin’s discussion of this issue also merits consideration. Noting that popular magical texts frequently associate divine-human commensality with the permeability of the self to divine influence, he observes that at the very least ‘commensality with daimons implicates the practitioner in the realm of their power’.113 This is an important observation, insofar as Paul’s ecclesiology and soteriology presume a spatio-cosmological distinction between the church and the world, with the church understood as bounded by its identity as eschatological temple. Circumstances that traverse the boundary between these spheres of influence generate questions of purity and pollution. In the case of food, pollution appears to have a penetrative capacity, almost miasmaphagy, for which Martin argues γνῶσις (‘knowledge’ cf. 1 Cor 8:1) is a necessary prophylactic.114 In part, this may be due to the association between commensality with demons and the internalization of their influence (PGM 1.1, 1.35–40),115 an association that Martin also notes. However, it is telling that in the case of coitus, the sacred-profane distinction does not map neatly onto the pure-impure distinction: whereas coitus with a prostitute entails pollution (1 Cor 6:16), in a mixed marriage holiness rather than pollution is penetrative (1 Cor 7:14). It may be that Paul also has in mind some notion of the redeemability of space. This is to return to the point advanced previously,116 that in the case of the cult sanctuary and the prostitute redemption (qua space) entails abolition (qua prostitute, qua sanctuary). This might explain why idol food is a ritually manageable concern for Paul in domestic settings but not within the τέμενος of a cult sanctuary. 5.3.5 Section Summary The present section advances the symbolic analysis of the Lord’s Supper by considering 1 Cor 10:14–22. In terms of the central thesis of this volume, this section illustrates

112. See Young, The Use of Sacrificial Ideas in Greek Christian Writers, 243–4; Käsemann, ‘The Pauline Doctrine of the Lord’s Supper’, 113. 113. Martin, Corinthian Body, 188. 114. Ibid., 186–9. 115. Also see PGM 3.424–30. 116. See 3.3.3.

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key elements of Paul’s integrative understanding of the ritual. In metaphysical terms, there are the cosmic, spatial and cultic resonances at play in Paul’s description of the significance of the bread rite by comparison with Philo’s discussions of sacrifice. Add to that, the discussion of whether the Lord’s Supper is a cult meal with Christ’s death understood as an antecedent sacrifice raises broader questions about the mode of fellowship established by means of the ritual. This is closely related to the mediation of the divine presence (πνεῦμα) through the meal. In terms of form of life, the cosmic boundedness of the community is constituted by the meal in a manner analogous to Baptism, and with similar paraenetical consequences for community cohesion and identity. This takes the principal form of a monolatrous commitment to the God of Israel by means of participation in Christ. This is framed circumstantially by the meal crisis, and narratively by the extended eschatological retelling of the wilderness narratives and the evident Passover allusions. These portray the community as continuous with the sacred history of the Israelites and also, insofar as the foundational event has relocated to the liberation effected by Christ, as oriented towards the culmination of that narrative in an eschatological meal.

5.4 Texts: 1 Cor 11:17–34, Translation and Comment 5.4.1 The Situation: Divisions at the Lord’s Supper Now, in commanding this, I do not praise you, since you gather not for the better but the worse. (18) Firstly, when you gather in church, I hear there are divisions among you and in part I believe it. (19) For indeed, it is necessary for there to be factions among you, so that [indeed] those among you who are genuine might become apparent. (20) Consequently, when you do gather at the same place it is not to eat the Lord’s Supper. (21) For, when eating, each takes his or her own supper, and the one is hungry and the other is drunk. (22) Have you not got houses for eating and drinking? Or do you look down on the church of God and shame those who have nothing? What should I say to you? Should I praise you? In this, I do not praise you. (1 Cor 11:17–22)

Unlike 1 Cor 10:14–22, the present passage is not concerned with the question of whether Jesus devotees are free to attend cult meals. Rather, 1 Cor 11:17–34 is concerned with a matter of disorder in the conduct of the Lord’s Supper itself. As such, Paul here is not as obviously preoccupied with the preservation of the ecclesial boundary with the world as he is with questions of cohesion between those within that boundary. It would be a mistake to differentiate too keenly between these two objectives. Differentiation-from and unity-in are mutually entailing facets of holiness. The baptismal differentiation that circumscribes the Pauline communities qua group in contradistinction to the cosmos (cf. 1 Cor 10:1–2) also constitutes them as the location in which the christiform ethos is lived out with one another. In that sense, the unity of the community is emblematic of its radical distinctiveness (1 Cor 10:16).

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The present discussion concurs with what has become a near-consensus that the divisions that preoccupy Paul in 1 Cor 11:17–34 have a socioeconomic element, and that they are signalled by what he regards as inequitable distribution of foodstuffs (1 Cor 11:21). In terms of how and why this occurs, numerous proposals exist, based upon Paul’s argument and our knowledge of Graeco-Roman dining conventions. The proposal here is that the most viable reconstructions suggest either that the wealthier Corinthians are behaving inhospitably with notionally shared items, or that they are supplementing a common meal with items for private consumption, or that some members do not arrive until later, when the best food is gone. The resultant controversy signals the gap between what Paul understands as the meaning of the meal and that understood and performed by the Corinthians. Paul’s negative assessment of this crisis is clear from the opening comment, in which he reverses the captatio benevolentiae with which the immediately preceding passage commenced (οὐκ ἐπαινῶ, 1 Cor 11:17, cf. ἐπαινῶ δὲ ὑμᾶς, 11:2).117 This emphasizes the gravity of the presenting situation, an impression only intensified by repetition (cf. 11:17, 22) and his insistence that Corinthian mealtime practice has invalidated the performance of the κυριακὸν δεῖπνον as such (cf. 11:20–21).118 Most commentators treat the σχίσματα (‘divisions’) and αἱρέσεις (‘factions’) mentioned in verses 18–19 as the object of Paul’s complaint. However, the πρῶτον μὲν at the beginning of verse 18 could be taken to indicate that the divisions are only the first of a series of criticisms.119 However, the πρῶτον μὲν is uncompleted; there is no ‘secondly’, and this supports the majority reading that the divisions of verse 18 are continuous with Paul’s description of some going hungry and being humiliated whilst others overindulge (1 Cor 11:21–22). This is supported by comparison with Graeco-Roman meals. Certainly, inequities of fare are a bone of contention at some such dinners, whether criticized by patricians (e.g. Pliny, Ep. 2.6) or clients (e.g. Martial, Epig. 3.60, Juvenal, Sat. 5) alike. That the σχίσματα are socioeconomic also suggests that we cannot assume that the divisions here are those described earlier in the epistle (1 Cor 1:11–12).120 Paul’s use of the expression οἱ μὴ ἔχοντες (‘those not having’, 1 Cor 11:22) is crucial to whether this reading is defensible. Justin Meggitt suggests that one ought to infer a specific object for the participle, namely ‘those not having X’. According to this, οἱ μὴ ἔχοντες would not so much be a reference to the general condition of the poor as to doing without something in particular,121 such as elements of

117. On this rhetorical device, see Cicero, Inv. 1.22. 118. See Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 194. 119. Cf. defn. 2c of μέν in BDAG, 112; Héring, First Corinthians. 120. See for example Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians, 433; Garland, 1 Corinthians, 537; Thiselton, First Corinthians, 857; Fee, First Corinthians, 537; for the countervailing view see Collins, First Corinthians, 421–2. 121. See for example Justin J. Meggitt, Paul, Poverty and Survival, Studies of the New Testament and its world (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 119–20.

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the meal (cf. 11:21) or ‘houses for eating and drinking’ (11:22a).122 Whilst some implied objects evidently have socioeconomic ramifications, others could be no more than poor mealtime logistics.123 The view taken here is that, though it will sometimes imply an object, οἱ μὴ ἔχοντες does not require one. So, for example, Euripides (Suppl. 238–44) deploys the expression as an epithet for the very poor vis-à-vis other groups. Throughout his discussion, the focus is upon the general condition and mindset of the groups he mentions. Hence, the rich desire ‘more’ (πλείων, §239), but we are not told of what they want more. Correspondingly, the poor are οἱ μὴ ἔχοντες because of a generalized lack. Indeed, it is this that underpins Euripides assertion that their envy of the other classes is also generalized (§242). This supports the view taken here that οἱ μὴ ἔχοντες cannot be excluded as an idiomatic description of those whom some commentators have described as ‘have nots’.124 Nonetheless, it is important to observe that Paul’s focus is not upon socioeconomic distinctions per se. Though he elsewhere demonstrates a general concern for the welfare of poorer members (2 Cor 8:13–14, Gal 2:10), his concern here is broader in scope and narrower in focus. That is, he is certainly occupied with the fact that the poor are doing without (1 Cor 11:21) and that they are dishonoured (11:22), but these concerns are expressed in relation to their being a violation of the ritual script of the meal (11:20). This is clear from his repeated focus upon the character of Corinthian assemblies, from his opening observation that ‘you gather (συνέρχεσθε) not for the better but the worse’ (11:17), and in the subsequent critical references (11:18, 20). This coordinates verses 17, 18 and 20 thematically. The circumstantial reference, ‘in church’ (ἐν ἐκκλησίᾳ, 11:18), reveals little about the format of the gatherings, since ἐν ἐκκλησίᾳ does not yet designate a dedicated venue.125 It is possible that the Corinthians usually gathered in smaller groups, assembling ‘at the same place’ (ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτὸ, 11:20) for the κυριακὸν δεῖπνον.126 Venues for this could have been either domestic or non-domestic.127 However, concerns relating to propriety in adjacent discussions (cf. 11:4–6, 14:33– 36) evidently involve confusion regarding which norms, public or private, apply to meetings, and this favours temporarily repurposed domestic space.128 As such, the spatial arrangement of a dwelling may also have been an exacerbating factor in the crisis.129

122. On this, see Robertson and Plummer, First Corinthians, 242. 123. See Meggitt, Paul, Poverty and Survival, 190–3. 124. See for example Thiselton, First Corinthians, 865. 125. See ibid., 857. 126. See Collins, First Corinthians, 418. 127. See Edward C. Adams, The Earliest Christian Meeting Places: Almost exclusively houses?, LNTS (London: T.&T. Clark, 2013), esp. 203–6. 128. See for example Barton, ‘Paul’s Sense of Place’, 232–3. 129. Hays, First Corinthians, 196; J. Murphy-O’Connor, St. Paul’s Corinth: Texts and Archaeology (Wilmington: Glazier, 1983).

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In terms of the way in which socioeconomic divisions are manifest in the conduct of the meal, the verb προλαμβάνω (‘take’, 1 Cor 11:21) is significant. Crucial here is the prefix πρό. Does it introduce temporal sequence into the base verb λαμβάνω?130 If so, then Paul’s assertion that ‘each takes his or her own supper’ (11:21) would denote the wealthy consuming food in advance of the poor.131 Alternatively, if πρό intensifies λαμβάνω, then 1 Cor 11:21 would denote gluttonous consumption to the exclusion of the poor.132 This would fit with Paul’s statement juxtaposing the ‘hungry’ (ὃς πεινᾷ) and the ‘drunk’ (ὃς μεθύει, 11:21b). A third option is available, namely that προλαμβάνω designates the simple act of ‘taking [food]’. This reading is attested by various inscription evidence, including from the Asclepeion in Epidaurus.133 Given the parallels, this is the preferred reading here. Nevertheless, we note that though a temporal reading of προλαμβάνω requires the problem in Corinth to involve the poor doing without because of circumstances that allow the wealthy to eat before they do, a non-temporal reading of προλαμβάνω does not preclude sequence from playing a part in the crisis. The wealthy ‘devouring’ more than is appropriate is hardly unrelated to the circumstances that permit them to do so, and these circumstances may involve sequence. As such, it is necessary to narrow the field of available reconstructions of the Corinthian crisis on other grounds. Barry Smith’s recent survey and evaluation of the field is helpful in this regard. He classifies proposals as follows: (i) ‘sequential-sponsored’, (ii) ‘sequentialpotluck’, (iii) ‘inhospitable’, (iv) ‘private-meal’ and (v) ‘eranos’ hypotheses.134 The sequential hypotheses treat the κυριακὸν δεῖπνον as a two-stage affair, involving a shared meal followed by a separate bread and cup anamnesis. They differ from one another regarding the question of whether the shared meal is provided by the wealthy, or whether all are expected to bring something with them.135 In either case, the exclusion of the poor turns upon the wealthy being free to start eating prior to their arrival, leaving them at worst with nothing (opt. (i))136 and at best their own meagre contributions (opt. (ii)).137 The inhospitability hypothesis (opt.

130. See for example Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians, 434–5; Héring, First Corinthians, 113–14. 131. This reading would naturally tend to accompany a correspondingly temporal reading of the verb ἐκδέχομαι (‘wait’) in 1 Cor 11:34. 132. See for example Barry D. Smith, ‘The Problem with the Observance of the Lord’s Supper in the Corinthian Church’, BBR 20, no. 4 (2010): 537; Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 195n22. 133. See the analysis in Bruce W. Winter, ‘Lord’s Supper at Corinth: An Alternative Reconstruction’, RTR 37, no. 3 (1978): 74–6; and O. Hofius, ‘Herrenmahl und Herrenmahlsparadosis. Erwägungen zu 1Kor 11,23b-25’, Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 85, no. 4 (1988): 386; also see Garland, 1 Corinthians, 540–1; Collins, First Corinthians, 422. 134. Smith, ‘The Problem with the Observance of the Lord’s Supper’, 517. 135. Ibid., 521–3. 136. See for example Robertson and Plummer, First Corinthians, 240–1. 137. See for example Lampe, ‘Das korinthische Herrenmahl’, 191–3.

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(iii))138 preserves the ‘potluck’ element of the second proposal, in that all are expected to bring something, which is consumed between the bread rite and the cup rite. Since 1 Cor 10:17 presupposes the presence of the entire community at the consumption of the bread, this would suggest not that the poor were late but rather that the wealthy perceived no obligation to distribute food equitably.139 The private dinner hypothesis (opt. (iv))140 involves the wealthy providing the congregational meal, but supplementing its basic fare with luxuries for themselves (cf. ἴδιον δεῖπνον 11:21). These could be consumed at any stage in the process.141 The eranos hypothesis (opt. (v))142 resembles the sequential hypotheses, in that it involves two stages. However, whereas the sequential hypotheses effectively propose two meals, a communal dinner followed by the bread and cup anamnesis, an eranos is a single dining event, with what other proposals identify as the communal meal corresponding to first tables, and with second tables involving a lighter course commencing with the bread anamnesis and concluding with the cup.143 It was common for some eranos guests to arrive between courses, and all were expected to bring a contribution. As such, the willingness of the wealthy to eat first tables without due regard to leaving adequate amounts of better food for those arriving at second tables would be the crux of the problem.144 Analogous concerns regarding distribution are familiar in other dining accounts (cf. Xenophon, Mem. 3.14.1). By way of narrowing this field, we can assume that the wealthier Corinthians regarded their own mealtime practice as consistent with Paul’s initial instruction,145 since his assertion that their meal is not the Lord’s Supper makes best sense against a backdrop in which they believe it is (cf. 1 Cor 11:20). Paul’s prior instructions would certainly have included the Dominical tradition referred to in the next section (11:24–25), since he says as much (11:23).146 On this basis, the order of the supper in Corinth is likely to have been bread, followed by the meal, followed by the cup. This is suggested by the expression μετὰ τὸ δειπνῆσαι (‘after supper’,

138. See for example Barrett, First Corinthians, 263–4; also Hofius, ‘Herrenmahl und Herrenmahlsparadosis’, 384–90. 139. Smith, ‘The Problem with the Observance of the Lord’s Supper’, 523–4. 140. See for example Theissen, Social Setting, 147–62; Hays, First Corinthians, 195. 141. Smith, ‘The Problem with the Observance of the Lord’s Supper’, 524–6. 142. See for example Coutsoumpos, Paul and the Lord’s Supper, 108–15. 143. See the outline order in Coutsoumpos, Community, Conflict, and the Eucharist in Roman Corinth, 16. 144. Smith, ‘The Problem with the Observance of the Lord’s Supper’, 526–7. 145. See Thiselton, First Corinthians, 868. 146. See the discussion in Benjamin A. Edsall, Paul’s Witness to Formative Early Christian Instruction, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2. Reihe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 85–6; also Theissen, ‘Soziale Integration Und Sakramentales Handeln’, 188.

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11:25).147 This problematizes the sequential hypotheses, since they place the meal before the bread.148 Moreover, Paul’s initial catechesis is likely to have included the socially expansive assertion that ‘all partake’ (10:17) of the bread. This would suggest that the poor would have been expected to be present for the bread anamnesis, thereby implying their availability for the meal that followed. As such, the more viable reconstructions are the ‘inhospitable’, ‘private-meal’ and ‘eranos’ hypotheses. The Corinthian crisis is likely to involve either that the wealthy consume better provisions to the exclusion of the poor who are present or perhaps that proceedings begin before some poorer members of the community arrive. The present argument narrows the field no further. Rather, the focus here is upon the crisis having arisen as a result of the collision between alternative accounts of the meaning of the symbol of the Lord’s Supper, and therefore alternative accounts of Jesus movement identity.149 Peter-Ben Smit helpfully analyses the Lord’s Supper in Corinth using the lens of Ronald Grimes’ work on ‘ritual failure’, proposing that the present pericope is a move in the direction of ‘ritual renegotiation’.150 The chief failure identified by Smit relates to the lack of ‘accepted conventional procedure’ regarding the distribution of food.151 Clearly, this is the case within the Corinthian community, since sufficient disquiet exists regarding the conduct of the wealthy to have brought the issue before Paul. Smit observes that as far as Paul is concerned, the wealthier Corinthians also ‘misframe’ the social purpose of the ritual.152 Though Smit’s work appeals to Grimes rather than to Geertz, his analysis is sympathetic to the present argument. What, in terms of Grimes, might be described as a misframing of the ritual is, in terms of Geertz, a misconception of the symbol. This is a ‘thicker’ problem than a mere semiotic mistake, since the performance of a symbol entails the gestured narration of meanings within a model of reality. In treating the poor thusly, the wealthier Corinthians posit meanings that Paul views as incongruent with the reality that is in Christ. It is also helpful to situate the crisis against the backdrop of identity construction in analogous commensal groups, since this gives some indication of the nature of the colliding practices and identities. Several recent discussions have drawn attention to the various social ends to which dining could be directed

147. The expression is tolerant of various readings. See Thiselton, First Corinthians, 882–3. 148. Pace Smith, who concludes in favour of the ‘sequential-sponsored’ hypothesis, see Smith, ‘The Problem with the Observance of the Lord’s Supper’, 542–3; Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 199. 149. See 5.2.3. 150. Peter-Ben Smit, ‘Ritual Failure, Ritual Negotiation, and Paul’s Argument in 1 Corinthians 11:17-34’, Journal for the Study of Paul and His Letters 3, no. 2 (2013): 165–93; also see Ronald L. Grimes, Ritual Criticism: Case Studies in Its Practice, Essays on Its Theory (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1990). 151. Smit, ‘Ritual Failure, Ritual Negotiation’, 177. 152. Ibid., 178–80.

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in Graeco-Roman associations by building upon the work of Claude Grignon.153 Grignon advanced a taxonomy of French dining habits, in which commensality can be classified as domestic or institutional, everyday or exceptional, and segregative or transgressive. By contrast with the intimacy of domestic meals, institutional commensality formally ‘reflects and reinforces the classifications, groupings and discriminations’ by which a group organizes itself.154 By contrast with the regularity of quotidian dining, exceptional commensality is festal or related to transitional events in the life of an individual or community.155 Lastly, by contrast with segregative meals, which emphasize the bounded nature of the group and its distinctiveness from the wider culture, transgressive commensality paradoxically reifies the asymmetries of prestige in a community by alleviating them briefly.156 Grignon provides useful categories for thinking about the interrelationship between dining practices, dining aims and social identity in any setting. For John Donahue, who utilizes Grignon, Graeco-Roman associations are typified by segregative dining, since the primary purpose of the association meal is to constitute the group by means of differentiation from those who are not invited.157 However, this is not the only pattern of dining associations pursued; exceptional and occasionally transgressive forms of dining also occurred and these situated the group and its aims more conservatively against the stratified norms of surrounding culture.158 The point is that association meals are performatively flexible: In one situation, a meal may reify a group’s distinctiveness, and generate in-group solidarity; in another, it may locate a group in relation to the agonistic hierarchy of its surroundings, such that the internal stratifications of the group are heightened. It is plausible to imagine something like this causing the ‘misframing’ in Corinth, with Paul emphasizing social distinctiveness and solidarity and the Corinthians social integration and stratification.159 As such, this is consistent with

153. John S. Kloppenborg, ‘Precedence at the Communal Meal in Corinth’, NovT 58, no. 2 (2016): 175–7; Richard S. Ascough, ‘Forms of Commensality in Greco-Roman Associations’, CW 102, no. 1 (2008): 35–6; John R. Donahue, ‘Toward a Typology of Roman Public Feasting’, American Journal of Philology 124, no. 3 (2003): 424–6; on comparison with associations more generally, see Schröter, ‘Die Funktion der Herrenmahlsüberlieferungen im 1. Korintherbrief ’, 85; Meeks, First Urban Christians, 158. 154. Claude Grignon, ‘Commensality and Social Morphology: An Essay of Typology’, in Food, Drink and Identity: Cooking, Eating and Drinking in Europe since the Middle Ages, ed. Peter Scholliers (Oxford: Berg, 2001), 26. 155. Grignon, ‘Commensality and Social Morphology’, 27–8. 156. Ibid., 28–31. 157. Donahue, ‘Toward a Typology of Roman Public Feasting’, 432–4. 158. Ascough, ‘Forms of Commensality in Greco-Roman Associations’, 38–40. 159. Smit, ‘Ritual Failure, Ritual Negotiation’, 177.

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Corinthian tendencies towards social assimilationism elsewhere,160 and it elicits a firm response from Paul. 5.4.2 The Dominical Tradition For I received from the Lord what I also handed over to you, that: On the night in which he was handed over, the Lord Jesus took bread,(24) and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said: ‘This is my body which is for your sake: do this in remembrance of me.’(25) Likewise, he also took the cup after supper saying: ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood: do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.’ (26) For whenever you eat this bread and drink the cup you proclaim the death of the Lord until he should come. (1 Cor 11:23–26)

That the appeal to the Dominical logia in these verses constitutes them as an authoritative ritual script has already been noted. However, though the tradition involves a meal sequence, the Dominical logia and some indication of its theological significance,161 it is not a cultic ordo.162 We can assume that the meal sequence is practically normative for the Corinthians but, as presented, it is light on detail, especially in relation to the communal meal which is only obliquely mentioned. In that sense, it is difficult to regard the ritual violation here as a technical misexecution of otherwise clear instructions; it is better understood as a misnarration of key elements of the interpretative frame surrounding the meal.163 As such, Paul’s appeal to the tradition is primarily an exercise in theological (re) framing or (re)narration; it is this which will enable the wealthier Corinthians to see their conduct as misconduct. Two elements of Paul’s response merit comment: (i) there is his presentation of himself as the mediator of the tradition; and (ii) there is his account of the tradition. In terms of Paul himself, the emphatic ἐγώ with which he begins verse 23 goes beyond drawing attention to his previous activity as transmitter of the παράδοσις, since this is equally well accomplished without the pronoun (cf. 1 Cor 11:2). Rather, the emphatic force draws attention to the relational context established by the act of transmission (‘I handed … to you’, 11:17).164 By means of this relational claim upon his audience, Paul indicates that he has the requisite status to frame the tradition theologically on their behalf (cf. 1 Cor 4:14–21). This is confirmed by his explicit beginning with the Lord (11:23). This suggests a chain involving at least

160. On the assimilationist tendencies of the Corinthian church, see Barclay, ‘Thessalonica and Corinth’, 184–8. 161. Edsall, Paul’s Witness to Formative Early Christian Instruction, 87. 162. Collin’s description of it as a ‘cultic etiology’ is helpful. See Collins, First Corinthians, 425. 163. Smit, ‘Ritual Failure, Ritual Negotiation’, 178–80. 164. See Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians, 436.

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three links: The Lord→Paul→the Corinthians. Robertson and Plummer suggest that the preposition Paul uses (ἀπό) suggests indirect reception via other human agents,165 but it is difficult to demonstrate this one way or another lexically.166 Either way, the reference to the Lord authorizes both the tradition and Paul as its bearer and interpreter. Regarding the terms Paul uses to denote the activities of transmission and reception (cf. παραδίδωμι/παραλαμβάνω in 1 Cor 11:23), these are hardly particular to the Pauline communities. They can designate tradition mediation in Greek literature (e.g. Plato, Theaet. 198b, Plutarch, Is. Os. 352c),167 a usage which resembles the deployment of the Hebrew terms māsǎr (‘hand over’) and qāḇǎl (‘receive’) in the transmission of Halakhah.168 A striking example of this latter usage is found in Mishnah ʾAbot, in which it is difficult to disentangle the activity of tradition transmission from location within the chain of transmission, and by extension from notions of personal authorization: Moses received Torah at Sinai and handed it on to Joshua, Joshua to elders, and elders to prophets. And prophets handed it on to the men of the great assembly. (m. ʾAbot 1.1a–b)169

In terms of the content of the tradition Paul transmits, there is little doubt that the material in verses 23b–25 corresponds both in form and in substance with his original teaching. Presenting a modified teaching as the original here would be asinine, since any audience with a memory would recognize the modification. None of this precludes there being a layer of Pauline interpretative activity accreted between his receiving the tradition and his initial transmission of it to the Corinthians,170 though if the καί at the beginning of the second clause of verse 23 is emphatic, then Paul perhaps disavows such a move. Though it is beyond the remit of this study to resolve the difficulties associated with the development of the tradition of the Words of Institution, it is instructive to summarize some

165. Robertson and Plummer, First Corinthians, 242; also Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 196; Héring, First Corinthians, 114. 166. Both ἀπό and παρά cover the sense sought by Paul here. See the respective definitions in BDAG. 167. Thiselton, First Corinthians, 867; Friedrich Büchsel, ‘παραδίδωμι’, in TDNT, ed. Gerhard Kittel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964), 2:171. 168. Fee, First Corinthians, 548; Gerhard Delling, ‘παραλαμβάνω’, in TDNT, ed. Gerhard Kittel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964), 4:12–13. 169. Emphasis added. 170. This idea appears in various guises in several classic studies and in the works dependent upon them. See for example Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 196–7; See Cullmann and Leenhardt, Essays on the Lord’s Supper; Jeremias, The Eucharistic Words of Jesus, 156; Schweitzer, Das Abendmahl im Zusammenhang mit dem Leben Jesu und der Geschichte des Urchristentums, 1:56–62.

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of the similarities and differences between the Pauline and Synoptic accounts, in the light of some of the preliminary observations made above.171 This will help in identifying the theological frame that accompanies the Pauline version, since reasserting the practical implications of this frame is Paul’s rhetorical aim in citing the tradition. Regarding the four primitive accounts of the Words of Institution (cf. Mark 14:22–25, Matt 26:26–29, Luke 22:15–20, 1 Cor 11:23–26 [also see Justin, 1 Apol. 66.9–12; ANF 1:185]), though the Markan and Matthaean versions are evidently most closely related, Luke has the most in common with Paul. However, the exact relationship between them is uncertain, since there are also minor agreements between Luke and Mark against Paul.172 The common element to all four accounts is the wording of the bread logion: τοῦτό μού ἐστιν τὸ σῶμα (‘this is my body’, 1 Cor 11:24).173 The principal differences are as follows:174 (i) Whereas Matthew/ Mark describe Jesus as having blessed the bread and given thanks for the cup (cf. εὐλογέω/εὐχαριστέω, Matt 26:26, 27, Mark 14:22, 23), Paul/Luke have him give thanks for the bread (cf. εὐχαριστέω, 1 Cor 11:24; Luke 22:19), an action repeated over the cup (cf. ὡσαύτως, 1 Cor 11:25, Luke 22:20).175 (ii) Words of instruction accompanying the act of presentation (cf. λάβετε, Matt 26:26, Mark 14:22) are absent in the Pauline and Lukan accounts.176 (iii) Words of remembrance after the presentation (‘do this in remembrance of me’, 1 Cor 11:24, 25) are absent in Matthew/Mark, present in single form in Luke only in relation to the bread (cf. Justin, 1 Apol. 66 [ANF 1:185]) and present in double form in Paul (1 Cor 11:24–25). (iv) The bread logion in Paul/Luke is glossed by the expression ‘for your sake’ (τὸ ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν, 1 Cor 11:24, Luke 22:19). (v) Finally, the form of the cup logion differs in Matthew/Mark (‘blood of the covenant’, Matt 26:28, Mark 14:24) and Paul/Luke (‘the new covenant in my blood’, 1 Cor 11:25, Luke 22:20).177 Evidently, the double-anamnesis formula is a distinctive element of the Pauline version of the tradition. This, in the absence of the Markan/Matthaean instruction to ‘take [eat]’ (Matt 26:26, Mark 14:22), might be read as an indication that remembrance and reception constitute alternative emphases within in a

171. See 2.4.1. 172. For example ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς (Luke 22:19, cf. Mark 14:22). 173. The different placing of μού in Matt 26:26, Mark 14:22 and Luke 22:19 is trivial. 174. This is not a comprehensive list. See the useful discussion in Fee, First Corinthians, 546–7. 175. This is clear in Justin (cf. εὐχαριστήσαντα in First Apology 66.9, 11–12). The Greek text here is The Apologies of Justin Martyr, ed. A. W. F. Blunt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1911). 176. Matthew inserts parallel consumption imperatives (φάγετε/πίετε, Matt 26:26, 27). 177. Some mss and witnesses evince attempts to harmonize the reference to the covenant/new covenant (e.g. A). Note also Matthew’s additional reference to ‘the forgiveness of sins’ (Matt 26:28).

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variegated early tradition.178 This would be an over-interpretation. The Pauline instruction ‘do this’ (τοῦτο ποιεῖτε, 1 Cor 11:24–25) manifestly links the acts of presentation, reception and repetition. Likewise, the Markan reference to the blood as a ‘covenant’ (Mark 14:24) connects the act of reception to the identity of the receiving community, whose ongoing ritual life encapsulates its founding events and the directedness of its present practice.179 Moreover, though the Pauline version is the earliest to be committed to writing, little can be inferred from this. Given the quarter-century between the event and the writing of 1 Corinthians, and the possibility that this tradition, like some of the παράδοσις in 1 Cor 15:1–11, originates in a pre-Pauline oral stratum, it cannot be assumed that Paul’s version is (or it not) the most primitive, or indeed that the theological ideas that frame it are (or are not) pre-Pauline. Moreover, the anamnesis formulae are central to the theological frame Paul seeks to re-establish among the Corinthians. If this were not clear from the comparison with the other traditions, it is certainly evident from the summarizing gloss in 1 Cor 11:26.180 There, the preceding anamnesis is framed as the proclamation of the death of Christ in the sharing of the bread and cup. Given the previous references to the establishment of κοινωνία with Christ by means of the bread and cup (10:16), and the entanglement of this with his antecedent death,181 the anamnesis evidently performs a significant integrative function. Taking both passages together, the ritual performance of the meal interweaves the founding events of the community (‘the death of the Lord’) and its eschatology (‘until he should come’), with its repetition and internalization of that narrative (‘whenever you eat … and drink’) and its actualization of this through the establishment of congruent patterns of social interaction. It is in this sense that the κυριακὸν δεῖπνον proclaims the death of Christ, and it is for that reason that the verb καταγγέλλετε (‘you proclaim’, 11:26) makes better sense as an indicative than as an imperative. Paul is not instructing the Corinthians to proclaim alongside the meal; rather, the re-performative aspect of the meal is the proclamation.182 The notion of collective remembrance through ritualized repetition is redolent of the work of Maurice Halbwachs. Halbwachs’s principal contribution in the area of memory studies was to observe the significance of social groups in sustaining the reality and determining the meaning of the recollections of the individuals of whom they are comprised. There is here a dialectic between remembrance

178. Schweitzer, Das Abendmahl im Zusammenhang mit dem Leben Jesu und der Geschichte des Urchristentums, 1:50–6. See 2.4.1. 179. Pitre, Jesus and the Last Supper, 17–18; Thiselton, First Corinthians, 884. 180. The causal conjunction γάρ indicates that v.26 is a gloss of what precedes, and the adverb ὁσάκις connects this verse concretely to the second Institution logion. See Garland, 1 Corinthians, 548; Thiselton, First Corinthians, 886. 181. See 5.3.3. 182. Garland, 1 Corinthians, 548.

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as a social and as an individual activity; though it is individuals who recollect, they do so on the basis of the testimony of the group.183 When individuals recall foundational events that they have not experienced directly, the collective and objectivized element of certain types of social memory as historical memory is made especially visible.184 Here, individuals depend upon the memory of others, over which they have little direct influence. This memory is solidified in the form of ‘conceptions, symbols’ and narratives.185 In this way Stephen Barton’s astute observation that ‘the Corinthian Christians are a group short on shared narrative and corporate memory’ explains Paul’s twin focus in these verses upon his own role as apostolic mediator of the tradition and on the death of Christ as the meaning of its symbolic centre.186 This also sheds light upon Paul’s rhetorical aims in these verses. It has already been noted that, for Paul, the narrative of the death of Christ orients the hope of resurrection by means of an embodied practice of non-identical repetition of Christ’s own self-effacement, and that this is a preparatory precondition for participation in his glory.187 In terms of mindset, the internalization of this is, for Paul, characterized by owning the interests of others and the ἀλλοτρίωσις (‘alienation’) of egotistical interests.188 This is enacted by means of Baptism into the oneness of Christ identity.189 This combination of identification, mindset cultivation and actualization of a foundational event by remembrance is redolent of the function of the ritual meal of Passover, in which members of an ongoing tradition learn, through identifying themselves with the exodus generation (m. Pesaḥ. 10.5e), to understand themselves as people of the covenant.190 It is also arguably tacit in the bread logion (τοῦτό μού ἐστιν τὸ σῶμα, 1 Cor 11:24) which, if the paschal association is correct, hints at ongoing redemptive participation in Christ’s death.191 For Paul, remembrance forms people in Christ identification by presenting Jesus life, death and resurrection as a narrative model for a new

183. Maurice Halbwachs, The Collective Memory, trans. F. J. Ditter and V. Y. Ditter, 1st ed. (New York: Harper & Row, 1980), 48; also see the useful discussion in Lucy Dallas, ‘Memory and Eucharist’, in Academic Vocation in the Church and Academy Today: ‘And with all of your mind’, ed. Shaun C. Henson and Michael J. Lakey (London: Ashgate, 2016), esp. 83–9. 184. Jan Assmann, ‘Collective Memory and Cultural Identity’, New German Critique 65 (1995): 128. 185. Halbwachs, The Collective Memory, 51–2. 186. Barton, ‘Memory and Remembrance in Paul’, 333; Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2:1347–8. 187. See 4.3.1. 188. See 4.3.2. 189. See 4.3.3. 190. See 5.3.2. 191. See Thiselton, First Corinthians, 873–4.

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exodus.192 This depends, of course, upon the integrity of the process, which is called into question by the agonistic or careless behaviours of the Corinthians towards the poor in their midst. 5.4.3 Warning and Paraenesis: The Consequences of Remembrance And so, the one who eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord unworthily will be held guilty of the body and blood of the Lord. (28) Let a person test himself or herself and thusly eat from the bread and drink from the cup. (29) For the one eating and drinking without distinguishing the body eats and drinks judgement against himself or herself. (30) On account of this, many among you are weak and sickly, and a quite a few are sleeping. (31) But if we judged ourselves, then we would not be judged. (32)But we, being judged, are being disciplined by the Lord, in order that we might not be condemned with the world. (33) And so, my brothers and sisters, when gathering to eat, wait for one another. (34) If anyone is hungry, let him or her eat at home, so that you might gather to an end besides judgement. And as for the remaining matters, I will give directions when I arrive. (1 Cor 11:27–34)

The present verses conclude the pericope by drawing out the paraenetical consequences of the preceding argument. There are three elements to this: (i) Paul’s verdict (1 Cor 11:27); (ii) an elaboration upon the verdict (11:28–32) and (iii) a closing peroration in which he draws the argument full circle (11:33–34). The first of these follows logically from his preceding statement regarding remembrance. The anamnesis is aimed at aligning Jesus devotees’ mindset, affects and practices with an account of the meaning of the narrative of his final meal and death (11:26). This alignment is also effected by means of a redemptive identification across time that alludes to Passover. However, several features of the wider context also bear here. These include the eschatology framing Paul’s use of the exodus and wilderness narratives (1 Cor 10:11), his retrojection of Jesus movement ritual idiomata onto these events (10:2–3) and, above all, the pneumatic participation in the divine presence that they, and his baptismal terminology (12:13), imply.193 Taken together, this is to suggest that the anamnesis ritual for Paul is not a purely narrative or semiotic affair;194 the symbol is ‘thick’ in the Geertzian sense of integrating Paul’s metaphysic and his ethic of Christ identification in a symbolic form rich enough to sustain both.195

192. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 2:1333–4; Barton, ‘Memory and Remembrance in Paul’, 334. 193. See the discussion in 5.3.1–5.3.2. 194. See Héring, First Corinthians, 119–20. 195. See, once more, Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 90.

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If so, then this goes some way towards addressing one of the exegetical difficulties with Paul’s verdict, namely his assertion that through eating and drinking ‘unworthily’ (ἀναξίως) one will become ‘guilty’ (ἔνοχος) of the body and blood of the Lord (1 Cor 11:27). The difficulty lies in identifying what precisely he means by ‘body and blood’, and this is related to the question of the sense of ἔνοχος. When, as here, ἔνοχος is accompanied by the genitive, its meaning is verdictive. However, this usage has several applications:196 (i) it can denote guilt vis-à-vis a corresponding punishment, for example ‘deserving of death’ (ἔνοχος θανάτου, Matt 26:66, cf. Gen 26:11 LXX); (ii) guilt in relation to that which is violated, for example ‘guilty of [breaking] all of it [the law]’ (πάντων ἔνοχος, Jas 2:10) or (iii) guilt in relation to the character of an offence itself, for example ‘becoming guilty of this one’s blood [i.e. death]’ (ενοχοι γειν[ονται τούτου τοῦ| αι[μ]ατος, P.Oxy. 404.41–42).197 Clearly, ‘the body and blood of the Lord’ is not a reference to a punishment, so the first of these is excluded. Nevertheless, the question remains as to which of the remaining uses might be viable. Since Paul nowhere describes the church as blood of Christ, the reference to ‘the body and blood of the Lord’ (1 Cor 11:27) likely denotes Christ or the elements. If ‘guilty of the body and blood’ designates that which is violated, then either reference is viable; if the expression denotes the character of the offence, then he specifically has in mind becoming responsible for Christ’s death (cf. Heb 6:6). In actuality, Paul likely denotes the former in relation to the elements with the consequent connotation of the latter in relation to Christ.198 This results from the integrative function of the meal ritual. As symbols, the bread and cup unite the meal with the event of which it is an anamnesis and actualization. Hence, to behave improperly towards the meal and its meaning is necessarily to be implicated in the violation of the death. This guilt is sufficiently serious that, if unresolved, it ‘will be’ (ἔσται, 11:27) an eschatological risk. Verses 28–32 address this risk. The logical structure of the argument is not taxing, though the verses have been subject to several competing readings.199 Briefly, a participant in the meal is to ‘test himself or herself’ (δοκιμαζέτω ἑαυτὸν, 11:28) and only participate as one who has successfully navigated self-examination. The criterion is ‘distinguishing the body’ (διακρίνων τὸ σῶμα, 11:29), though it is necessary to infer from the context what this might involve. What is clear is that failure exposes one to the ironic inversion of the ritual: a delinquent community does not ingest its own redemptive participation in Christ’s death; it ingests death and ‘judgement’ (κρίμα, 11:29). Paul suggests as much with the reference to the fact that ‘many’ (πολλοί) of the Corinthians have become ill and ‘quite a

196. See defn. A.II of ἔνοχος in LSL; and defn. 2.b in BDAG. 197. This is a fragment of the Greek of Herm. Sim. 10.4.3 (114). 198. Both ideas are evident in Hays, First Corinthians, 201; Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians, 445–6; Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 202; Fee, First Corinthians, 559. 199. See the discussion in Thiselton, First Corinthians, 891–4.

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few’ (ἱκανοί) have died.200 The inferential διὰ τοῦτο (‘on account of this’, 11:30), with which he introduces this observation, makes his causal claim regarding the relationship between these events and the ritual malpractice clear, as does the form of the conditional sentence in the next verse.201 These temporal consequences are distinct from the implied eschatological judgement (11:27), as they are oriented towards correction rather than condemnation (11:32). Regarding ‘distinguishing the body’ (1 Cor 11:29), we note that Paul’s use of διακρίνω (‘judge/distinguish’) here both parallels his usage in verse 31 (‘if we judged [διεκρίνομεν] ourselves’) and contributes to an elaborate pun involving a cluster of lexically related terms in the wider context: κρίνω (‘judge’, 11:31, 32), διακρίνω (‘judge/distinguish’, 11:29, 31), κατακρίνω (‘condemn’, 11:32), κρίμα (‘judgement’, 11:29, 34).202 Rhetorically, the effects of this are to cultivate a thematic concern with judgement and to tie the acts of ‘distinguishing/judging’ in relation to Christ and the meal and in relation to oneself, such that how one responds to the former and the latter are decisively linked. In terms of what the expression ‘distinguishing the body’ denotes, proposals have tended to opt for one of the following forms: (i) discernment as recognizing the sacred quality of the elements and specifically the difference between the eucharistic loaf and common bread;203 (ii) discernment as recognizing the church as body of Christ204 and (iii) discernment as recognizing the body as a synecdoche for the death of Christ.205 Gordon Fee’s discussion of these alternatives is insightful and bears summarizing. He observes that, in verse 29, Paul does not mention distinguishing the blood alongside the body, and that comparison with verse 27 indicates that the omission is intentional. There, the reference by means of the elements of the meal is to Christ’s death, whereas here σῶμα is invoked without the qualifying genitive,206 though a few witnesses insert τοῦ κυρίου.207 Arguing that this usage is sufficiently distinct from the preceding verses, Fee invokes the constitutive relationship between the

200. There is a useful comparison to be made here with the ‘destruction of the flesh’ in 1 Cor 5:5. See the discussion in Martin, Corinthian Body, 168–9. 201. ἄν in the apodosis reveals this to be a second-class (contrary to fact) conditional. Hence, ‘If we judged ourselves, then we would not be judged [but we do not, thus we are judged].’ See Daniel B. Wallace, Greek Grammar Beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament; with Scripture, Subject and Greek Word Indexes (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996), 694–6. 202. Various commentators have observed this. See for example Hays, First Corinthians, 201–2; Garland, 1 Corinthians, 550; Collins, First Corinthians, 435. 203. See for example Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians, 445–6; Héring, First Corinthians, 120. 204. See for example Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence, 153; Robertson and Plummer, First Corinthians, 252. 205. See for example Thiselton, First Corinthians, 893–4; Barrett, First Corinthians, 273–5. 206. Fee, First Corinthians, 563. 207. See for example C3 D F G.

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bread and the ecclesial body in 1 Cor 10:16–17, to argue that the reference here is to discerning the church.208 Barrett suggests that this ‘strains the meaning of the verb’,209 since differentiation is a primary sense of διακρίνω and it is difficult to apply this to differentiating the church per se. However, given that segregative dining is oriented towards strengthening the inner life of a community through an emphasis upon its bounded, hence differentiated, character, there may be merit in this reading.210 Indeed, such a move is arguably necessary if this argument is to constitute an actual riposte to the situation described in verses 17–22 of the present chapter. By way of resolving this interpretative tension, one might point to Mary Douglas’s discussion of the function of natural symbols, such as the body and its technologies, in mediating and representing the entirety of social existence.211 In the case of the Lord’s Supper, this involves treating the semiotically entangled primary identification of Christ’s body and the meal as the radiating centre of various secondary identifications. These include Christ and the social body of the community; the community and the baptized bodies of its members; and, significantly, the (poorer) members of the community and access to the meal. Since these associations together constitute, in Geertz’s terms, a ‘web of significance’,212 it is not possible to violate any one of them and maintain the order of the symbol. Hence, regardless of what precisely Paul denotes by σῶμα in verse 29 – the actual body of Christ’s death, the symbolic body of the ritual meal, the social body of the church or even the baptized bodies of οἱ μὴ ἔχοντες (1 Cor 11:22) – the end result is the same: To violate any of the secondary or tertiary identifications is to threaten the primary symbol and vice versa. This is to suggest that, like the proverbial threestrand cord, the death, the meal and the community are intertwined and mutually invoking.213 Indeed, it is part of the purpose of a symbol to effect this elision, so as to bestow what Geertz describes as ‘an aura of factuality’ on the world view that shapes the ritual.214 It is also apt to elaborate briefly upon the reference to illness and death in verse 30, in the light of Dale Martin’s observations regarding the role of pneumatic disruption in ancient disease aetiology. Martin notes the contrast between popularlevel approaches that emphasize invasion by foreign πνεύματα and the humoral imbalance theory that often prevailed in more educated circles.215 Identifying Paul

208. Fee, First Corinthians, 564. 209. Barrett, First Corinthians, 275; Barrett is responding to Moffatt, First Corinthians, 171. 210. Grignon, ‘Commensality and Social Morphology’, 28–31. 211. See for example Douglas, Natural Symbols, esp. 74. 212. Geertz, ‘Thick Description’, 5. 213. Stephen Barton makes a related point in relation to the juxtaposition of the Christic, ecclesial and individual bodies. See Barton, ‘Paul’s Sense of Place’, 241. 214. Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 90. 215. Martin, Corinthian Body, 164–8.

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as favouring the former approach and the Corinthians the latter, he identifies both Paul’s concern and their unconcern with somatic pollution as conforming to this taxonomy. In practice, there is no absolute dichotomy between these ways of understanding bodily disorder. Once again, Philo is helpful.216 On the one hand, he alludes to the humoral aetiology of disease by attributing ailments to polluted air (Gig. 10), yet, on the other, his discussion of the air as a cosmological region reveals it to be home to various entities, both benevolent and hostile (Gig. 6–8, 17–18). As such, it is possible that he regarded the invasion and imbalance theories of illness as complementary. How this relates to Paul’s understanding of the effects mentioned in verse 30 is uncertain. In the discussion of Corinthian Jesus devotees attending cult meals, it was argued that Paul’s reference to ‘spiritual food/drink’ (1 Cor 10:3–4) should be understood in the light of developments in the manna traditions of the Hebrew Bible.217 Some of these ideas, such as the description of the manna as heavenly food (Ps 77:25[78:25]) and the reference to it as ‘your substance’ (Wis 16:21 LXX), suggest consumption as consumption of the divine presence.218 In Pauline terms, this would entail transmission of πνεῦμα. Correspondingly, the consumption of idol food in a cult sanctuary implicates those who practise it in the sphere of demons, possibly involving the transmission of pollutant influences (PGM 1.1, 1.35–40).219 Certainly, if Martin’s account of Paul’s aetiology of disease is correct, then miasmaphagy would be a consistent explanation for illness. However, it may not be a sufficient explanation for the specific illnesses in verse 30. The reason for this is related to Mary Douglas’s famous description of ‘dirt as matter out of place’.220 In the case of the cult meals, the pollution is a consequence of consumption ‘as idol food’ (ὡς εἰδωλόθυτον, 1 Cor 8:7, cf. 10:28), which involves participation under conditions in which acknowledgement of the idol is analytic to the meal (cf. 10:20–21). Hence, the pollution arises from a double spatial dislocation. Firstly, the bodies of participant Jesus devotees are out of place in a pagan sanctuary τέμενος (cf. 3:16–17); secondly, the circumstances render the food polluted and thus out of place in the body of the Jesus devotee who is united in πνεῦμα with the Lord (cf. 6:17). In 1 Cor 11:30, this spatial logic is inverted and the issue seems instead to be the inappropriate management of holiness. Hence, the circumstances render the food holy, both by acknowledgement of the Lord’s death and by the transmission of the πνεῦμα. Also, the devotee is notionally in a congruently holy space, but the delinquent way in which the ecclesial space is being navigated misaligns the devotee with the ritual, thus rendering dangerous what would otherwise be an occasion of κοινωνία. Lietzmann cites Ignatius, who famously describes the bread

216. See further ibid., 166, 283n7. 217. See 5.3.1. 218. See Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, 167–73. 219. Martin, Corinthian Body, 188. 220. Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966), 36.

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as ‘medicine of immortality’ (φάρμακον ἀθανασίας, Eph. 20 [ANF 1:57]), and suggests that abusive or presumptuous access to the bread renders this ‘medicine’ harmful.221 There is some support for this in terms of stories in which the holiness of the divine presence is dangerous if access to it is not carefully managed and adequate ritual protections enacted (e.g. Exod 19:9–15, 2 Sam 6:6–7, Isa 6:1–7). By way of brief final comment, the discussion turns to Paul’s closing comments in 1 Cor 11:33–34. Having established the context and the problem (11:17–22), reframed it theologically by means of the Dominical tradition (11:23–26) and drawn out various paraenetical implications (11:27–32), Paul ends with two instructions: (i) ‘wait for one another’ (ἀλλήλους ἐκδέχεσθε, 11:33) and (ii) if one is hungry, ‘eat at home’ (ἐν οἴκῳ ἐσθιέτω, 1 Cor 11:34). The former obviously bears upon the occasion for the crisis, and it lends itself to a temporal reading of the problem, but does not require it.222 The latter is evidently prophylactic of the abuse and confirms the analysis here. 5.4.4 Section Summary The present section has concluded the discussion of the Lord’s Supper by analysing 1 Cor 11:17–34. It was seen that the crisis in Corinth is the result of divisive dining practices during the communal meal element of the ritual, and that these practices concretely disadvantage poorer members. What is ostensibly an issue of mealtime logistics is a ritual failure requiring theological framing, and a careless or agonistic misperformance of what, for Paul, should involve the in-group solidarity characteristic of segregative dining. The consequent reiteration of the previously presented Dominical institution tradition, and the subsequent paraenetical elaboration on this by Paul, was significant for framing this theologically by means of the symbolic action of remembrance. This has multiple aspects: (i) It draws upon the paschal imagery and associations attached to the Supper to cultivate a sense of connection across time between the Corinthian community and a foundational narrative. (ii) By means of natural symbolism, it cultivates a sense of continuity of identity between various bodies, whether ecclesial, christic, ritual or individual. (iii) This reconnects the meal to the model of Jesus movement form of life advanced in previous chapters, such that the lack of attention to the needs of the poorer members is exposed as incongruent and egotistical rather than selfeffacing. (iii) Related to this are the suggestions that not only are the constitutive symbols and obligations of the ecclesial community communicated by means of the ritual, but also its constitutive pneumatic reality. This informs the discussion of illness and pollution in the paraenetical section of the argument and further supports the thesis advanced here that the meal is a symbol in the Geertzian sense.

221. Hans Lietzmann, An die Korinther I-II (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (P. Siebeck), 1923), 61. 222. See the discussion in Thiselton, First Corinthians, 898.

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5.5 Conclusion In the context of the overall argument of this volume, the aim of this chapter has been to offer a symbolic reading of the Lord’s Supper passages in 1 Corinthians in the light of discussions of Pauline metaphysics and form of life. By way of summary, the survey of Paul’s metaphysics revealed the following:223 (i) His moral and material discourses occupy multiple frames. (ii) His approach to materiality resembles an apocalyptically ruptured popular-level Stoic sapientialism. His view of the structure of the cosmos is redolent of apocalyptic, and he has a correspondingly ambivalent view of the spirit world. (iii) One element of this idiosyncratic synthesis is that Paul understands salvation, at least in part, as glorification, namely cosmic elevation. This has a penultimate (cf. Gal 4:1–10) and an ultimate (cf. 1 Cor 15:45–49) aspect, both of which are associated with the transmission of the liberating/glorifying πνεῦμα. (iv) His ecclesiology is cosmic, unitive and, by analogy with temple texts, liturgical. This informs his theology of Baptism, which ritually effects the mutual unification of the ecclesial and somatic spheres by means of πνεῦμα transmission/incorporation. The form of life Paul advocates is basically congruent with this.224 The following was noted: (i) His emphasis upon the indicative reality of the infusivetransformative πνεῦμα begs the question of whether any of his imperatives are necessary, but this is partially resolved by attention to the manner in which he treats mimesis of Christ as a performative-constitutive act: it narratively effects participation in and alignment to Christ. (ii) Christ-mimesis is modelled in Phil 2–3, where Paul’s emulatory practice (3:10) evokes and internalizes Christ’s humility and self-effacement (2:5–11). (iii) This is also spelled out in relation to freedom in Gal 5:13–26. There, Paul has in mind liberation/elevation as a precursor to the voluntary ἀλλοτρίωσις (‘alienation’) of egotistical interests for the sake of another. Again, this is a dense evocation of the mindset encoded by the Christ narrative. (iv) Finally, the liturgical cosmology of the preceding discussion is given practical form in Paul’s account of baptismal unity in 1 Cor 12. Here, the notion of the community as ideally representative cosmic space informs both the ritual of entry and the ethos, mood and mindset congruent with mutual membership of the body by means of the πνεῦμα. The present chapter has explored the symbolic value of the Lord’s Supper against this theological and ethical backdrop. As this is an exploration of the implications of the work of Clifford Geertz for the topic, the discussion began with an analysis and evaluation of his account of the role of symbols. This included their function in generating affects and cognitions that sustain the overall cogency and congruence of a religious world view. In terms of the Lord’s Supper itself, the relevant passages (1 Cor 10:14–22, 11:17–34) present quite different crises from one another, along with different responses. However, the passages are complementary, together

223. See Chapter 3. 224. See Chapter 4.

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suggesting some of the ways in which, as a symbol, the Lord’s Supper might be understood to integrate the preceding material. The following observations are not exhaustive, but they do illustrate this point. One of the most significant common elements in each pericope concerned the relationships between spatial, cultic and social boundedness, and between this, segregative identity and in-group solidarity. In the case of 1 Cor 10:14–22, the most obvious boundaries invoked are social and cultic. However, we also note the cosmic resonances at play in Paul’s description of the significance of the bread rite and the echoes of liturgical cosmology that can be discerned in related discussions.225 That this is simultaneously a constitutive moment in the formation of a community of solidarity with the Lord and one another is to highlight the implied ethos-forming aspect of these boundaries. That the κοινωνία it performs is mutually exclusive of that established in cult meals with the demons is to align the cosmological and the social aims of the rite with Paul’s generally sombre account of cosmic opposition. In the case of 1 Cor 11:17–34, the issue is not so much the boundary with the world as artificial boundaries within a congregation that is notionally one but whose κοινωνία belies this.226 Also significant here are narrative, memory and eschatology. As noted above, when a community dines, it imbibes its identity, history and mode of organization.227 These are narratively ordered. In the case of the Lord’s Supper, this ordering takes the form of concentric patterns of narrative formation; the meal is an anamnesis of Christ’s death,228 which in the case of the comparison with sacrificial meals may even bear analogy with the antecedent θυσία with which other cult meals are ritually entangled.229 In this regard, the ritual remembrance of the death of Christ by means of a community meal is a way of re-presenting that death to the community for mimesis. This weighs particularly heavily upon the wealthier Corinthians, whose conduct has been concretely disadvantaging to at least some of their poorer fellows. However, by means of the paschal associations suggested in both passages, the death of Christ is itself narratively entwined with the exodus narrative, and with a wider set of eschatological correspondences that presuppose a cosmic scope and future orientation to the ritual. Both elements, continuity with a sacred past and orientation towards an eschatological fulfilment, are suggested in Paul’s appeal to the exodus and wilderness narratives.230 The correspondence Paul draws is between two communities that have each experienced penultimate liberation from slavery (Egypt/the στοιχεῖα) but which have not yet arrived (The Promised Land/eschatological glorification). As such, this echo narratively

225. 226. 227. 228. 229. 230.

See 5.3.2. See 5.4.1. See 5.2.3. See 5.4.2. See 5.3.3. See 5.3.1.

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situates the practice of the meal within the eschatological-metaphysical framework identified above. Finally, it is important to note the way in which spatial, cultic and material discourses interact with Paul’s account of spirit in his ritual thought. This was noted above in relation to Baptism, in which the permeability of the somatic and ecclesial boundaries and the fluidity of the divine presence interact at the moment of ritual incorporation. Baptisands are received into ecclesial space, but in turn receive into their own bodies the animating principle of the space whose boundaries they have just penetrated.231 One might point to similar ideas in both of the Lord’s Supper passages: the first in relation to the polluting effects of participation in meals in cult sanctuaries;232 the second in relation to the dangerous holiness of the divine presence when the Supper ritual is abused.233 The point is not that there is a straightforward equivalence between these processes; rather, it is to observe that the interplay between Paul’s approach to space and his view of the πνεῦμα has been shown to have important ramifications for the way in which these aspects of his metaphysic might be ritually actualized. As such, these connections expose further congruences that shape his ritual world. This is by no means a comprehensive account of the ways in which the Lord’s Supper symbolically integrates the different elements of Paul’s world-view model. To this end, the final word is reserved for N. T. Wright’s helpful summary, which captures the shape of the argument of the present chapter: [The Lord’s Supper] is a rite in which a ‘founding myth’ was rehearsed, … a rite in which the worshippers share the life of the divinity being worshipped, though the divinity in question is a human being of recent memory; … a rite dependent upon a prior sacrifice, albeit the very strange one of the crucifixion of that same human being; … a rite which should bind the community together, so that signs of disunity during the rite are a contradiction of its inner meaning … a rite which, if thus performed in the wrong way, will have bad consequences for that community. … This was indeed part of a religio, even though it was quite unlike anything that had been imagined before.234

231. 232. 233. 234.

See 4.3.3. See 5.3.4. See 5.4.3. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 1347–8. Emphasis in original.

Chapter 6 THE RITUAL WORLD OF PAUL’S EARLY INTERPRETERS: BAPTISM AS A CASE STUDY

6.1 Introduction The preceding chapters of this study explore aspects of the writings of Paul in the light of the observation by Clifford Geertz that religious symbols establish and maintain congruence between what a community or thinker believes regarding the ordering of the world (metaphysics) and beliefs and practices that indicate the social valuations, habits and ends that organize such communities (form of life). Chapters 3 and 4 explore significant elements of Paul’s metaphysic and form of life, applying this to the topic of Baptism as it appears in select Pauline texts. Chapter 5 explores some of the ways in which this discussion bears upon the two pericopae in 1 Corinthians that discuss the Lord’s Supper. It was seen that these two nodal ritual practices constitute and are informed by Paul’s distinctive understanding of the way in which the spirit of God operates in the church and especially in relation to Paul’s distinctively cosmic and locative body/temple ecclesiology. The current chapter contributes to this analysis by considering ways in which Paul’s stance might be received and played out in the context of subsequent baptismal theology. This is, of course, to beg the question of whether and in what ways Paul’s thought is played out in the traditions that follow. Part of the difficulty here lies in the fact that receptions of Paul are generally intertextual affairs involving other New Testament corpora. This entails some judgement as to how readings of the Pauline materials are shaped by this interaction. Another area of concern relates to the nature of the present argument. At least some of the discernment of the congruences between Paul’s metaphysic, form of life and religious symbolism involves attending to elements of his writings in which these connections are tacit rather than explicit. Yet, this poses the question of how one might register, let alone measure, ways in which subsequent writers might have attended to these tacit elements of Paul’s theology. These points, in turn, render pressing the question of the continuity or discontinuity of the tradition. The stance taken here is that though it is unwise to assume continuity between Paul and his subsequent interpreters, it is no wiser to assume discontinuity. With these observations and questions in mind, the aim of the present chapter is to explore whether, and if so how, elements of my reading of Paul relate to a range

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of source materials in the subsequent tradition. The argument proceeds in three sections: (i) a consideration of early theological, namely apologetic and epistolary, sources that allude to Pauline texts whilst discussing Baptism; (ii) a consideration of early liturgical texts, specifically church orders and (iii) a discussion of Pauline elements in the works of two notable writers in the Syriac tradition, Aphrahat and Ephrem. If the above reading of Paul is germane to his reception in any or all of these traditions, then one might expect to find some or all of the following ideas expressed in these works in connection with Pauline texts: Baptism as somatic or cosmic incorporation, the community of the baptized as contra-distinct from an antagonistically ordered present cosmos, and some association between both and the pneumatological and cosmological aspects of Paul’s thought. Other elements might include attention to the ecclesial sphere as temple space, to incorporation as liberating or glorifying, and to the ethical ramifications of either. Lastly, one might look for evidence that discussions of the πνεῦμα were being framed by ancient material discourses, though with appropriate attention to recent studies of Paul in which there is a lively debate about whether the πνεῦμα itself is material or undetermined.

6.2 Greek and Latin Theological and Apologetic Works It is worth noting at the outset that if the reading of Paul advanced in previous chapters is correct, then it offers a counterbalance to the standard view in some liturgical studies that Pauline baptismal themes are primarily to do with dying and rising (cf. Rom 6). This is an oversimplified appropriation of the evidence. Despite this, it is a common enough reading. Take, for example, the otherwise fine work of Gabriele Winkler, who regards dying and rising to be ‘alien’ to the earliest stratum of baptismal theology,1 but who does not sufficiently consider the question of whether Pauline baptismal motifs other than a supposed ‘death mysticism’ are available.2 If my reading of Paul is correct, Winkler’s alternative to Pauline ‘death mysticism’ – the Johannine ‘birth into the eschatological reality’3 – is not dissimilar from the locative, eschatological, regenerative pneumaticism of Pauline baptismal ecclesiology in Galatians and 1 Corinthians. Whether these texts were ever alluded to in early patristic baptismal materials remains to be seen. As such, the connection in Galatians between Baptism, the gift of the spirit, and sonship – whether described in procreative (Gal 3:29) or adoptive (Gal

1. She has in mind predominantly early eastern theologies. 2. Gabriele Winkler, ‘Original Meaning of the Prebaptismal Anointing and Its Implications’, Worship 52, no. 1 (1978), 24–45: esp. 40–1. It ought to be clear that I am not commenting upon Winkler’s reading of the liturgical materials, only the interpretative categories that she brings to the NT. 3. Winkler, ‘Original Meaning of the Prebaptismal Anointing and Its Implications’, 43.

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4:5) terms – is redolent of the Johannine emphasis in Winkler’s taxonomy.4 In any event, this suggests that the reception history of Pauline texts in this context merits reconsideration. The present section of the chapter does this by means of a discussion of Justin Martyr, Tertullian and Clement of Alexandria. 6.2.1 Justin Martyr When Jesus had gone to the river Jordan, where John was baptizing, and when He had stepped into the water, a fire was kindled in the Jordan; and when He came out of the water, the Holy Ghost lighted on Him like a dove, [as] the apostles of this very Christ of ours wrote. Now, we know that he did not go to the river because He stood in need of baptism, or of the descent of the Spirit like a dove; even as He submitted to be born and to be crucified, not because He needed such things, but because of the human race, which from Adam had fallen under the power of death and the guile of the serpent, and each one of which had committed personal transgression. (Justin, Dial. 88 [ANF 1:243])5

It is evident from this somewhat elaborated account of Jesus’s Baptism that the sequence of fire on the water, Baptism and the descent of the dove are connected to the mediation of the spirit in Justin’s baptismal theology. In terms of explicit Pauline allusions, the reference in this passage to those who ‘from Adam had fallen under the power of death … and each one of which had committed personal transgression’ is similar enough in tone, structure and content to constitute a meaningful allusion to Rom 5:14 in which ‘death exercise[s] dominion from Adam … even over those whose sins were not like the transgression of Adam’. However, the Greek of these two phrases is too dissimilar for this to be anything more than a loose paraphrase. Similarly, the reference to ‘the deceit of the serpent’ (πλάνην τὴν τοῦ ὄφεως) has resonances with both Gen 3:1 and 2 Cor 11:3, the latter of which alludes to the former. Unfortunately, the specific expression used by Justin resembles neither the Genesis nor the Pauline version sufficiently closely to indicate which version he has in mind. In terms of the ‘fire … kindled in the Jordan’, this gloss on the gospel narratives demonstrates the continuity between Justin and the early Syriac tradition. There

4. Though it is probably going too far to link this passage in Paul with the early Syriac motif of the font as a womb, this reading of Paul would, in its own way, be as tolerant of such a liturgical performance as John 3. Ibid., 44; see also (especially) Simon Jones, ‘The Womb and the Spirit in the Baptismal Writings of Ephrem the Syrian’, Studia Liturgica 33, no. 2 (2003), 175–93. 5. Emphasis added. See also E. C. Whitaker and Maxwell E. Johnson, Documents of the Baptismal Liturgy, rev. ed. (London: SPCK, 2003), 3–4; references to the Greek text are taken from Justin, Dialogue avec Tryphon, texte Grec, traduction Française, introduction, notes et index, ed. Georges Archambault, 2 vols., Textes et documents pour l’étude historique du Christianisme (Paris: Libraire Alphonse Picard et Fils, 1909).

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is fragmentary evidence that Tatian (Diat. 4.36 [ANF 9:50]) may have known of the motif, though it is preserved in a reference in a commentary on the New Testament by Isho‘dad of Merv.6 As to what Justin means by the idea, one cannot be entirely clear.7 Is the fire a theological elaboration, a narrative inference or an oblique allusion to some liturgical practice by means of which scriptural narrative and theology are integrated and performed? One might be tempted to speculate as to whether the reference to multiple moments in the narrative (fire, Baptism, dove) somehow reflects a baptismal rite, since it lends itself to a model of the rite comprising several discrete stages (e.g. epiclesis, Baptism, anointing). This was indeed a feature of later church orders; the Apostolic Constitutions describe a prayer of epiclesis before Baptism (Const. Apost. 7.43 [ANF 7:477]) and episcopal unction afterwards (Const. Apost. 3.16 [ANF 7:431]). However, Justin’s account of the rite is sparser (cf. 1 Apol. 61–65 [ANF 1:183-85]),8 making mention neither of a prayer nor of anointing, whether beforehand or afterwards. In this, he resembles the simplicity of the Didache.9 Theologically, the run of Justin’s preceding argument in the Dialogue has concerned the messianic significance of the sevenfold gift of the spirit (Dial. 87, cf. Isa 11:1). It is this christological discussion which sets the scene for the consideration of the role of the spirit in Jesus’s Baptism. As might be expected, he is careful to eschew any negative christological consequences that might be attached to this. The spirit rests on Jesus not because of any pre-baptismal need. Rather, for Justin, this happens in order to indicate that in Jesus’s ministry the Old Testament office of prophet is consummated and thus brought to an end. Accordingly, the reference to the fire on the water is not an indication that Justin understands Jesus to receive the spirit in Baptism according to the mode of an

6. See the translator’s footnote at 4.36: ‘and straightway, as the Diatessaron testifieth, light shone forth’. Susan Myers discussion of Justin and Tatian (and other Syriac literature) is very useful here. See Susan E. Myers, Spirit Epicleses in the Acts of Thomas, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2. Reihe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), esp. 126–8, nn. 51, 53. 7. Literature on the liturgical significance of the Baptism abounds. See for example Kilian McDonnell, The Baptism of Jesus in the Jordan: The Trinitarian and Cosmic Order of Salvation (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1996); Kilian McDonnell, ‘Jesus’ Baptism in the Jordan’, TS 56, no. 1 (1995); Stephen Gero, ‘The Spirit as a Dove at the Baptism of Jesus’, NovT 18, no. 1 (1976); Leander E. Keck, ‘The Spirit and the Dove’, NTS 17, no. 1 (1970). 8. See also Whitaker and Johnson, Documents of the Baptismal Liturgy, 2–3. 9. By way of caveat, note the debate over the ‘stinoufi’ prayer in the Coptic version of 10.8, which may be evidence of the blessing of oils in the Didache tradition. See Dominika A. Kurek-Chomycz, ‘The Sweet Scent of the Gospel in the Didache and in Second Corinthians: Some Comments on Two Recent Interpretations of the Stinoufi Prayer in the Coptic Did. 10.8’, VC 63, no. 4 (2009); Joseph Ysebaert, ‘The So-Called Coptic Ointment Prayer of Didache 10,8 Once More’, VC 56, no. 1 (2002); Stephen Gero, ‘The So-Called Ointment Prayer in the Coptic Version of the Didache: A Re-Evaluation’, HTR 70, no. 1/2 (1977).

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ordinary baptisand – someone actually in need of the rite – still less that the water somehow mediates the gift of the spirit to Jesus. Indeed, one might even argue that the fire has as plausible a claim to be christological as it does to be pneumatological, namely the water ignites because it is Jesus who steps into it. It is worth noting that elsewhere Justin does describe Christ angelomorphically: as the ‘fire from a bush’ that addressed Moses (1 Apol. 62–63 [ANF 1:183–84]). By way of further brief comment, we note that though Justin understood Jesus to have had no ordinary need of Baptism, his submission to the rite is crucial to the argument of the present passage nonetheless. This is because Jesus’s Baptism is both like and unlike other Baptisms: Though it is archetypical of Christian initiation generally it is unlike other Baptisms by being a paradigmatic and aetiological event. Justin hints at this when he notes that Jesus submitted to Baptism ‘on behalf of humanity’ (ὑπὲρ τοῦ γένους τοῦ ἀνθρώπων),10 a statement redolent of the request of Jesus in Matthew to be baptized to ‘fulfil all righteousness’ (Matt 3:15). Consequently, though in the specific case of Jesus the question of baptismal theology is complicated by Christology, the application of this story to Christian Baptism strongly hints in the direction of the mediation of the work of the spirit by means of the water. An obvious way of signifying this narrative motif liturgically would be a prayer of epiclesis. It also ought to be apparent that though this mediation is not expressed in explicitly Pauline terms, it is tolerant of the type of Pauline reading I outline above. 6.2.2 Tertullian Justly does the evangelist write, ‘The Law and the Prophets (were) until John’ the Baptist. For, on Christ’s being baptized, that is, on His sanctifying the waters in His own baptism, all the plenitude of bygone spiritual grace-gifts ceased in Christ, sealing as He did all vision and prophecies, which by His advent He fulfilled. (Adv. Jud. 8 [ANF 3:160])11

We note, in passing, the striking similarity, at the level of content, between the preceding excerpt from Adversus Judaeos and Justin’s Dialogue. Like Justin, Tertullian connects the event of Jesus’s Baptism with the completion and termination of the Old Testament prophetic office. This is, in turn, associated with ‘sanctifying the waters in His own Baptism’ (sanctificante aquas in suo baptismate). It is beyond our remit here to speculate on the reason for the similarity. At one level, it would be surprising if the question of Christ’s fulfilment of the prophecies were not a stock topic arising repeatedly and independently in

10. Though Coxe’s translation of ὑπὲρ as ‘because of ’ is perfectly acceptable lexically, ‘on behalf of ’ is better contextually. See ὑπὲρ in BDAG. 11. Translation S. Thelwall. Emphasis added. References to the Latin text are taken from Tertullian, Q.S.F. Tertulliani Adversus Iudaeos: Mit Einleitung Und Kritischem Kommentar, ed. Hermann Tränkle (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1964).

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literature of this type. Nevertheless, that there is some sort of topical association or analogy, whether literary or tradition-critical, between these two passages seems likely given the multiple correspondences. Tertullian was certainly aware of Justin’s apologetic works (cf. Adv. Val. 5 [ANF 3:506]), but in the final analysis this does not prove dependence. Despite this, Tertullian is particularly useful as an interpretative interlocutor for the reference in Justin to the ‘fire kindled in the Jordan’. As was seen, the narrative context made it difficult to determine whether, for Justin, the fire was christologically or pneumatologically instigated. Arguably, a similar ambiguity is present in Tertullian’s account of the sanctification of the waters. In the present passage, it seems to be Christ who sanctifies the waters. Elsewhere, and with specific reference to the baptismal liturgy, Tertullian (Bapt. 4 [ANF 3:670–71]) attributes the agency of sanctification to the spirit, who at epiclesis (invocato deo) comes to ‘rest over the waters, sanctifying them from Himself ’ (supervenit enim … superest sanctificans eas de semetipso).12 Tertullian is conceptually more generous to his readers than Justin on this point, in that he goes some way towards describing his understanding of the metaphysics of the spirit’s agency in sanctification, though it is shaped around a typological reading of Scripture. Central to his position is the allusion to the brooding over the waters in Gen 1:2. Describing this event as ‘a holy thing … hovered over a holy’ (sanctum super sanctum ferebatur, Bapt. 4.5 [ANF 3:670]), he goes on to outline how this effected the transfer of sanctity, and thus life, to the waters in the Creation narrative. In ‘every case’ (quaeque, 4.7), he argues, in which one material overlays another, the properties of the covering material are transferred into that which is covered. This image is not one of impression – like a seal and wax – but is rather one of penetration/reception.13 In a likely allusion towards the image of Wisdom (cf. Wis 7:23–24),14 Tertullian suggests that this process of penetration applies to the spirit par excellence, by the ‘subtleness of its substance’ (substantiae suae subtilitatem, 4.9). Due to their having received the substance of sanctity in this manner, the waters in the Creation narrative (and, by extension, those used in Baptism) acquire the same capacity to overlay and thus to transmit sanctification. That this is a material process is clear. What merits some further consideration is that it is also a tacitly generative process. In the first place, we note that the material transfer of πνεῦμα was the active element in ancient procreative models (Aristotle, Gen. an. 728a, Galen, Sem. 1.2, also Wis 7:1–2).15 Secondly, we note the strong association at the level of both popular and elite discourse between

12. English transl. Thelwall. References to the Latin are taken from Tertullian, Tertullian’s Homily on Baptism, Edited with an Introduction, Translation and Commentary, ed. Ernest Evans (London: SPCK, 1964). 13. Cf. cult space, the body and penetration by the πνεῦμα in 4.3.3 and 5.4.3. 14. This is difficult to determine, since Tertullian predates the Vulgate. The similarity of subject matter and the presence of Latin cognates of some of the LXX terminology means that such a case may well be worth making. 15. See further Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 116; Martin, Corinthian Body, 200–19.

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fluidity, passivity, receptivity, porosity and female sexual identity.16 Thirdly, the somatic taxonomy of active and receptive roles in generation is understood to be mimetic of broader cosmological processes of coming to be and passing away (e.g. Plato, Tim. 51a4–5).17 Fourthly, and most significantly, Tertullian actually employs reproductive terminology, describing the waters as having ‘conceived/become pregnant’ (concepit, Bapt. 4.10)18 with the power of sanctification.19 Significantly, the water’s reception of the power of regenerative sanctity is distinct from the baptisand’s reception of the spirit, which seems to be associated with subsequent unction and imposition of hands (Bapt. 7–8 [ANF 3:672]). One does not obtain the Holy Spirit ‘in the water’ (in aqua, 6.1), he claims; rather, ‘in the water, under the angel’ (in aqua … sub angelo, 6.1) one is cleansed in preparation for reception of the Gift. It is not precisely clear what Tertullian means to say about Baptism by mentioning angels. The text to which he alludes typologically is the story of the angel at the Pool of Bethsaida (John 5:1–18). But whether the angels are, as in the story, instrumental to the process or merely witnesses (Watchers) to it is debatable.20 What is clear, however, is that Tertullian understood the spirit’s role to be at least twofold. Firstly, there is pneumatic cleansing; then, there is the reception of the spirit proper. This entire event is understood theologically to involve the recovery of the image and likeness of God (Gen 1:27), these two terms forming some manner of protological-eschatological contrast between image, which is

16. See variously, G. E. R. Lloyd, ‘The Hot and the Cold, the Dry and the Wet in Greek Philosophy’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 84 (1964): 92–106; Aline Rousselle, Porneia: On Desire and the Body in Antiquity, trans. Felicia Pheasant (Oxford: Blackwell, 1988), 26; Anne Carson, ‘Putting Her in Her Place: Woman, Dirt and Desire’, in Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, ed. David M. Halperin, John J. Winkler and Froma I. Zeitlin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 142. 17. Brown, The Body and Society, esp.17; see also Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 149– 53; though Tertullian was by no means a platonist the various references to the receptacle in Plato’s cosmogony illustrate this general point: see David T. Runia, ‘Plato’s Timaeus, First Principle(s), and Creation in Philo and Early Christian Thought’, in Plato’s Timaeus as Cultural Icon, ed. Gretchen J. Reydams-Schils (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2003). 18. 3p, sg, perf. ind. act. of concipiō. See defn. in Charlton Thomas Lewis, An Elementary Latin Dictionary: With Brief Helps for Latin Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984). 19. Tertullian’s language is at times inconsistent in its employment of gender, cf. the reference ‘to the gestation of the Divine Spirit’ (divini spiritus gestationem) in Bapt. 5.22. 20. Regarding a possible association between baptism and the Watchers traditions see (NT): Eric F. Mason, ‘Watchers Traditions in the Catholic Epistles’, in The Watchers in Jewish and Christian Traditions, ed. Angela Kim Harkins, Kelley Coblentz Bautch and John C. Endres (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014), 75–6; also (Syriac tradition): Hellholm, et al., Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism, 1142.

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‘in form/semblence’ (in effigie, Bapt. 5.43), and likeness, which is ‘in eternity/ immortality’ (in aeternitate, 5.43). In Pauline terms this is redolent of the AdamChrist comparison in regard to the resurrection body (1 Cor 15:44–49). Indeed, Tertullian elsewhere touches on this passage (Res. 47 [ANF 3:579–80]). The notion of the recovery of Adamic glory, together with the play on the distinction between ‘image’ and ‘likeness’, is a common topos in Second Temple Judaisms, Rabbinic Judaism, the Pseudepigrapha and Pauline Christianity, among others (cf. 1 Cor 11:7, 4Q504 fr.8, Lev. Rab. 20.2, Vit. Ad. 13).21 In Pauline terms, one might also think of being transformed into the image of the Lord ‘from one degree of glory to another’ (2 Cor 3:18) or of being ‘clothed with Christ’ (Gal 3:27). Echoes of Pauline notions of cosmic elevation are not far from the surface of this discussion.22 The argument in previous chapters is broadly consistent with the notion that Tertullian’s argument is tolerant of the reading of Paul proposed above. To go further than this, although here his explicit citations are taken from Genesis and John, Tertullian’s governing interpretative framework is indebted to Paul. He regards Baptism as pneumatically mediating, though there are differences between Paul’s spatial and cosmological approach to the transmission of the πνεῦμα and Tertullian’s notion of the contact-transfer of sanctity by means of overlay and penetration. Other shared topoi include both writers treating generation and cosmogenesis as metaphysically analogous, and narratively connecting this with the Adam-Christ typology. Though this suggests a strong Creation/New Creation contrast in Tertullian’s work, the idea of this typology as entailing a strong cosmological boundary between church and world is only really apparent in his treatment of cosmic relocation in the baptismal apotaxis and syntaxis. He returns to this topic repeatedly, whether by explicit reference (e.g. De Cul. Fem. 2.1 [ANF 4:18], Spec. 4 [ANF 3:81]) or by passing allusion (Monog. 10 [ANF 4:67]). Though in De Corona Tertullian is keen to note that the shape of the baptismal rite with which he was familiar is not directly warranted by Scripture, and thus by implication that apotaxis-syntaxis has no obvious precedent beyond the customary practice of the church as it developed and as he inherited it (Cor. 3 [ANF 3:94]), this does not prevent him from framing the moment in Pauline terms. As might be expected, he employs the apotaxis for hortatory purposes, since it represents a decisive turning from the world according to which various norms ought to follow. His usage is suggestive of strong sectarian boundaries between the church and wider society, such that these two social domains map onto a vigorous cosmological-soteriological dualism of Christ and Belial (De Cul. Fem. 2 [ANF 4:18], cf. 2 Cor 6:15). Of course, this opposition to Belial typifies sectarian and apocalyptic Judaisms in general and is not uniquely Pauline. Moreover, several

21. For a summary of some of the secondary literature, see Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 111; for the Rabbinic reference see Jacob Neusner, A Theological Commentary to the Midrash, vol. 4: Leviticus Rabbah, Studies in Ancient Judaism (Lanham: University Press of America, 2001), 81. 22. See 3.3.1 and 3.3.2.

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of Tertullian’s references and allusions to apotaxis are accompanied by allusions to Pauline texts, most of them from 1 Corinthians. These include the judging of the angels by the Holy Ones (Monog. 10 [ANF 4:67], De Cul. Fem. 2 [ANF 4:18], cf. 1 Cor 6:3),23 the typological use of the exodus (Bapt. 9 [ANF 3:673], cf. 1 Cor 10:1-18)24 and the debate over the purity of the issue from mixed marriages (An. 39 [ANF 3:219–220], cf. 1 Cor 7:14). This example is not specifically concerned with apotaxis, but it mentions Baptism and it maps the domains of church and world in a manner sympathetic to the reading of Paul proposed above. 6.2.3 Clement of Alexandria ‘As many as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ’. … There are not, then, in the same Logos, ‘Gnostics’ on the one hand and ‘Naturals’ on the other; rather, all who have abandoned fleshly desires are equally ‘Spirituals’ before the Lord. οὐκ ἄρα οἱ μὲν γνωστκοὶ, οἱ δὲ ψυχικοὶ ἐν αὐτῷ τῷ λόγῳ, ἀλλʼ οἱ πάντες ἀποθέμενοι τὰς σαρκικὰς ἐπιθυμίας ἴσοι καὶ πνευματικοὶ παρὰ τῷ κυρίῳ. (Paed. 1.6.31)25

In considering Clement, it is necessary at the outset to acknowledge the difficulties. Firstly, there is the relative dearth of baptismal references in extant editions of his work. Though he mentions Baptism, he is not like Tertullian, who peppers his arguments with explicit references to either the actual or the idealized liturgical practice of the church.26 What lies behind this difference is difficult to determine. There is also the specific polemical direction of Clement’s work. True, both Justin and Tertullian also wrote to polemical ends. However, the texts examined in the sections above are directed primarily against Jewish opponents,27 whereas for the most part Clement has encratite and gnostic Christianities in his cross hairs. Interpretatively, this makes his deployment of Paul more complicated, since sectarian Christians also appeal to Paul theologically (e.g. Gos. Phil. 56.26 cf. 1 Cor 15:50).28 Consequently, the texts upon which Clement elects to stand his ground

23. See 3.3.1. 24. See 5.3.1 and 5.3.2. 25. Orig. trans. Coxe, ANF 2:217, modif. Lakey. References to the Greek text of Clement are taken from Titus Flavius Clemens, Clementis Alexandrini opera, ex recens, ed. Carl Wilhelm Dindorf, 4 vols. (Oxonii: E Typographeo Clarendoniano, 1869). 26. See Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church, 315. 27. Tertullian also wrote polemically against a number of opponents and Justin against Marcion (work now lost), but neither discussion is addressed here. 28. See variously, Elaine H. Pagels, ‘The Valentinian Claim to Esoteric Exegesis of Romans as Basis for Anthropological Theory’, VC 26, no. 1 (1972); Elaine H. Pagels, ‘Mystery of the Resurrection: A Gnostic Reading of 1 Corinthians 15’, JBL 93, no. 2 (1974); Elaine H. Pagels, The Gnostic Paul: Gnostic Exegesis of the Pauline Letters (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975); Karlfried Froehlich, Which Paul? Observations on the Image of the Apostle in

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may well reflect terrain chosen by his opponents rather than by him. Add to this that his characterization of their views is likely to be less than even-handed.29 A detailed consideration of these issues is beyond the scope of the present argument. In any case, that Clement and his adversaries both appeal to Paul only serves to illustrate that questions about and arising from the Pauline corpus shaped some early patristic biblical interpretation, whether catholic or otherwise. One of the most important of such questions concerns the relationship between Baptism and theological anthropology. The specific debate is illustrated particularly well in the excerpt above: in the use of several significant Pauline anthropological terms (πνευματικός, ψυχικός, and σαρκικός/σάρκινος).30 The literature on Paul’s usage of these terms – indeed, on his anthropological terminology generally – is substantial.31 This particular lexical nexus occurs frequently in the Corinthian correspondence, but with especial density in 1 Cor 2:6–3:4, in a passage devoted to the relationship between anthropology and epistemology. The chief interpretative difficulty is that Paul and his Corinthian interlocutors share this terminology, but perhaps not a common understanding. Do the terms σαρκικός, ψυχικός and πνευματικός constitute a threefold anthropological taxonomy of non-Christians, ‘Natural’ Christians, and ‘Spiritual’ Christians respectively? If so, is this taxonomy common to both Paul and his interlocutors? Where one begins determines in large part one’s conclusions. If one assumes that Paul’s anthropology is tripartite, then there is probably enough in the passage for that reading to appear prima facie plausible. However, if one begins with the rhetorical aims of the passage, then one will conclude that Paul’s underlying anthropology is bipartite, and that he seeks to respond to the πνευματικός/ψυχικός distinction as it is held by the Corinthians.

the History of Biblical Exegesis, ed. Bradley Nassif, New perspectives on Historical Theology: Essays in memory of John Meyendorff (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995); Gilles Quispel, ‘Valentinus and the Gnostikoi’, VC 50, no. 1 (1996); Gilles Quispel, ‘The Original Doctrine of Valentinus the Gnostic’, VC 50, no. 4 (1996); Christoph Markschies, ‘Nochmals: Valentinus und die Gnostikoi. Beobachtungen zu Irenaeus, “Haer.” I 30,15 und Tertullian, “Val.” 4,2’, VC 51, no. 2 (1997); Mark J. Edwards, ‘Pauline Platonism: The Myth of Valentinus’, StPatr 35 (2001). 29. See the reference to the work of Langerbeck and Schottroff in Pagels, ‘The Valentinian Claim to Esoteric Exegesis of Romans as Basis for Anthropological Theory’, 242. 30. See the relevant definitions in BDAG. 31. See for example Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 58–61; Thiselton, First Corinthians, 225–6; Gregory E. Sterling, ‘Wisdom among the Perfect: Creation Traditions in Alexandrian Judaism and Corinthian Christianity’, NovT 37, no. 4 (1995); Richard A. Horsley, ‘Pneumatikos vs. Psychikos: Distinctions of Spiritual Status Amongst the Corinthians’, HTR 69, no. 3/4 (1976); also see relevant sections of Robert H. Gundry, Sōma in Biblical Theology: With Emphasis on Pauline Anthropology, Society for New Testament Studies monograph series (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976).

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These difficulties bear upon the quotation from Clement above. Partly due to issues such as this, mid-twentieth century exegesis tended to read Paul (anachronistically) as either proto- or anti-gnostic. In the case of Clement and the Valentinians, it is known that Valentinian receptions of Paul understood him as being fundamentally sympathetic to their threefold anthropological and soteriological taxonomy. Quite apart from evident allusions to these three categories (cf. Tri. Tract. 118.14–19.27),32 there is also the Valentinian assertion that Paul himself stands at the head of their interpretative school. That they made such a claim is attested in Clement (Strom. 7.17 [ANF 2:555]), who is hardly the friendliest of witnesses. Regarding the present text, what is interesting about Clement’s argument is the way in which he employs a Pauline baptismal passage as a means of obtaining leverage over the disputed anthropological terminology. This anthropological excursus exists in a baptismal inclusio, it being preceded by a quotation from Gal 3:26–29 and immediately followed by a second quotation from 1 Cor 12:13. In terms of wider context, Clement introduces this section with a discussion of precisely how the terms ‘children’ and ‘infants’ (παῖδες καὶ νήπιοὶ) of God (Paed. 1.6.25, cf. 1 Cor 3:1) might be applied to Christians. Apparently with one eye on the pretentions of his opponents towards esoteric knowledge, he is careful to deny that this terminology has any bearing upon sufficiency or otherwise of catholic teaching. Rather, he argues, to be a child of God is to be complete. Baptism is a moment of complete (τὸ τέλειον) and immediate (εὐθέως) regeneration, expressed in filiative terms, and which coincides with the experience of illumination. He writes: ‘we were enlightened, which is to know God’ (ἐφωτίσθημεν τὸ δὲ ἔστιν ἐπιγνῶναι τὸν θεόν 1.6.25). This connection between Baptism, generative imagery, the reception of the spirit and theological epistemology is redolent of various passages in the Pauline corpus and not solely in 1 Cor 2:6–3:4. One thinks especially of the references to the cry of the spirit of Adoption in Romans and Galatians (Rom 8:15, Gal 4:6). Clement’s primary register of terms in this discussion most closely resembles 1 Corinthians. However, the reference to the Galatians baptismal expression (Paed. 1.6.31, cf. Gal 3:26–29), and the subsequent extended, almost verbatim, quotation of Gal 4:1–5 (Paed. 1.6.34) tends to suggest that his reading of Paul is synthetic in approach. Given this intertextual matrix, it is surprising that he makes no mention of the cry of filiation: ‘Abba, Father’ (ἀββα ὁ πατήρ Gal 4:6). Certainly, this appears in other, albeit later, baptismal materials in the form of the Lord’s Prayer (e.g. Const. Apost. 3.18, 7.44 [ANF 7:431, 477]).33 It may well be that Clement’s silence

32. The enumeration used here follows that in The Nag Hammadi Scriptures, ed. M. W. Meyer (New York: HarperOne, 2007). 33. For an example of this in the Syriac tradition, see Sebastian P. Brock, ‘A Remarkable Syriac Baptismal Ordo (BM Add. 14518)’, ParOr 2(1971): 372–5. This is much later than the period examined here; see also, Sebastian P. Brock, ‘Studies in the Early History of the Syrian Orthodox Baptismal Liturgy’, JTS 23, no. 1 (1972): 22, 61; further afield, see the note

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on this issue has to do with the particular purpose for which he writes, but it is at least worth noting that the presence of both the Greek (ὁ πατήρ) and its Aramaic cognate (ἀββα) in Gal 4:6 is strong evidence that this is a Dominical tradition. If so, then the liturgical association of the Lord’s Prayer with the reception of the spirit may predate as well as postdate Clement. 6.2.4 Section Summary This section has explored the way in which Pauline ritual and theological themes are taken up in Justin, Tertullian and Clement. Whilst Justin’s writings appear tolerant of some of the themes and ideas considered in previous chapters, the writings of Tertullian and Clement engage with Paul more explicitly and in a more thoroughgoing manner. In particular, Tertullian’s quasi-materialist approach to the metaphysics of Baptism and the transmission of sanctity by the π νε ῦμα echoes some of the logic of space and penetration by the π νε ῦμα in Baptism in Paul, though the arguments are by no means identical. Nonetheless, there is evidence in these texts of the liturgical performance of baptismal theologies with meanings framed by the Pauline theology described here, though these meanings have been reframed and repurposed for the specific ends to which these authors write.

6.3 Church Orders Having examined possible avenues of Pauline reception in early Greek and Latin theological and apologetic works, it is apt to examine some materials that are more explicitly liturgical in their direction. To this end, the present section briefly considers two significant early church orders, the Didache and the Apostolic Constitutions. 6.3.1 The Didache 1

Thus baptize ye: Having first said all these things, baptize into the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, in living water (ἐν ὕδατι ζῶντι). 2 But if thou have not living water, baptize into other (εἰς ἄλλο) water; and if thou canst not in cold (ἐν ψυχρῷ), in warm (ἐν θερμῷ). 3 But if thou have not either,

in Narsai, The Liturgical Homilies of Narsai, trans. R. Hugh Connolly, Texts and Studies: Contributions to Biblical and Patristic Literature (Cambridge: University Press, 1909), 82: ‘with it [the Our Father] do they complete all the rites (or mysteries) of Holy Church’; also, see Ephraem’s comment on Gal 4:6, which reads the ἀββα reference as designating the Lord’s Prayer: cf. Ephraem Syri, Commentarii in Epistulas D. Pauli, nunc primum ex Armenio in Latinum sermonem translati (Venice: Lazarus, 1893), 133.

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pour (ἔκχεον) out water thrice upon the head into the name of Father and Son and Holy Spirit. (Did. 7.1–3 [ANF 7:379])34

As has already been observed, the Didache is relatively economical regarding ritual detail. What is fairly evident is that the author understands there to be a sequence of initiatory stages, beginning with instruction (Did. 7.1), then Baptism (7.2–3), followed by stipulations regarding fasting and the Lord’s Prayer (8), and culminating in the eucharistic rite (9). The present excerpt regarding baptismal ablutions has already been mentioned above, but it is worthwhile expanding upon it briefly.35 Of the three modes of water acceptable to the author – (i) ‘living’ (viz. running), (ii) ‘other’ and (iii) ‘pour[ed]’ – references to the first and third are the most instructive. Clearly, the contrast between ‘living water’ (ὕδωρ ζῶν) and options (ii) and (iii) implies that, regardless of differences in volume and temperature, the latter are static bodies. Likewise, the contrast between the final mode of administration (‘pour[ing]’) and the others differentiates it from immersion/submersion on the one hand and aspersion on the other.36 Of course, it may be that that options (i) and (ii) involve affusion whilst standing in water. If this were so, then the key characteristic of the third ablution would be its scope: It involves only the head. The view taken here is that the absence of the preposition ἐν in the final example lends some support to the immersion reading for options (i) and (ii), but that this is not decisive. In terms of possible antecedents, comparisons with Jewish ritual ablutions may well be appropriate, whether in the form of temple practices, actual or ideal, or in the form of sectarian patterns of purification (cf. 1QS 5.10).37 In terms of biblical allusions, this particular passage is relevant to the present argument insofar as references to ‘living water’ are routinely cited as evidence of an early predominance of Johannine baptismal imagery over Pauline – and of course John 4:10 is evoked here. Note, however, that this is not the only, or perhaps even the strongest, biblical allusion suggested in this passage. Numbers 19:17–19 (LXX) describes a purificatory ablution in which ‘living water’ (ὕδωρ ζῶν v.17) and ash from the burnt offering are poured (ἐκχεοῦσιν v.17) into a vessel for the purposes

34. References to the Greek text from Holmes, The Apostolic Fathers, Greek Texts and English Translations, 354; also see Whitaker and Johnson, Documents of the Baptismal Liturgy, 1–2. 35. See 2.3.3. 36. See the definitions of ἐκχέω (‘pour’) and ῥαντίζω (‘sprinkle’) in BDAG; LSL. 37. On this, see Jonathan A. Draper, ‘Ritual Process and Ritual Symbol in Didache 7-10’, VC 54, no. 2 (2000): 133–4; see also David E. Aune, ‘Paul, Ritual Purity and the Ritual Baths South of the Temple Mount (Acts 21:15-27)’, in Jesus, Gospel Tradition and Paul in the Context of Jewish and Greco-Roman Antiquity: Collected Essays II, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013).

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of aspersion.38 We note though, that in terms of specifically Pauline references, there are no obviously viable candidates here. 6.3.2 The Apostolic Constitutions By contrast with the Didache, explicit allusions to the Pauline corpus pepper the baptismal sections of the Apostolic Constitutions. These passages include various ideas and interpretations mentioned above. Two texts are worthy of note, specifically: Apostolic Constitutions 2.7 and 3.16–18 (cf. 7.39–45), together with, where relevant, corresponding sections of the Didascalia. Those who are baptized into the death of our Lord Jesus are obliged to go on no longer in sin; for as those who are dead cannot work wickedness any longer, so those who are dead with Christ cannot practice wickedness. (Const. Apost. 2.7.1 [ANF 7:398])39

At one level, there is little distinctively Pauline in the assertion that Baptism has paraenetical implications for the initiated. Despite this, an emphasis upon the behavioural ramifications of initiation is a characteristically Pauline topos (cf. Rom 6:1–14, 1 Cor 6:11, 10:1–14, 12). The present excerpt’s reference to Baptism ‘into the death of the Lord Jesus’ (εἰς τὸν θ άν ατον τοῦ κ υρίου Ἰησ οῦ) makes this plain, since it manifestly alludes to Rom 6:3 (εἰς Χρισ τὸν Ἰησ οῦν, εἰς τὸν θ άν ατον αὐτοῦ). The purpose of the allusion is to provide a scriptural warrant for a strongly worded exhortation towards repentance for post-baptismal misdemeanours. That it should be absent from the corresponding section of the Didascalia is significant,40 as is the additional absence of reference in the earlier text to the possibility of reconciliation. This serves to illustrate the way in which later materials absorb, recontextualize and thus re-signify earlier strata of the tradition.41 It also offers tentative

38. George van Kooten’s observations regarding Philo’s cosmological reading of this ritual is interesting and, given the present argument, provocative. See Geurt H. van Kooten, Cosmic Christology in Paul and the Pauline School: Colossians and Ephesians in the Context of Graeco-Roman Cosmology, with a New Synopsis of the Greek Texts, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2. Reihe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 71–3, esp.72; cf. Philo, Spec. 1.266. 39. References to the Latin and Greek, are taken from, Didascalia et Constitutiones apostolorum, ed. F. X. von Funk, trans. F. X. von Funk (Paderbornae: Ferdinandi Schoeningh, 1905). 40. ‘Non enim credimus, fratres, lotum quemquam adhuc agere gentilium exsecrandas iniquitates, quoniam notum est omnibus, quod, si quis peccaverit iniquum aliquid post baptismum, hic in gehenna condemnatur’, Didascalia 2.7. 41. Draper, ‘Ritual Process and Ritual Symbol in Didache 7-10’, 131; also Bradshaw, The Search for the Origins of Christian Worship, 75–6. Draper refers specifically to this section of

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support for Winkler’s assertion that a ‘Pauline baptismal theology of dying and being buried with Christ’ is a relatively late development within eastern baptismal thought.42 Nevertheless, the presence of this motif does not establish the absence of others; for example Const. Apost. 2.7.2 (ANF 7:398) refers to Baptism as ‘the washing of life’ (τὸ τ ῆς ζωῆς λουτρ ὸν), but there is no immediate association made with Christ’s resurrection. As has already been observed, it is important to note that the death-resurrection motif is not the only baptismal imagery available in Paul.43 This observation helpfully anticipates the second passage, in which various Pauline allusions occur. Chief among these is the Rom 6:3-influenced reflection on baptismal participation in Jesus’s death and, specifically, the performative significance of the liturgical sequence of water, oil, seal and ointment (Const. Apost. 3.17 [ANF 7:431]). However, though Const. Apost. 3.16–18 develops the Rom 6:3 motif more fully in scope than 2.7.1, its reading of Paul is not fundamentally more developed in substance. Nevertheless, it is situated in a larger body of reflection indebted to the Pauline corpus. The most tantalizing possible allusion to Paul is found in 3.16, in which the author mentions prebaptismal unction ‘with the holy oil, for a type of the spiritual Baptism’ (εἰς τ ύπον τοῦ πνευματικοῦ βαπτίσματος). The term τ ύπος is perhaps the key term here. It occurs relatively infrequently in the Pauline corpus: eight instances in total, with five in the undisputed epistles (Rom 5:14, 6:17, 1 Cor 10:6, Phil 3:17, 1 Thess 3:9). Of these, only two correspond to either scriptural or liturgical typology (Rom 5:14, 1 Cor 10:6). The immediate context suggests that this is the operant sense of τ ύπος in the present passage. Given that it is in 1 Cor 10:1–6 that we find Old Testament archetypes typologically associated with specifically liturgical New Testament ectypes, this is the likelier candidate of the pair. Of course, it is possible that there is no allusion to Paul here. However, the other vocabulary present in the passage (βάπτισμα cf. 1 Cor 10:1, πνευματικός cf. 10:2), not to mention Paul’s association of Christ with the waters from the rock (cf. 10:4), are extremely redolent of some sort of connection.44 Note also that 1 Cor 10 is a fairly common topos in early patristic baptismal reflection (e.g. Tertullian, Bapt. 9 [ANF 3:673]).45 At the least, this suggests a wider set of Pauline allusions than death-resurrection. Let him that is to be baptized be free from all iniquity; … the heir of God the Father, the fellow-heir of His Son (κληρονόμος πατρός, συγκληρονόμος δὲ τοῦ

Bradshaw, but the wider discussion in this section of the volume is also useful. 42. Winkler, ‘Original Meaning of the Prebaptismal Anointing and Its Implications’, 40. 43. See my earlier critical comments in regard to Winkler. 44. On some of the interpretative issues attached to this, see Kreitzer, ‘1 Corinthians 10:4 and Philo’s Flinty Rock’. Also see 5.3.1. 45. See the examples cited in Judith L. Kovacs, 1 Corinthians: Interpreted by Early Christian Commentators (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 160–2.

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υἱοῦ αὐτοῦ); … praying as a son to his father, and saying, as from the common congregation of the faithful, thus: ‘Our Father, which art in heaven.’ (Const. Apost. 3.18 [ANF 7:431])

The final allusion in our second passage is a hermeneutically literal performative reading involving the Lord’s Prayer, such as was hinted at but not explicitly found in the discussion of Clement of Alexandria. The first liturgical act of the newly baptized is to face east and to utter the Our Father. The logic of the reading is straightforward and turns on the reference to ‘heir of God the Father, the fellowheir of His Son’. This is a reference to the expression ‘heirs of God, fellow heirs of Christ’ (κληρονόμοι μὲν θεοῦ, συγκληρονόμοι δὲ Χριστοῦ) in Rom 8:17. The close association of this reference with the neophyte’s recitation of the Lord’s Prayer identifies the latter as a ritual enactment of the cry of filiation in Rom 8:15. As such, the prayer constitutes the initial liturgical manifestation of the presence of the ‘Spirit of Adoption’ (πνεῦμα υἱοθεσίας Rom 8:16) after Baptism: The first utterance of the new creature is ‘Father!’ and this cry is uttered by means of the newly received spirit. Significantly, this is an example of a liturgical use of the Bible in which a text is invoked explicitly to serve an interpretative framework constituted by another text which is only obliquely referenced. That this particular interpretative frame derives from Romans is interesting, but not in the final analysis significant, since it is clear that the same ideas are more often sustained in relation to Gal 4:6. Note also that on the subsequent occasion in which the author refers to this practice (Const. Apost. 7.44 [ANF 7:477]), the emphasis is upon the prayer being offered upright, so as to perform the resurrection. Evidently, this practice is tolerant of various interpretative warrants. 6.3.3 Section Summary Though the Didache is relatively short on Pauline baptismal allusions, the examination of relevant sections of the Didascalia and Apostolic Constitutions demonstrates that the repertoire of Pauline themes and ideas is considerably wider than the death mysticism of Rom 6:3. It is likely that the typological correspondences in the exodus midrash of 1 Cor 10:1–11 are in view. There is also the intriguing example of a gospel text – the Lord’s Prayer – being used ritually to perform a Pauline theological motif – the reception of the “Spirit of Adoption” in Baptism (cf. Rom 8:16, Gal 4:6).

6.4 Syriac Works The present section offers a brief examination of some of the ways in which Syriac materials – specifically Aphrahat and Ephrem – utilize Paul. As is evident in some of the references cited above, the Syriac tradition is a potentially fruitful avenue for investigating the liturgical employment of Pauline texts, particularly the connection between liturgy, theology and biblical hermeneutics in this period.

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6.4.1 Aphrahat Aphrahat cites Paul sufficiently often and with sufficient variety to render it beyond the scope of the present investigation to consider every reference in every available work. What follows is a brief description of select examples of this variety, followed by a more substantial account of the argument of one text in particular (Dem. 6.14, cf. 6.18 [NPNF2 13:371 cf. 13:374]). (i) The first example is Aphrahat’s discussion of the place of Christ and the spirit in Pauline temple ecclesiology (Dem. 1.5 [NPNF2 13:346], cf. 1 Cor 3:10–16). (ii) The second is his account of the hortatory implications of Baptism (among various other topics) in Dem. 6.1 ([NPNF2 13:362] cf. 1 Cor 3:16-17, cf. Eph 4:22–30). (iii) Finally, there is his deployment of the Gal 3:26 statement regarding baptismal unity to support his preference for the celibate state: the ‘solitaries … rejoice. There is neither male nor female’ (Dem. 6.6 [NPNF2 13:367–68]).46 These examples hint at possible connections between Aphrahat’s reading of Paul and the thesis advanced above. In the first example, the reference to 1 Cor 3:10–16 is potentially significant because of the association in the passage with the temple; the interrelationship between spatial, ritual and arguably cosmological considerations is a major feature of this motif.47 Unfortunately, however, none of these issues is brought to the fore by Aphrahat in this passage. The hortatory references in the second example might also be amenable to further examination, since it is apparent that the temple motif is at least implied. However, there is little sustained attention to the explication of this theme here, since Aphrahat peppers this section with biblical allusions from various corpora. The final example is perhaps the most intriguing. Attention to the context reveals Aphrahat to have connected Baptism (Gal 3:26–28), not only to sexual abstinence (cf. 1 Cor 7), but also to the tradition of the angelic Watchers. These are not fallen agencies as in the Nephilim accounts (Gen 6:1–4, 4Q530–532, 1 En. 6–8, Vit. Ad. 5:1–2), since they are described positively as ‘Watchers of heaven’ (Dem. 6.6 [NPNF2 13:367], cf. Tertullian, De Virg. Vel. 7 [ANF 4:31–31]).48 Nonetheless, the nomenclature indicates the place occupied by these cosmological narratives in Aphrahat’s hermeneutic – as indeed, was true of Paul (cf. 1 Cor 11:10). Let us prepare our temples for the Spirit of Christ, and let us not grieve it that it may not depart from us. … For from baptism do we receive the Spirit of Christ. For in that hour in which the priests invoke the Spirit, the heavens open and it descends and moves upon the waters. And those that are baptized are clothed in 46. For an analysis of some of the issues attached to Aphrahat’s advocacy of the celibate state, see Naomi Koltun-Fromm, ‘Sexuality and Holiness: Semitic Christian and Jewish Conceptualizations of Sexual Behavior’, VC 54, no. 4 (2000); Eliyahu Lizorkin-Eyzenberg, Aphrahat’s Demonstrations: A Conversation with the Jews of Mesopotamia, Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium (Leuven: Peeters, 2012). 47. See 3.3.3. 48. Emphasis added.

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it; for the Spirit stays aloof from all that are born of the flesh, until they come to the new birth by water, and then they receive the Holy Spirit. (Dem. 6.14 [NPNF2 13:371–72]) 49

The intertextual character of Aphrahat’s hermeneutical engagement with Paul is particularly apparent in this section of the sixth Demonstration. Here, the temple motif reoccurs once more, thereby evoking again the imagery of 1 Cor 3:12–13. This is linked by a subsequent allusion to the exhortation of Eph 4:30 that one should avoid grieving the spirit, and by extension also to the rite of Baptism at which juncture the deposit of the spirit is received. It may be that Aphrahat, like Paul,50 associates the combined reference to the temple and to the spirit of God in 1 Cor 3:16 with the accounts of the building of the First Temple (cf. 1 Chr 29:2), and the events of its dedication (cf. 2 Chr 7:1). Whether this is the case or not, it is certainly true that, though he understands Baptism to involve the spirit’s transmission, Aphrahat’s focus here is chiefly directed towards living harmoniously with the spirit which is received at Baptism. This is a preparatory precondition of the spirit’s ongoing mediation, advocacy and future agency in resurrection. The rite of Baptism itself is located hermeneutically at the nexus of several scriptural passages thematically concerned with the spirit and presented as a dense, compound allusion (Dem. 6.14 [NPNF2 13:371-72]). These include the Baptism of Jesus (Matt 3:16 cf. ‘the heavens open’); the first day of Creation (Gen 1:2 cf. ‘it descends and moves upon the waters’); the Pauline baptismal statement (Gal 3:26–28 cf. ‘baptized are clothed in it’) and Johannine procreative imagery (John 3:5 cf. ‘come to the new birth by water’). Nevertheless, Aphrahat’s understanding of the baptismal event is shaped both narratively and metaphysically by a theological anthropological reading of Paul that merits some consideration. This reading is structured around the discussion of the First and Second Adams in 1 Cor 15:45. It turns in the first instance on Aphrahat’s reference to Paul’s quotation of Gen 2:7, in which Adam is created as a ‘living soul’ (cf. εἰς ψυχὴν). It is something of a commonplace that biblical anthropologies focus upon the human person qua organism, a position James Barr pithily describes as Adam ‘does not have a soul …, he is one’.51 Barr goes on to caution against this stance, arguing that the npš hyh (Gen 2:7) actually

49. Additional references to Graffin’s edition of Aphrahat are given in footnotes. See Aphraatis Sapientis Persae Demonstrationes, vol. 1–2, Patrologia Syriaca, ed. René Graffin (Paris: Instituti Francici, 1894–1905). Hereafter, PS. 50. See for example Christian Wolff, Der erste Brief des Paulus an die Korinther, Theologischer Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1996), 72–3. 51. Emphasis added. James Barr, ‘Scope and Problems in the Semantics of Classical Hebrew’, in Bible and Interpretation: The Collected Essays of James Barr, ed. John Barton and Ernest W. Nicholson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 684; see also the relevant definitions in HALOT.

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denotes a totality of two elements, dust and breath, namely an anthropologicalmaterial duality. Arguably, something like this pertains in Aphrahat’s reading of the expression. Adam the ‘living soul’ is the prototype of the person animated by the ‘animal spirit’, with which subsequent human beings (and beasts) are born. This contrasts with the experience of baptismal regeneration in which ‘a particle of Godhead’ is infused into the baptisand (Dem. 6.14 [NPNF2 13:371–72]).52 At death, the ‘heavenly spirit’ returns to Christ, to await the call to resurrection, whereas the ‘animal spirit’ sleeps with the body. As Bogdan Bucur notes, this is a recurrent motif in Syriac Christianity.53 It is also, for various reasons, an extremely interesting contrast. It is redolent, both functionally and formally, of the opposition in the Qumran thanksgiving hymns between the ‘spirit of flesh’ common to all humanity and the ‘divine spirit’ granted exclusively to the elect (1QH 4.25, 5.19–25). It also evokes two significant Pauline anthropological contrasts: (i) that between flesh and spirit as rival constitutive realities of acting and knowing (κατὰ σάρκα vs. κατὰ πνεῦμα, Rom 8:4, Gal 5:16– 25, also 2 Cor 5:16); and (ii) that between the adjectives ψυχικός and πνευματικός, which when used anthropologically have similar constitutive and epistemological applications (cf. 1 Cor 2:6–16, 15:44–49).54 It is worth making brief final mention of the implied substantiality of the pneumatic transfer at Baptism and at resurrection. That Baptism involves ‘a particle of Godhead’ has been noted. However, the pneumatological aspects of Aphrahat’s doctrine of the resurrection also deserve mention. He goes on to describe how, on returning to Christ, the ‘heavenly spirit’ intercedes on behalf of those who maintained their bodies in purity, asking to be reunited with the body, which will be glorified (Dem. 6.14 [NPNF2 13:372], cf. 1 Cor 15:43).55 Aphrahat subsequently describes the spirit, at the eschaton, in a twofold capacity: as the one who raises the body, but also as the one who clothes it in glory. The description of this, and particularly of the glory as the body’s outer adornment (6.14 [295.29– 297.1]), namely as a visible radiance, is almost certainly indebted to the various luminous Adam traditions available in this period.56 I have argued elsewhere that

52. See PS 1:293.5–15. 53. See the summary of studies in Bogdan G. Bucur, ‘Early Christian Angelomorphic Pneumatology: Aphrahat the Persian Sage’, Hug 11, no. 2 (2008): 165 fn.15. 54. See ‘Anthropology and Epistemology in 1 and 2 Corinthians’, in Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 56–66. 55. See PS 1:295.4–8. 56. See variously Alexander Toepel, ‘When Did Adam Wear the Garments of Light?’, JJS 61, no. 1 (2010); Alexander Golitzin, ‘Recovering the “Glory of Adam”: “Divine Light” Traditions in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Christian Ascetical Literature of Fourth-Century Syro-Mesopotamia’, in The Dead Sea Scrolls as Background to Postbiblical Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. James R. Davila (Leiden: Brill, 2003); Orlov, ‘Adam’s Glory’; Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls; Aaron, ‘God’s Body’; Corrine L. Patton, ‘Adam as the Image of God: An Exploration of the Fall of Satan in the

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this motif underpins the reference in 1 Cor 11:7 to the man as εἰκὼν καὶ δόξα θεοῦ.57 Once again, it may be the case that the Syriac tradition preserves Pauline emphases under-explored elsewhere. What makes Aphrahat’s contribution to this tradition significant for the present discussion is the way in which he interprets the idea of the σῶμα πνευματικόν (1 Cor 15:44). Understanding the ‘heavenly spirit’ to entirely permeate the resurrected person, displacing the ‘animal spirit’, he describes the body being absorbed in spirit (6.14 [297.4]). Whether this transformation is material/substantial in character is not stated here, but something of that sort is suggested by the imagery (cf. 6.18). In summary, Aphrahat offers a substantial body of reflection upon a baptismal metaphysic in terms fundamentally shaped by a reading of Paul like that proposed above. His approach is liturgical and spatial (Baptism, the temple), Creational and New Creational (Adam theology), pneumatic, cosmological and eschatological in scope (resurrection) and materially transformative. As such, he stands as a primary example of the way in which themes in Paul, whether implicit or explicit, can be drawn out, synthesized with other traditions and enacted ritually through the liturgy. We turn now to his near-contemporary Ephrem to explore these relationships further. 6.4.2 Ephrem Ephrem is a suitable figure with which to conclude the present examination of texts. A cursory survey of baptismally related references in works attributed to him shows him to have followed several, if not all, of the interpretative lines that have been examined above. These include (i) the motif associating fire/spirit with the waters of Baptism (Epiph. 14.34 [NPNF2 13:285]); (ii) reproductive imagery;58 (iii) the Adam-Christ typology (Nat. 16.12–13 [NPNF2 13:256]); (iv) the tradition of the restoration of the Adamic Garments of Light (Epiph. 6.9 [NPNF2 13:273]); (v) the Pauline retelling of the exodus narrative (Epiph. 1.4-6 [NPNF2 13:265]) and (vi) the association of the Lord’s Prayer with the filiative declaration of Gal 4:6 (Com. Ep. Pauli). Space precludes examining all these motifs for Pauline resonances. Such an exercise might make a useful further study, since Ephrem’s reception of Paul, like that of Tertullian, Clement and Aphrahat, is deeply contextual. However, unlike these other writers, much of Ephrem’s extant corpus is poetic, hymnic and homiletic in form, therefore allusive in style. This makes interpreting him difficult – yet also entertaining.59

“Life of Adam and Eve”’, Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers 33 (1994); Steenburg, ‘Adam and Christ’. 57. Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 109–13. 58. See Jones, ‘The Womb and the Spirit in the Baptismal Writings of Ephrem the Syrian’, 183–6. 59. See for example the useful discussion in Angela Y. Kim, ‘Signs of Ephrem’s Exegetical Techniques in his Homily on Our Lord’, Hug 3, no. 1 (2000).

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12

He was wrapped meanly in swaddling clothes, and offerings were offered Him. – He put on garments in youth, and from them there came forth helps: He put on the waters of baptism, and from them there shone forth beams: – He put on linen cloths in death, and in them were shown forth triumphs; with His humiliations. His exaltations. 13 All these are the changes of raiment, which Mercy put off and put on, – when He strove to put on Adam, the glory which he had put off. – He was wrapped in swaddling-clothes as Adam with leaves; and clad in garments instead of skins. – He was baptized for Adam’s sin, and buried for Adam’s death: – He rose and raised Adam into Glory. (Nat. 16.12–13 [NPNF2 13:256])60

The above excerpt from Ephrem’s sixteenth Hymn on the Nativity illustrates the interplay between his poetic imagination, his biblical hermeneutic, his reading of Paul and his interaction with some of the themes identified above. In terms of Pauline resonances, the references to putting off and putting on Adam in the context of being clothed in the baptismal waters are likely to echo Pauline baptismal passages, including at the very least Rom 6:1–11 and Gal 3:27. There is also more than a passing similarity to Phil 2:5–11 in the ascent-descent/humiliationglorification motif which occurs in stanza thirteen of the hymn.61 However, this is uncertain, since the statement ἑαυτὸν ἐκένωσεν μορφὴν δούλου λαβών (Phil 2:7) does not explicitly invoke the clothing metaphor, whereas the ascent-descent motif does occur elsewhere (e.g. John 1). Two further motifs stand out, the first being the reference to the ‘beams’ that shone forth from the baptismal waters, and the second to the recapitulation of Adam’s story. The former is an elegant compound allusion both to the longstanding tradition of the fire on the Jordan (cf. Epiph. 14.34, 39 [NPNF2 13:285, 286]) and also to the tradition of Adam’s luminous garments (cf. Epiph. 13.1-5 [NPNF2 13:283]). Sebastian Brock’s discussion of this is extremely helpful, especially his observation that for later Syriac writers Christ is understood to have deposited the Robe of Glory in the Jordan, and by extension in the baptismal waters.62 Like Aphrahat (Dem. 6.14 [NPNF2 13:372]),63 Ephrem understands the glory/spirit transmitted at Baptism to be present in apocalyptic-epiphanic terms: It is given at Baptism, but revealed at the eschaton (e.g. Epiph. 6.9 [NPNF2 13:273], cf. Rom 8:18).

60. See also other editions of Ephraem, Ephrem the Syrian: Hymns, trans. Kathleen E. McVey (New York: Paulist Press, 1989); Sancti Ephraem Syri, Hymni et Sermones, ed. Thomas J. Lamy, 6 vols. (Mechlin, 1882–1902). 61. See 4.3.1. 62. Sebastian P. Brock, ‘The Robe of Glory: A Biblical Image in the Syriac Tradition’, The Way 39 (1999): 249; also the reference to the garments in the ordo attributed to Jacob of Serugh in Brock, ‘Studies in the Early History of the Syrian Orthodox Baptismal Liturgy’, 35; and, in the context of a Prodigal Son reference, Narsai, Hom. 21.53 ‘On the Mysteries of the Church and On Baptism’. 63. See PS 1:295.29–97.1.

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This twin-stage glorification is not unlike Paul’s eschatological-anthropological pattern of initial liberation from the στοιχεῖα and eventual elevation above the cosmic powers (cf. Gal 4:8–9, 1 Cor 6:3). Once again, Brock is helpful. He notes that the Syriac tradition situates the robes motif within a wider recapitulationand-exchange theology in which Christ puts on Adam in Baptism so that Adam through Baptism might put on the glory of the spirit which is manifested at the resurrection.64 There is some similarity between this and theosis.65 Note that all of this is held together by Ephrem’s elegant use of the leitmotif of attire. The swaddling of the infant, the garments of the youth and the linen shroud of the dead form a narrative inclusio around the waters of Baptism (Nat. 16.12 [NPNF2 13:256]), all of which Jesus puts on. By means of literary allusion, this sartorial life history is in turn embedded in universal human history through comparison with the prototypical figure of Adam: Ephrem identifies the fig leaves of Gen 3:7 with Jesus swaddling clothes, the skins of Gen 3:21 with Jesus’s prebaptismal attire. In the light of these connections, Ephrem’s comment regarding Christ having ‘raised Adam into Glory’ is evidently intended to evoke the luminous robes tradition. This is at once a confusing and a clever hermeneutic device. It encodes ways of dealing interpretatively with biblical texts that are deeply difficult to integrate with the engrained textual habits of modern readers. However, in a few poetic sentences, not one but multiple theological motifs are impressively integrated so as to construct a theological framework that links the Baptism of Jesus to individual life histories, to primordial history and to eschatological destiny. 5

Lo! God in the water, has mingled His leaven; – for the creatures of dust, that leaven raises up, – and the Godhead joins them.

6

For it is the leaven of the Lord, that can glide into the bondman, – and raise him to freedom; it has joined the bondman to the lineage, – of Him the Lord of all.

7

For the bondman who has put on Him, Who makes all free in the waters, – though bondman he be on earth, is son of the free on high, – for freedom he has put on.

8

The freeman who has put on, Christ/the Angel in the waters, – is as the fellow of servants, that he may be made like to the Lord, – Who became bondman unto bondmen. (Epiph. 4.5–8 [NPNF2 13:271])66

This excerpt from the fourth Hymn for the Epiphany helps to elucidate Ephrem’s baptismal pneumatology and its relation to Paul. Note the way in which, once 64. Brock, ‘The Robe of Glory’, 250–2; also see Jones, ‘The Womb and the Spirit in the Baptismal Writings of Ephrem the Syrian’, 187–9. 65. Brock, ‘The Robe of Glory’, 257; for an account of the place of Pauline theology in the developing soteriological traditions of the eastern Church, see Blackwell, Christosis. 66. Italics indicate places at which I have amended Johnston in the light of other editions of Ephrem.

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again, Ephrem employs allusive and figurative language to tie multiple biblical and theological ideas together into a remarkably dense piece of constructive theology. Whereas the previous passage was structured around the idea of attire, the argument here lacks an overarching leitmotif. There is some correspondence between the references ‘God in the water’ (4.5) and ‘Christ/the Angel in the water’ (4.8), but these references are surrounded by different associations from one another and serve different theological purposes. Whilst the latter example is evidently another instance of the Pauline language of putting on Christ (Gal 3:27), the former, utilizing the metaphor of bread-making, describes God in the water as a fermenting agent (cf. Matt 13:33, Gal 4:9). Careful attention to this imagery suggests a route through the passage. That the divine yeast raises those who have been formed out of the ‘dust’ evidently indicates some connection with the animation of Adam in Gen 2:7 (cf. 3:19, 1 Cor 15:47). This association may simply be evidence of Ephrem mixing his metaphors. However, note that several ancient authors are known to have used the metaphor of a culinary activating agent to illustrate the role of πνεῦμα in reproduction (e.g. Aristotle, Gen. an. 739b21–27).67 As such, the association of bread-making with the moment at which Adam is constituted as a ‘living being’ by the breath of life, and of both processes with Baptism is perhaps too much of a coincidence to ignore. It suggests that Ephrem has in mind an analogical nexus involving the processes of cosmogenesis, generation and baptismal regeneration. Unlike Aphrahat, he does not make explicit the relationship between his pneumatology and his anthropology by distinguishing those animated by the ‘animal spirit’ from those enlivened by the ‘heavenly spirit’ (Dem. 6.14 [NPNF2 13:372]). Nevertheless, this does not mean that such a distinction is absent; in fact, it is implied throughout. The contrast between the baptismal candidate and the neophyte in these verses makes this clear. The former is among the ‘creatures of dust’, the latter united with God (Epiph. 4.5 [NPNF2 13:271]). The former are slaves, the latter made free, and united to the family lineage (4.6). This combination of baptismal pneumatology and allusion to manumission and adoption is a distinctively, yet not uniquely, Pauline emphasis. Though it is not certain that Ephrem has passages such as Rom 8 or Gal 4 in mind, it is likely. At this point, the textual basis of Ephrem’s argument migrates from Romans/ Galatians to 1 Corinthians. The transition is facilitated by means of a verbal analogy on the term ‘slave’, in the context of a reference to 1 Cor 7:22: ‘whoever was called in the Lord as a slave is a freed person belonging to the Lord’ (cf. Epiph. 4.7 [NPNF2 13:271]). In its original Pauline setting, this particular statement concerns the negotiation of and re-signification of actual slave status.68

67. Aristotle uses the example of rennet in cheese-making. Frixione notes that yeast in bread dough is used to illustrate gestation in the Hippocratic collection. See Eugenio Frixione, ‘Pneuma-Fire Interactions in Hippocratic Physiology’, Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 68, no. 4 (2012): 523. 68. See Thiselton, First Corinthians, 559–61.

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By contrast, there is some evidence that Ephrem here understands slavery and freedom in more metaphysical terms: specifically, that he treats the terms as referring to deterministic and non-deterministic accounts of human agency.69 For the purposes of the present discussion the distance between the meaning of this particular Pauline text and Ephrem’s reception of Paul is interesting, but not ultimately significant. This is because, if this account of Ephrem’s reading is correct, then his use of 1 Cor 7:22 maps the implied anthropological contrast of the preceding verses of the hymn very well indeed, and indeed is congruent with the more metaphysical and eschatological usage of slavery and freedom in Gal 4–5.70 Moreover, Ephrem’s usage is also indebted to the eminently Pauline contrast between the epistemic and moral possibilities open to those with the spirit by comparison to those without (cf. 1 Cor 2:6–16, Rom 8:1–11). In short, his baptismal theology turns on a metaphysical-anthropological contrast that is pneumatological in character, cosmological in scope, associated with generative imagery, and Pauline in theological significance. 6.4.3 Section Summary This section has explored some of the ways in which motifs and themes in Paul’s theology of Baptism appear in the writings of important figures in the Syriac tradition. Of all the materials examined in this chapter, it is perhaps in the writings of Aphrahat and Ephrem that the combination of apocalyptic elements, pneumatology, cosmology and anthropology intersects in a manner that is thoroughgoingly Pauline as described in previous chapters of this volume. What is distinctive about Aphrahat and Ephrem is the way in which this reading of the Pauline materials is woven into liturgical literature of great theological depth and considerable poetic beauty.

6.5 Conclusion It is apt to revisit briefly the question of whether, how and to what extent the works examined here bear upon Paul and his ritual world. The thesis advanced in the earlier chapters of this volume is that careful attention to the broad shape of Paul’s symbolic universe allows one to arrive at a judgement regarding the conceptual framework within which his references to Baptism and the Lord’s Supper make most contextual sense. The overall hypothesis was that such a reading of Paul would result in a reconstruction of Paul’s thought that was fundamentally continuous

69. See for example Tannios Bou Mansour, ‘Aspects de la liberté humaine chez saint Éphrem le Syrien’, ETL 60 (1984); Nabil el-Khoury, ‘Willensfreiheit bei Ephraem dem Syrer’, Ostkirchliche Studien 25 (1976). 70. See 3.3.2 and 4.3.2.

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with both possible antecedents and also pose questions that successive traditions took up. This is not to claim that Paul stands as a unifying figure behind early patristic diversity, still less that he constitutes anything like an apostolic trunk from which subsequent traditions branch. As was seen, the interpretation of Paul has occasioned considerable disagreement in the early church, there being, interpretatively speaking, multiple Pauls. Rather the claim here is that placing the present reading of Paul alongside some of the ways in which he is received reveals at least some of the writers of this period to be offering liturgical and theological answers to questions posed at least partly, though implicitly, in Paul. That this should be the case has two immediate consequences for the present study. Firstly, it indicates that such exegetes, whether catholic or sectarian, are frequently careful and detailed readers of Paul, interpreting him neither arbitrarily nor fancifully. Secondly, it offers tentative support for my claim to have identified some of the tacit features of his ritual theology. Nevertheless, the preceding analysis offers mixed support for the working hypothesis. Of the materials examined, Justin and the Didache offer the weakest evidence, with Tertullian, Aphrahat and Ephrem offering relatively strong points of comparison. Each of these three authors discusses the ritual practice of Baptism in a way that draws on Pauline cosmological, anthropological and pneumatological ideas, concepts and narratives. That this is done with due regard to the physical and metaphysical implications of this matrix of ideas repeatedly becomes apparent in their work. This is not surprising, since I have elsewhere argued that one of the characteristics of ancient cosmological discourses is their aesthetic and narrative unity.71 The present argument has shown that Tertullian, Aphrahat and Ephrem share a commitment to a family of meanings of the rite of Baptism. These involve embedding the rite in shared protological narratives, similar metaphysical accounts of human constitution, common paraenetical consequences, shared procreative imagery, analogous cosmological associations, all within the context of a careful, though constructive and creative, reading of Paul. Given the shape of the current argument, this inevitably has some bearing on the way in which one understands Paul himself. Put bluntly, metaphorical accounts of these aspects of Pauline baptismal theology, such as Schweitzer’s notion of ‘quasi-physical’ participation,72 or Dunn’s relational reading of Paul’s locative language,73 are probably insufficient to account for the data when Paul is read alongside his early interpreters in the way I propose. Such readings perhaps say as much about the prevailing assumptions of a century undergoing a crisis of faith in metaphysics as they do about Paul – not because they are incorrect, but because they are correct but incomplete accounts of his baptismal theology. The preceding argument indicates that baptismal participation

71. Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 149–53. 72. Schweitzer, Mysticism, 285. 73. Dunn, Theology, 390–412.

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or cosmic relocation does not occur sans metaphysics, or to put it differently, that Whitehead’s characterization of Christianity as ‘a religion perennially in search of a metaphysic’74 does not apply straightforwardly to the period examined here. In this period, religion and metaphysic work simultaneously and in various forms of organic and symbolic interdependence.

74. Alfred North Whitehead, Religion in the Making (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1926), 39–40.

Chapter 7 CONCLUSION

7.1 About This Study The foregoing study has considered aspects of Paul’s approach to the ritual practices of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper in the light of an analysis of key texts in his correspondence. This analysis has been shaped methodologically around Clifford Geertz’s systemic account of religion. According to Geertz, religion as a cultural phenomenon inhabits the interplay between various fields: the metaphysical, the ethical and the symbolic. As such, the function of a religious symbol is to naturalize both a way of looking at the world and a mode of inhabiting it, to imbue each with realism, to render them congruent with one another and to generate plausibility vis-à-vis the entire superstructure by clothing it ‘with an aura of factuality’.1 Rituals, as enactments of the symbolic, constitute the social reality of which they are a performance,2 such that, regardless of whether or not one is fully cognizant of this, to do a religious ritual is to do metaphysics and to invoke a particular pattern of life. In applying this heuristic model to Paul, this volume has examined elements of his cosmology, anthropology and ecclesiology together with some distinctive features of the pattern of life he commends to his churches. It has also related both to some of Paul’s baptismal statements and to the Lord’s Supper passages of 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 1 Cor 11:17–34. Elements of the resultant structure were seen to persist into the baptismal writings of some of Paul’s early interpreters. In regard to this argument, the present chapter offers a summary of the conclusions of the preceding material, followed by a brief epilogue.

7.2 Summary of Results 7.2.1 Paul and Metaphysics3 Perhaps the first point of note regarding Paul’s metaphysical thought is the synthetic character of his writings.4 His cosmological, ecclesiological and moral discourse 1. 2. 3. 4.

Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 109. Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity, 108. See Chapter 3. See 3.2.

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is strongly sapiential and exhibits views of materiality that can be understood as Stoicizing. This is evident not least in the popular moral-philosophical apophthegms to which his interlocutors appear to allude and to which Paul also likely appeals, though to very different ends. However, in Paul, these ideas are ruptured by a christologically mediated, apocalyptic-Jewish eschatology and situated narratively within a Weltbild and Geisterwelt that is congruent with this. Overall, the resultant synthesis is intelligible in terms of Homi Bhabha’s notion of ‘Third Space’, which describes the experience of inhabiting multiple, distinct cultural fields simultaneously, and the various interactions, intersections and interstices this generates.5 This reveals Paul’s metaphysical thought to be the result of a real, though idiosyncratic and at times ambivalent, engagement with the substance of multiple traditions. An analysis of texts focused upon Paul’s anthropology and ecclesiology. In terms of anthropology,6 it was seen that he situates redeemed humanity between two moments of transformation: an ultimate transformation which coincides with the resurrection (cf. 1 Cor 6:2–3, 15:45–49), and a penultimate transformation which coincides with Baptism (cf. Gal 4:1–10). Both of these events are pneumatically effected and reconstitute the relationship between those humans that undergo them and the cosmic order. Resurrection entails the glorification of human beings above the angels. Baptism involves the liberation of human beings from epistemic, agential and cultic subordination to the στοιχεῖα, or material and cosmological elements that constitute the basis of sarkic corporeality. That liberation from the elements takes effect by means of transmission of the πνεῦμα at Baptism is significant, since this juxtaposes the Pauline use of πνεῦμα with the material discourses of ancient cosmology and physics. This could suggest that Paul understood the πνεῦμα in material terms redolent of Stoic physics, or it could be that he understood the πνεῦμα to be radically undetermined. In either case, it is difficult to avoid the implication that Baptism is a metaphysical transformation, a reconfiguration of what it means to be human. In terms of ecclesiology,7 the analysis of texts suggested that Paul’s notion of the church is very tightly organized around the baptismal transmission of πνεῦμα. As a community constituted by the reception of the spirit, the church is collectively a cultic space (cf. 1 Cor 3:16). The idea of the community as a temple is not straightforwardly metaphorical, since it is an unusual but not incongruent use of the cosmic/eschatological temple topos encountered in some Second Temple texts. What the image does do is to project the notion of the community as ideal, bounded from the cosmos-as-it-is and representative, both metaphysically and ethically. This is consistent with my previous description of Paul’s notion of the church as a ‘cosmic space … the boundaries of [which] … circumscribe that

5. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 212–35. 6. See 3.3.1–3.3.2. 7. See 3.3.3.

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part of the κόσμος that is ordered correctly εἰς God’.8 However, the temple topos goes beyond this in drawing attention to the cultic character of this boundedness and to the irrupting/indwelling πνεῦμα as its constitutive basis. Given the close alignment between a baptisand entering the pneumatic region by being received into the church and the concomitant reception of that presence into the location of the baptisand’s body, the temple image also provokes reflection upon Baptism as a technology of the self, a means by which ontological assimilation to/of the divine/ christic presence is effected.9 7.2.2 Paul and Form of Life10 In the Geertzian sense, form or style of life denotes the practical expression of the totality and concreteness of a culture. This includes its values, ethics, ethos, dispositions, habits and socially given moods, affects and practices.11 Though this is a more expansive category than the field known as ethics, some consideration of Paul’s ethics is an important component of an account of the form of life he seeks to inculcate in his congregations. It was found that Paul’s theology of transformation and his ethic converge to form a single theo-ethical moment, such that ‘is’ and ‘ought’ are properly seen as mutually entailing. Paul’s christocentrism is important here. Whereas his notion of liberation by the πνεῦμα, incorporation into the eschatological/cosmic body/temple of the church and eventual glorification evokes ideas of union with the Deity, it is in the ethical sphere that the reality effected by Baptism becomes especially visible as a concentrated form of christologically mimetic narrative practice.12 This highlights the significance of narrative for cultivating the mindset aspect of form of life, which involves imbuing a field of practice with significance by framing it with conceptions of ultimacy.13 Both Paul’s apocalyptic mindset and his christological orientation serve this purpose, though in different ways. The analysis of texts also revealed there to be a close correspondence between key elements of Paul’s metaphysic and his espoused practice. In regard to the first of these, Paul’s intentional mimesis of Christ’s humility and his espoused conformity to the form of his death, it was found that the narrative of Phil 2:5–11 morally orients post-baptismal conduct as preparation for the ontological transformation of resurrection. That is, it presents Christ’s humiliation as an anticipatory precondition of his exaltation, thereby positing Paul’s non-identical mimesis of

8. Lakey, Image and Glory of God, 91. 9. This is broadly consistent with the account of the malleability of the self in Early Judaisms in Putthoff, Ontological Aspects of Early Jewish Anthropology, 215–26. This idea is advanced in 4.3.3 above. 10. See Chapter 4. 11. See 4.2.1. 12. See 4.2.2. 13. Geertz, ‘Religion as a Cultural System’, 97–8.

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Christ’s sufferings as a preparation for his own corresponding glorification.14 This pattern, which Paul commends to his congregations, bears considerably upon the goal of the penultimate state of metaphysical liberation in his baptismal discourse. One is free from the στοιχεῖα, but, as baptismally Christ-identified, one is set free for Christ imitation (cf. Gal 5:13–26).15 The way in which Paul advances this claim is singular. Unlike the Stoic notion of οἰκείωσις, which involves a rational owning of other agents’ interests as one’s own, formation in Christ is simultaneously more demanding and ultimately more self-interested.16 Paul’s approach to christiform service looks to be more akin to ἀλλοτρίωσις (‘alienation’) of oneself, yet this is performed with an eye on eschatological glory. One might describe the overall structure as being baptized into Christ’s humiliation with a view to eventual participation in his exaltation. In ecclesiological terms, both the idea of the community as temple space and the idea of the community as body (cf. 1 Cor 12:4–13) draw attention to its distinctiveness, or segregative identity. In the case of temple imagery, this involves notions of ideal, representative space, with concomitant obligations in terms of the management of pollution. In the case of body imagery, the community is again representative and idealized, but the obligations generated by the metaphor relate primarily to the generation of homonoia between members.17 In each case, the metaphysical basis of the obligations is the same, namely the irrupting/indwelling πνεῦμα. Moreover, in each case, the representative function of the image has a cosmological-eschatological aspect. This analysis was assisted by consideration of somatic imagery as natural symbolism for a social group and an exploration of some of the ways in which Paul’s discussion of the body in 1 Cor 12 tends in the direction of de-stratification. In summary, regardless of whether Paul has in mind his own covenantal or ministerial prerogatives, the question of the freedom within his congregations or the question of stratification and agonistic social arrangements, his mindset is oriented towards a practice in which the cosmic liberation wrought by the πνεῦμα at Baptism provides the impetus for otherdirected practices. It was noted that this is superficially similar to Troels EngbergPedersen’s I→X→S model for Stoic and Pauline moral thought.18 7.2.3 Paul and Religious Symbols

(i) Baptism On the basis of these findings, it is reasonable to confirm the thesis advanced here, namely that Paul’s approach to religious symbols is a function of both his metaphysic and his form of life. In the case of Baptism, these findings

14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

See 4.3.1. See 4.3.2. See Barclay, ‘Benefiting Others and Benefit to Oneself ’, 111. See 4.3.3. See Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics, 34–7.

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have for the most part already been presented, since the analysis of texts in Chapters 3 and 4 concerned Baptism chiefly. To summarize, Paul appears to regard Baptism as a constitutive ritual, which establishes the community as a representative, bounded, ordered, cosmic space within which the divine presence may dwell. However, it is equally a liminal ritual, in that traversing the boundary of the space defined by the christic identity coincides with the baptisand being ritually cleansed and assimilated to that identity. This also renders it a transformative ritual, insofar as it is associated very closely with reception of the πνεῦμα and liberation from the constitutive material realities that define and organize sarkic corporeality. If metaphysically there is a density to the interaction between these ideas, this is manageable conceptually because Baptism also simultaneously constitutes a set of obligations in the sphere of form of life. The metaphysically bounded character of the community has as its performative correlates both praxic and cultic distinctiveness and internal solidarity and de-stratification. The metaphysically liminal and transformative moment of entry into the community and reception of the πνεῦμα has as its ethical correlates the assumption of the Christ identity and the obligation to engage in nonidentical narrative re-performance of the Christ narrative. In short, for Paul, Baptism is a ritually thick integrative expression of multiple strands of his theology and espoused style of life.

(ii) The Lord’s Supper19 By way of applying this framework and analysis to the Lord’s Supper, we have noted some of the salient elements of Geertz’s notion of symbol. It was seen that symbols involve conceptions that are made concrete and are conveyed in the form of acts or artefacts that are arranged and presented in a way that is gestured and replicable.20 As such, they have a conventionally scripted or choreographic aspect, which illuminates their role in forming and maintaining identity alignment between individuals and groups and for parsing those situations in which meaning is miscommunicated, misperformed or contested. These considerations certainly apply to 1 Cor 10:14–22 and 1 Cor 11:17–34. In the former passage, Paul invokes the Lord’s Supper in the service of an argument that Jesus devotees ought not to attend cult-dining events in sanctuary space. His insistence that the Corinthians may not participate in both meals is, among other things, to highlight the way in which this crisis turns upon some of the same considerations as those seen in the discussion of Baptism, namely cultic boundedness, a segregative identity and considerations of the ends to which freedom is directed.21 In the latter passage, the crisis is precipitated by a basic failure in de-stratifying christiform practice during

19. See Chapter 5. 20. See 5.2. 21. See 5.3.

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the conduct of the Jesus meal itself. For Paul, this misperformance of internal solidarity constitutes a subversion of cardinal aspects of the meal as an anamnesis of Christ’s death. This is a major ritual violation.22 In terms of a summary of findings, Paul’s view of the Lord’s Supper appears as interpretatively thick as his account of Baptism. Metaphysically, his preoccupation with spatial, cultic and social boundedness persists. The way in which he highlights the mutually exclusive character of Jesus movement and Graeco-Roman cult-κοινωνία serves to defamiliarize the world as Paul’s interlocutors perceive it and align it more closely with his sombre account of a generally antagonistic Geisterwelt. More positively, this is given particular expression in the resonances between Pauline statements regarding the ecclesially constitutive function of the bread and Philonic descriptions of the cosmologically constitutive function of various sacrifices. The sacrificial analogy is useful, in that it highlights that the Jesus meal stands in relation to the death of Christ in an analogous manner to the way in which a cult meal stands in relation to its antecedent θυσία. Add to this the idea of ingesting the divine presence in the reference to the manna tradition as ‘spiritual food’ in 1 Cor 10:3 and the strong evocation of the paschal tradition in the reference to anamnesis of Christ’s death in 1 Cor 11:24–26. In the light of these findings, it is difficult not to see the symbolic value of the Jesus meal in terms fundamentally continuous with Pauline notions of Baptism: the assimilation of the divine/christic life into the somatic space of participants, the effect of which is to form a segregative community of solidarity focused upon the narrative mimesis of his humiliation so as to share in his exaltation. This draws attention once more to the pattern of life Paul espouses for his congregations. Whereas Baptism is a non-repeatable rite of assimilation to the divine/christic identity and initiation into christiform practice, the Lord’s Supper is eminently repeatable. As such, it forms a ritual of repeated realignment and advancement, both metaphysically and praxically, in Christ identification and re-performance. In this respect, the violations in 1 Cor 10 and 11 are regarded by Paul as particularly serious. They indicate not just a misconception of the ritual, whether in terms of the community’s boundedness or its internal ethos, but a deeper failure of assimilation: a refusal, whether ontological or ethical, of the Christ identity infused at Baptism. Lastly, we note the narrative framing of all of this. As was noted above,23 the form of life embedded in the Lord’s Supper exists within concentric patterns of narrative. This is to say that one’s mimesis of Christ is given narrative realignment by means of the ritual anamnesis of his death, yet this is, in turn, situated within a web of intertextual, covenantal and eschatological connections that entwine the meaning of that death with the exodus narrative, cosmologically and eschatologically reimagined. By

22. See 5.4. 23. See 5.5.

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means of this wider frame of reference, the Jesus movement comes to be seen as occupying an analogous situation to that of the exodus and wilderness generation: both have experienced penultimate liberation from slavery (Egypt/the στοιχεῖα) but neither has yet arrived (The Promised Land/ eschatological glorification). This suggests that, like Baptism, the Lord’s Supper can be regarded, at least partly, as a technology of the self, a way in which by a concentrated form of remembering, a distinctive Jesus movement subjectivity may be collectively effected.24 7.2.4 Paul’s Early Interpreters25 In charting some of the ways in which the broad shape of Paul’s symbolic universe is present to varying degrees in the baptismal writings of some of his early interpreters, the investigation sought evidence of the following ideas: (i) the community of the baptized as segregatively defined, in regard to (ii) an antagonistically ordered present cosmos, in which (iii) the ecclesial sphere is temple space, with the corollary being (iv) Baptism as somatic, cultic or cosmic incorporation. Additional areas included (v) the relationship between Baptism, the πνεῦμα and glorification/liberation, (vi) the ethical ramifications of this and (vii) the framing of discussions of the πνεῦμα in terms of ancient material discourses. The survey considered explicit references and likely allusions to Paul’s writings in a range of patristic sources including Justin, Tertullian, Clement of Alexandria, early church orders, Aphrahat and Ephrem. Whereas the examination of some of Justin’s baptismal writings indicated a stance that was perhaps tolerant of the reading of Paul proposed here, but no more,26 the survey of Tertullian, Clement and the Syriac writers revealed bodies of work which evince close readings of the Pauline materials. Of these, Tertullian, Aphrahat and Ephrem bear closest comparison with the present argument. It was found that Tertullian draws on Pauline cosmological, anthropological and pneumatological ideas, in a manner that develops and reinterprets Paul, but which remains discernibly congruent with him at key points. Of particular interest was his quasi-materialist account of the transfer of sanctity in Baptism by means of the πνεῦμα. This was seen to involve notions of assimilation to the divine presence, which by means of its penetrative capacity is able to assimilate itself to the water and thence to the bodies of baptisands.27 In the case of the Syriac writers Aphrahat and Ephrem, each author embeds Baptism in a protological narrative, relating it to metaphysical accounts of human constitution, and drawing from it common

24. See the observations regarding remembrance as an aspect of Stoic technologies of the self in Michel Foucault, et al., eds, Technologies of the Self: A Seminar with Michel Foucault (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1988), 35–8. 25. See Chapter 6. 26. See 6.2.1. 27. See 6.2.2.

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paraenetical consequences.28 Ephrem is of particular significance for his framing of all of this in terms of a narrative spirituality centred upon a poetic, hymnic and homiletic reading of Christ’s life as an identification with and recapitulation of humanity in Adam. By way of conclusion, though none of the materials surveyed present a reading of Paul that is identical to that presented here, there are nonetheless sufficient overlaps and areas of indebtedness to warrant the claim that they represent receptions of such a framework. In this regard, it is justifiable to claim these texts as offering partial or tentative support for the reconstruction of the Pauline religious world view advanced here.

7.3 Epilogue This has been a mostly descriptive conclusion, insofar as it has restricted itself to a straightforward distillation and presentation of the results of the foregoing analysis. But there remains the question as to the significance of these results. To discover that Paul’s religious world is synchronically consistent, that Geertz was correct and a Pauline metaphysic, form of life and symbolic order do exist in basic congruence is, of course, useful for parsing texts in Paul. Nevertheless, the degree to which Paul’s symbolic theology is framed by such terms is also the degree to which it becomes difficult to relate him to different worlds, in which there exist other metaphysics or even anti-metaphysics. Likewise, in regard to forms of life. As was seen, Paul attempts to construct a segregative ritual practice in Corinth, both baptismally and in terms of the Lord’s Supper. The strong sense of somatic, social and cultic boundedness he seeks to reify by means of these ritual practices is, at least in part, as much a response to Corinthian assimilation to the norms of the surrounding culture as it is a Pauline preoccupation – though it is most certainly a Pauline preoccupation. Yet, in my own ecclesial context, that of an established church in a middle-sized northern European state, the somatic, social and cultic boundaries between the church and the world seem at times unsettlingly vague, inconsistent and ephemeral. This is to do no more than to identify the challenge that Paul’s religious world poses to moderns. By way of elucidating the character of this challenge, we return once more to Geertz’s systemic model of religion. There is an architectural quality to his description of the congruence between the various fields and forces in a religious world view. To deploy an analogy, it is like a bridge, in which the different elements – the towers, the cables or arch, the deck – are all arranged so as to be congruent with one another and to deal with the forces that must be distributed evenly across the entire structure if the system is not to resolve itself by collapse (which is certainly one way of resolving physical stresses). However, this analogy also illustrates something of the diachronic problem of a religious world: its

28. See 6.4.1–6.4.2.

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specificity and its capacity to deal with modified circumstances. Actual bridges do not exist in the abstract; they are conveyances from one actual place to another. Though the designs of the Tyne Bridge and Sydney Harbour Bridge are formally similar, the stresses distributed in a similar way, the congruences of fields and forces established almost identically, they are not the same bridge, because Sydney is not Newcastle. In the same way, the hermeneutical challenge of Paul’s religious world is whether, and if so how, moderns might inhabit that world, its metaphysics and form of life, in any discernible or meaningful way. If this is possible, then all well and good, but if not, where does this leave Paul’s symbols of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper? Do they magically hover there, like cables and decking from a bridge which has lost its towers, or do they become integrating expressions of other metaphysics and other forms of life? If the latter, then in what sense are they the same symbols? None of this is to suggest that these are insurmountable hermeneutical difficulties. Rather it is to suggest that this mode of reading biblical texts invites some consideration of (i) the criteria by which one might determine what an authentic performance of this reading of Paul might look like, (ii) how development of doctrine and practice might be understood to work and (iii) in what sense those who today share Paul’s Christ faith might be said to be practitioners of the same religion as Paul, or even each other. How one answers these questions bears necessarily upon all of the fields examined above: cosmology, ecclesiology, anthropology, pneumatology and ethics. Though it is beyond the scope of the present volume to address this, the present volume is offered by way of a prolegomenon.

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Wink, Walter. Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination. The Powers. Vol. 3. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992. Wink, Walter. Naming the Powers: The Language of Power in the New Testament. The Powers. Vol. 1. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984. Wink, Walter. Unmasking the Powers: The Invisible Forces That Determine Human Existence. The Powers. Vol. 2. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986. Winkler, Gabriele. ‘Original Meaning of the Prebaptismal Anointing and Its Implications’. Worship 52, no. 1 (1978): 24–45. Winter, Bruce W. After Paul Left Corinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001. Winter, Bruce W. ‘Lord’s Supper at Corinth: An Alternative Reconstruction’. RTR 37, no. 3 (1978): 73–82. Wire, Antoinette Clark. The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruction through Paul’s Rhetoric. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990. Witherington, Ben. Conflict and Community in Corinth: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary on 1 and 2 Corinthians. Carlisle: Paternoster, 1995. Witherington, Ben. Paul’s Narrative Thought World: The Tapestry of Tragedy and Triumph. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1994. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Philosophical Investigations. Edited by G. E. M. Anscombe and R. Rhees. Translated by G. E. M. Anscombe. Oxford: Blackwell, 1953. Philosophische Untersuchungen. Wolff, Christian. Der erste Brief des Paulus an die Korinther. Theologischer Handkommentar Zum Neuen Testament. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1996. Wright, M. Rosemary. Cosmology in Antiquity. London: Routledge, 1995. Wright, Nicholas Thomas. The Climax of the Covenant. Edinburgh: T.&T. Clark, 1991. Wright, Nicholas Thomas. ‘Israel’s Scriptures in Paul’s Narrative Theology’. Theology 115, no. 5 (2012): 323–9. Wright, Nicholas Thomas. The New Testament and the People of God. Christian Origins and the Question of God. London: SPCK, 1992. Wright, Nicholas Thomas. Paul and His Recent Interpreters: Some Contemporary Debates. London: SPCK, 2015. Wright, Nicholas Thomas. Paul and the Faithfulness of God. Christian Origins and the Question of God. 2 vols. London: SPCK, 2013. Wright, Nicholas Thomas. The Resurrection of the Son of God. Christian Origins and the Question of God. London: SPCK, 2003. Young, Frances M. The Use of Sacrificial Ideas in Greek Christian Writers from the New Testament to John Chrysostom. Cambridge, MA: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation, 1979. Ysebaert, Joseph. ‘The So-Called Coptic Ointment Prayer of Didache 10,8 Once More’. VC 56, no. 1 (2002): 1–10.

INDEX OF REFERENCES

Biblical Sources Old Testament/ Hebrew Bible Genesis 1–3 87 1:2 65, 158, 170 1:14 58 1:27 159 1:31 58 2:7 57, 58, 69, 170, 175 3 69 3:1 155 3:3 57 3:7 174 3:8 51 3:19 175 3:21 174 6:1–4 169 6:3 97 9:6 87 n. 80 12:3 58 26:11 145 Exodus 12:23 13:21 14:21 16:1–18 17:1–7 17:6 19:9–15 19:10 20:5 25:9 25:23 30:19–21 32:6 35:13 39:35

120 n. 52 120 120 120 120 n. 51 120 149 21 130 90 127 21 120, 121 127 127

Leviticus 1 2:1–3 3 7:6 7:15 14:1–9 14.10 15 16:1–5 17:10–16 18:6–18 18:8 22:4

125 127 125 126 126 22 127 n. 93 22 22 22 64 64 51

Numbers 4:7 14:1–25 19 19:17–19 21 21:4–5 21:4–9 21:17 25:1–9 25:9

127 120 n. 52 22 165 120 n. 51 121 120 54 120 120 n. 50

Deuteronomy 6:4 100 6:4–9 42 2 Samuel 6:6–7 6:14 24:25

149 67 67

1 Kings 7:23–26 7:49

65 65

1 Chronicles 15:27 67 29:2 170

2 Chronicles 7:1 170 Ezra 9–10

65

Psalms 8:4–6 14:3 19:7 78:18 78:25 95:8 106 106:20 110:1 112:9 119:9

58 54 99 120 n. 51 121, 148 120 n. 51 120 n. 52 90 47, 67 54 99

Isaiah 4:2–6 6:1–7 11:1 43:19 44:13 45:23 53

66 149 156 85 90 91 88

Jeremiah 2:23 3:16–17

121 66

Ezekiel 8:2–3 8:3 10:8 23

90 90 90 121

Daniel 7:22 10:13

56 46, 48

210 Hosea 4:12–14 13:14

Index of References

121 54

Apocrypha Judith 12:7–9 22 Wisdom 3:7–8 7:1–2 7:17–22 7:23–24 13:1–3 16:20 16:21

56 158 61 158 61 121 121, 148

Sirach 24

87

1 Maccabees 1:22 127 New Testament Matthew 3:15 157 3:16 170 9:34 48 13:33 175 26:26 141 26:26–29 25, 141 26:27 141 26:28 141 26:66 145 Mark 1:8 7:4 10:38 14:20 14:22 14:22–25 14:23 14:24

16 16, 21 16 27 141 25, 141 27, 141 25, 142

Luke 11:15 11:38 12:50 22:15–20 22:19 22:20

48 16, 21 16 25, 28, 141 141 141

John 1 3 3:5 3:23 4:10 5:1–18 12:31 13:30 14:30

173 155 n. 4 170 16 165 159 48 27 48

Acts 2:4

16

Romans 1:1 3:12–18 3:24 4 4:1 5:12–21 5:14 6 6:1–5 6:1–11 6:1–14 6:17 6:2–5 6:3 7:7–25 8 8:1–4 8:1–11 8:3 8:4 8:4–6 8:5 8:13 8:15 8:16 8:17 8:18 8:23 8:38 11:36 14:6

17 54 17 83 126 n. 87 43 155, 167 78, 154 105 173 166 167 79 16, 17, 166, 167, 168 54, 98 175 63 176 99 98, 171 99 126 126 163, 168 168 168 173 17 46, 47 42 n. 12 65

1 Corinthians 1:11–12 133 1:12–17 103

1:13 1:26 1:30 2:13 2:13–15 2:16 2:6 2:6–16 2:6–3:4 2:8 3:1 3:1–3 3:3–4 3:4 3:6–8 3:10–16 3:12–13 3:16

3:16–17 3:21–22 3:22 4:8 4:14–21 4:16 5–6 5:1–11 5:3–5 5:4 5:5 5:6 5:6–8 5:7–8 5:10 6 6:2–3

6:3 6:11 6:12 6:13 6:13–14 6:15 6:16 6:17

17, 18 31 17 79 121 80, 115 47–9 171, 176 162, 163 48 121, 163 57 103 63 103 169 170 8, 40 n. 2, 63, 64, 66, 69, 86, 113, 170, 180 71, 148, 169 40, 41 95 40, 115 139 83 8, 40 n. 2, 68, 69, 86 64–5 66 26 46, 55, 64, 146 n. 200 115 124 26, 123 55, 65 36 8, 40 n. 2, 56, 86, 92, 105, 113, 180 161, 174 166 40, 95, 114, 115 41, 114 40 64, 65, 114 131 114, 148

Index of References 6:19 6:20 7 7:1 7:4 7:12–16 7:14 7:22 7:23 7:29–31 7:31 7:40 8 8–10 8:1 8:1–6 8:2–3 8:4 8:4–6 8:5 8:6 8:7 8:8 9 9:11 9:19–23 9:21 9:22 10 10:1 10:1–2 10:1–4 10:1–6 10:1–11 10:1–13 10:1–14 10:1–18 10:2

10:2–3 10:3 10:3–4 10:4 10:5–11 10:5–13 10:6 10:7 10:8 10:9

114 17, 114 169 115 64 65 65, 131, 161 175, 176 17 n. 34 40, 41 114 115 26 36 41, 131 41, 42 41 n. 9 41, 115, 128 40–2 130 42, 63, 66 116, 148 123 41, 107 121 92 99 95 119 29, 124 132 103, 120, 131 167 168 54, 120–2 166 161 16, 103 n. 165, 120, 124, 125 120, 144 29, 120, 184 103, 104, 148 120, 121 124 126 167 120, 121 120, 121 120

10:10 10:11 10:14 10:14–21 10:14–22

10:15–17 10:15–22 10:16

10:16–17 10:17 10:18 10:18–20 10:19–22 10:20 10:20–21 10:21 10:21–22 10:22 10:23 10:25 10:28 10:30 11:1 11:2 11:2–16 11:4–6 11:7 11:7–10 11:10 11:11 11:17 11:17–22 11:17–34

11:18 11:18–19

120 124, 144 119–20 20 1, 7, 8, 16, 32, 70, 107, 109, 119–32, 122, 131, 132, 150, 151, 179, 183 122–6 118, 119 28, 29, 118, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 128, 131, 132, 142 147 29, 119, 124, 126, 136, 137 125, 126–8, 129 122 128–31 119, 128 46, 65, 148 26, 33, 119 122, 130 120 40, 115 65, 118 121, 148 65 83 133, 139 3, 40 134 160, 172 54 169 12 133, 134, 139 118, 132–9, 147, 149 1, 7, 8, 16, 32, 70, 107, 109, 118, 119, 132–49, 133, 149, 150, 151, 179, 183 26, 30, 134 118, 133

211 11:20 11:20–21 11:21 11:22 11:23 11:23–25 11:23–26 11:24 11:24–25 11:24–26 11:25 11:26 11:27 11:27–32 11:27–34 11:28–32 11:29 11:30 11:32 11:33 11:33–34 11:34 12 12:1 12:4–6 12:4–11 12:4–13 12:7 12:8–10 12:11 12:12 12:12–13 12:13

12:14–31 12:21 12:21–26

118, 134, 136 133 31, 118, 133, 134, 135, 136 31, 34, 133, 134, 147 25, 27, 122, 136, 139, 140 4, 123, 126, 140 25, 139–44, 141, 149 141, 143 124, 136, 141, 142 184 137, 141 142 144, 145, 146 149 144–9 144, 145, 146 145, 146, 147 120, 146, 147, 148 146 118, 149 144, 149 135 n. 131, 149 36, 86, 106, 150, 166, 182 100, 121 101 55, 100 8, 100–5, 106, 113, 182 104 101 101 103 100, 102 16, 17, 70, 101, 103 n. 165, 104, 114, 121, 125, 144, 163 100 105 105

212 12:22–23 12:23 13:13 14:1 14:33–36 14:37 15 15:1–11 15:3 15:3–8 15:21 15:22 15:24 15:25 15:26 15:28 15:33 15:42–43 15:42–49 15:43 15:44 15:44–46 15:44–49 15:45 15:45–49

15:47 15:47–49 15:50 15:54 15:55

Index of References 107 105 6 121 134 121 68, 102 142 26 83 57 57 46, 47 47, 67 47, 58 67, 101 54 57 43 171 57, 172 121 160, 171 57, 170 8, 40 n. 2, 56–8, 81, 86, 92, 105, 113, 150, 180 47, 69, 175 56, 58, 69, 85 161 58 54

2 Corinthians 3:18 160 4:5–12 95 4:16–17 80 5:16 171 5:17 114 6:15 46, 160 8:13–14 134 9:9 54 10:2–3 126 11:3 155 11:14 46 12:2 45 12:4 45

Galatians 1:4 2–3 2:10 2:20 3:1 3:2 3:3 3:8–9 3:13 3:14 3:19 3:23 3:23–24 3:23–25 3:23–5:13 3:26 3:26–28 3:26–29 3:27

3:27–28 3:27–29 3:28 3:29 4 4–5 4:1 4:1–5 4:1–10

4:2 4:3 4:4 4:5 4:6

4:6–7 4:7 4:8 4:8–9

96 36 134 95 58 60 96 58 68 58, 60 58, 99 58, 60, 93, 99 59 58 93 18, 60, 169 4, 169, 170 58, 62, 163 16, 17, 18, 62, 113, 121, 160, 173, 175 114 58 62 58, 154 68, 175 176 58, 62 163 8, 40 n. 2, 58–63, 62, 68, 69, 71, 81, 93, 96, 99, 106, 113, 124, 150, 180 59, 62 46, 59, 60, 62 59 59, 60, 62, 154–5 59, 60, 93, 163, 164, 168, 172 98 59, 60 60, 62 130, 174

4:8–10 4:9 4:10 4:17 4:21 4:21–31 5:1–26 5:2 5:13

5:16–17 5:16–23 5:16–25 5:16–29 5:17 5:18 5:19 5:22–23 5:23 5:24 5:24–25 5:25 6:2 6:14 6:14–15

60 60, 175 61 93 60 93 93 60 93, 94, 104, 106, 107, 113 99 8, 86, 93–9, 105, 106, 150, 182 93 93 76, 95, 96, 97, 98 99 93 69, 171 63 97, 98 99 99 6, 98 99 79 106 76 99 92, 95 63

Ephesians 1:21–23 2:2 2:6 4:22–30 4:30

67 48 56 169 170

5:13–14 5:13–26

5:13–6:10 5:14 5:16

Philippians 1:27–29 2–3 2:5 2:5–11

105 8, 86, 150 88 78, 80, 86–93, 105, 106, 111, 113, 150, 173, 181

Index of References 2:6 2:6–7 2:6–8 2:6–11 2:7 2:8 2:9 2:10–11 2:11 2:14–15 3:4–6 3:8 3:10 3:10–21 3:17 3:21 5:2–11

87, 88, 89, 91, 95, 105 89, 90, 92, 104 92 89 89, 91, 92, 173 89, 91 89 45, 88, 91 89 105 92, 107 92, 95 86, 92, 150 86 83, 86, 167 86, 92 85

Colossians 1:16 47 n. 39 1 Thessalonians 1:6 83 3:9 167 4:5 79 2 Thessalonians 1:7 47 n. 39 1:7–8 56 1 Timothy 4:4–5

65

Hebrews 5:12 6:6 9:1–22

61 145 21

James 2:10

145

1 John 3:2

81 n. 52

Jewish Literature Dead Sea Scrolls 1QH 4.25 171 5.19–25 171

1QpHab 5.4–5 7.1–4

56 124

1QS 3.15–4.25 3.17–24 4.8–10 4.12–15 4.15 4.20–25 5.10 5.13

97 97 97 97 98 97, 98 165 23

4Q400–407 66 n. 122 4Q403 1.2.3 1.2.16

90 90

4Q405 frs.20–21– 22.8 90 4Q416 fr.1.12

98

4Q504 fr.8

91, 160

4Q530–532 169 4QMMT 1–19 54–69

22 22

11QShirShabb 5–6.2 90 Josephus Antiquitates Judaicae 3.181–87 66 Contra Apionem 2.190 90 Philo De cherubim 3 51 n. 62 10 51 n. 62 125–27 42 127 62

213 De gigantibus 6–8 148 10 148 17–18 148 28–31 97 De plantatione 46 51 n. 62 61 51 n. 62 De specialibus legibus 1.194–211 125, 126 1.208 42, 66 1.212–23 125, 126 1.266 166 n. 38 De vita contemplativa 3–5 61 48–52 121 De vita Mosis 2.88 66 2.102–103 66 Legatio ad Gaium 95 89 95–111 89 98 89 98–109 89 Legum allegoriae 3.1 51 3.1–7 51–2 3.4 51 3.6 51 3.7 42, 51, 52 Quis rerum divinarum heres sit 267–69 97 Pseudepigrapha 2 Baruch 22:1 45 51:12 56 3 Baruch 1:8 2–11

47 n. 39 45

214

Index of References

Ascension of Isaiah (Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah 6–11) 7:4–9:1 45 10:29 48 1 Enoch 1:9 6–8 14 69:28–29 89:36–38 90:28–36 90:33 91:15 2 Enoch 3–20 8 22:8–9

56 58, 169 45 56 120 66 67 56 45 45 91

Joseph and Asenath 10:12 65 n. 119 Jubilees 1:11 2:9–10 22:17

128 58 128

Martyrdom of Isaiah (Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah 1–5) 4:14 56 4:18 61

Vita Adae Et Evae 5:1–2 169 5:1–10:1 22 13 160 14:2 91

[De Mundo] 397b 42 Politica 1252a–b 58 1260a5–18 59

Rabbinic Genesis Rabbah 8.5 91 8.8 12

Cicero De inventione rhetorica 1.22 133 n. 117

Leviticus Rabbah 20.2 91, 160

Paradoxa Stoicorum 34 95 35 95

Mishnah ’Abot 1.1a–b 140 Mishnah Menaḥ ot 11.5–6 127 n. 92

De administratione 3 102

Mishnah Miqwa’ot 1 21 Mishnah Pesaḥ im 1.1–3 124 n. 72 10.4j 124 10.5b 124 10.5c 124 10.5e 124, 143 Greek and Roman Literature Apuleius Metamorphoses 3.24–29 19 11.5 61 n. 98 11.23 19

Sybilline Oracles 3:591–93 22 5:414–33 67

Aristotle De anima 404b–405b 81 n. 52

Testament of Abraham 16:10–11 A 90

De generatione animalium 728a 62, 158 739b21–27 175

Testament of Levi 2:3 22 2:5–3:10 45 3:8 46, 47 n. 39 Testament of Solomon 18:2 61

Metaphysica 998a20–30 61 1045b27–52a14 1072b 51 1073b19–4a39

Dio Chrysostom Ad Apamenses 9 102

Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philosophers 1.10 90 10.131–32 97 10.144–45 96 6.102 61 7.122 40 7.122–25 115 8.34–35 125 n. 78 Empedocles Fragmenta 109 81 n. 52 6 61 Epictetus Diatribai 1.22.11–14 95 n. 125 3.12.4–6 41, 95 n. 126 Euripides Bacchae 1075–200 130

44 44

Supplices 238–44 239 242

134 134 134

Index of References Galen De semine 1.2 62, 158 Heraclitus Fragmenta 10 42 Herodotus Historiae 2.112 63 n. 110 Juvenal Satirae 5 5.120–45

117, 133 117

Livy Ab urbe condita 2.32.7–12 102 Marcus Aurelius Meditationes 4.23 42 7.13 102 Martial Epigrammata 3.60 116–17, 133 3.7 117 Papyri Kölner papyri 1.57.1–2 129 Oxyrhynchus papyri 1.110.2–3 129 n. 104 404.41–42 145 The Greek Magical Papyri (PGM) 1.1 131, 148 1.35–40 131, 148 3.424–30 131 n. 115 4.1227–64 64 n. 116 Plato [Epinomis] 984c–e 61

215

Theaetetus 198b 140

Early Christian and Patristic Literature

Timaeus 33b–34a 36c–d 48b 51a4–5 90e–92c 92c

44 44 60 159 44 51, 67

Aphrahat Demonstrations 1.5 169 6.1 169 6.6 169 6.14 169–70, 171, 172, 173, 175 6.18 169, 172

Pliny Epistulae 2.6

133

Athanasius De Incarnatione 54.3 92 n. 105

Plutarch De defectu oraculorum 417c–e 129 De Iside et Osiride 352c 140 360c–d 89 Stoicos absurdiora poetis dicere 1058b–c 40 De virtute et vitio 101a–b 97 Seneca De beneficiis 7.3.2–7.4.3 40 Epistulae morales 116.5 41, 95 n. 126 Theophrastus Characteres 20.10–11 121 Xenophanes Fragmenta 27 42 Xenophon Memorabilia 3.14.1 136 4.3.13 67

Athenagoras Legatio pro Christianis 26.1 129 n. 105 Augustine De Civitate Dei 7.28 61 n. 98 Chrysostom Homilia 7.1 48 24.4 125 n. 78 Clement of Alexandria Paedagogus 1.6.25 163 1.6.31 161, 163 1.6.34 163 3.9 104 n. 167 Stromata 7.17

163

Constitutiones Apostolorum 2.7 166 2.7.1 166 2.7.2 167 3.16 156 3.16–18 166–8 3.17 167 3.18 163, 168 7.39–45 166

216 7.43 7.44 Cyprian Epistulae 63.4

Index of References 156 163, 168

127

Cyril of Jerusalem Mystagogic Catechesis 4.5 127 5.8 127 Didache 7.1 7.1–3 7.2–3 9.2–4 9.4 10.3 10.8

165 21, 164–5 165 123 125 125 n. 84 156 n. 9

Didascalia 2.7 166 n. 40 Ephrem Commentarii in Epistulas D. Pauli Gal 4:6 172 Hymns for the Epiphany 1.4–6 172 4.5–8 174–5 6.9 172, 173 13.1–5 173 14.34 172, 173 14.39 173 Hymns on the Nativity 16.12 174 16.12–13 172, 173–4 Ignatius To the Ephesians 20 149

To the Smyrnaeans 6:1 48

De anima 39

Irenaeus Adversus haereses 3.19.1 92 n. 105 5 pref. 69

De Baptismo 4 158 4.5 158 4.7 158 4.9 158 4.10 159 4.5–4.9 104 n. 167 5 18, 19 5.22 159 n. 19 5.43 160 6.1 159 7–8 159 9 161, 167

Justin Dialogue with Trypho 41.1 127 n. 93 87 156 88 155, 155–7 First Apology 61–62 19 61–65 156 62–63 157 66 25, 141 66.9–12 141 Nag Hammadi Literature Gospel of Philip 56.26 161 Tripartite Tractate 118.14–19.27 163 Origen Contra Celsum 1:7 18 Shepherd of Hermas Sim. 10.4.3 145 n. 197 Tatian Diatessaron 4.36 156 Tertullian Adversus Judaeos 8 157 Adversus Valentinianos 5 158

161

De corona 3 160 De cultu feminarum 2 160, 161 2.1 160 De monogamia 10 160, 161 De Resurrectione Carnis 47 160 De spectaculis 4 160 De virginibus velandis 7 169 Other Sources Norse Literature Vafþrúðnismál 21 102 Vedic Literature Ṛ g Veda 10.90 102

INDEX OF MODERN AUTHORS Adams, Edward C. 75 Allo, Ernest Bernard 70 Asad, Talal 73, 74 Barclay, John M. G. 2, 46–7, 62–3, 75, 84, 94, 96, 97, 99 Barr, James 170–1 Barrett, Charles Kingsley 147 Barton, Stephen C. 31–2, 117–18, 143 Bauckham, Richard 88 Beasley-Murray, George R. 12, 17, 18, 21 Beker, J. Christiaan 82 Berger, Peter L. 5, 6, 14, 83 Berkhof, Hendrickus 49 Betz, Hans Dieter 94, 95 Bhabha, Homi 13, 52–3, 55, 71, 180 Billerbeck, Paul 17, 123 Blackwell, Ben C. 3, 93 Bockmuehl, Markus N. A. 90 Bourdieu, Pierre 35, 74, 75, 106 Bousset, Wilhelm 11 Boyer, Pascal 15 Bradshaw, Paul F. 4 Brock, Sebastian P. 173, 174 Brown, Peter 69 Bucur, Bogdan G. 171 Bultmann, Rudolf 44, 49, 76–7, 78, 81, 106 Burkert, Walter 63 Burton, Ernest De Witt 93 Bush, Stephen S. 112 Cassirer, Ernst 110 Charles, Ronald 13, 52 Coblentz Bautch, Kelley 45 Collins, Adela Yarbro 23 Conzelmann, Hans 70 Coutsoumpos, Panayotis 34 Crossan, John Dominic 35 Cullmann, Oscar 29, 82, 83

Davies, William D. 12 De Boer, Martinus C. 60–1 Dibelius, Martin 29 Dix, Gregory 29 Donahue, John R. 138 Douglas, Mary 102, 147, 148 Dunn, James D. G. 83, 85, 87, 177 Eichorn, Albert 11 Engberg-Pedersen, Troels 94, 106–7, 182

3, 62, 75, 80,

Fee, Gordon D. 126, 146–7 Ferguson, Everett 22 Fowl, Stephen E. 87–8 Frey, Jö rg 101 Furnish, Victor Paul 77–8, 78, 79, 80, 81 Gadamer, Hans-Georg 49 Geertz, Clifford 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 14, 33, 39, 71, 72–5, 72, 73, 74, 75, 84, 106, 107, 109–13, 109, 112, 114, 119, 137, 147, 150, 153, 179, 183, 186 Giddens, Anthony 14 Gooder, Paula 45 Graf, Fritz 19, 20 Gressmann, Hugo 129 Grignon, Claude 138 Grimes, Ronald L. 137 Guthrie, Stewart 15 Halbwachs, Maurice 142–3 Hartmann, Lars 17 Hays, Richard B. 78, 79, 81 Heen, Erik M. 89 Heil, John Paul 75 Heitmü ller, Wilhelm 17 Hellholm, David 2 Hengel, Martin 13 Hock, Ronald F. 54

218

Index of Modern Authors

Horrell, David G. 14, 33, 117 Horsley, Greg H. R. 31–2, 117–18 Hurtado, Larry W. 2

Rabens, Volker 80–1 Rappaport, Roy A. 1, 6, 14, 36 Robertson, Archibald 64, 70, 140

James, William 13 Jeremias, Joachim 12, 27–8, 28, 29 Johnson, Maxwell E. 23

Sampley, J. Paul 78, 81 Sanders, Ed P. 54 Sandmel, Samuel 13 Sasse, Hermann 44 Schrage, Wolfgang 78, 79, 81 Schweitzer, Albert 11, 12, 13, 24–5, 27, 29, 37, 82, 177 Smit, Peter-Ben 137 Smith, Barry D. 135–7 Smith, Dennis E. 35 Springs, Jason A. 74 Sterling, Gregory E. 42 Stowers, Stanley K. 54 Strack, Hermann L. 123

Kä semann, Ernst 28–9, 82, 83, 87 Klauck, Hans-Josef 11, 129–30 Lakey, Michael J. 40–3 Lampe, Peter 117 Langer, Susanne K. 110–12, 113, 115 Lawson, E. Thomas 15 Levenson, Jon D. 65, 66 Lietzmann, Hans 25–7, 27, 29, 30, 148–9 Litwa, M. David 79–80, 81 Lohmeyer, Ernst 30, 86–7 Luckmann, Thomas 5, 6, 14, 83 McCauley, Robert N. 15 Martin, Dale B. 65, 131, 147–8 Martyn, J. Louis 82, 83, 84, 94 Meeks, Wayne A. 32–3 Meggitt, Justin J. 133 Murphy-O’Connor, Jerome 54 Norden, Eduard

82

Oepke, Albrecht 18, 19 Ø kland, Jorunn 2, 64 O’Neill, John C. 93 Ortner, Sherry 74 Peirce, Charles Sanders 110 Perrin, Norman 30 Pitre, Brant J. 25 Plummer, Alfred 64, 70, 140 Putthoff, Tyson L. 63

Taussig, Hal 2, 34–5 Theissen, Gerd 30–2 Thiselton, Anthony C. 25, 47–9, 54 Tibbs, Clint 100–101 Turley, Stephen R. 1, 35–6 Ullucci, Daniel 127–8 Uro, Risto 15 Wedderburn, Alexander J. M. 20 White, Joel 43, 44, 45 Whitehead, Alfred North 178 Whitehouse, Harvey 15 Williams, Guy 46 Willis, Wendell L. 129 Wink, Walter 49 Winkler, Gabriele 154–5, 167 Witherington, Ben 87 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 73, 75, 106, 112 Wright, Nicholas Thomas 2, 50–1, 52, 53, 55, 84, 87, 152