Early Christian Communities Between Ideal and Reality (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testament) 9783161526701, 9783161535093, 3161526708

Citation preview

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

342

Early Christian Communities between Ideal and Reality Edited by

Mark Grundeken and Joseph Verheyden

Mohr Siebeck

Mark Grundeken, born 1984, Ph. D. 2013 (KU Leuven), 2013–2014 Wissenschaftlicher Mitarbeiter of Professor Cilliers Breytenbach at the Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, is Akademischer Rat of Professor Ferdinand R. Prostmeier at the Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg. Joseph Verheyden, born 1957, Ph. D. 1987 (KU Leuven), is Professor of New Testament at the KU Leuven.

e -ISBN PDF 978-3-16-153509-3 ISBN 978-3-16-152670-1 ISSN 0512-1604 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2015 Mohr Siebeck Tübingen, Germany. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproduction, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by epline in Kirchheim/Teck, printed by Gulde-Druck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound by Großbuchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany

Table of Contents Joseph Verheyden and Mark Grundeken Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VII Andreas Lindemann Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Clayton N. Jefford The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Taras Khomych From Glorious Past to Miserable Present: First Clement on the Organisation of the Corinthian Community . . . . . . . . 51 John S. Kloppenborg Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 James A. Kelhoffer If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon,” How Would We Know, and Why Would We Care? Prolegomena to Analyses of the Writing’s Genre and Community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Paul Foster Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch . . . . . . . . . . . 109 Mark Grundeken Baptism and Μετάνοια in the Shepherd of Hermas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Harry O. Maier From Material Place to Imagined Space: Emergent Christian Community as Thirdspace in the Shepherd of Hermas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 Judith M. Lieu From Us but Not of Us? Moving the Boundaries of the Community . . . . . . 161

VI

Table of Contents

James Carleton Paget Barnabas and the Outsiders: Jews and Their World in the Epistle of Barnabas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177 Tobias Nicklas Identitätsbildung durch Konstruktion der „Anderen“: Die Schrift Ad Diognetum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203 List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219 Index of Ancient Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223 Index of Modern Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237 Thematic Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243

Introduction Joseph Verheyden and Mark Grundeken This volume contains the proceedings of an international symposium held at the University of Leuven, 26–28 September 2012, on the notion of Christian community and its organisation in the first half of the second century as reflected upon, above all, in the writings of the Apostolic Fathers. Contributors were asked to focus on a variety of aspects, including the structure and composition of a community, its functioning, the development of a sacramental praxis and theology as the expression of its identity, the way these early Christian communities have identified themselves in opposition and contradistinction to outsiders, and the interplay between ideal and reality in matters of organisation and spreading the Christian message. Andreas Lindemann offers a survey of the sacramental praxis in Christian communities up to the time of Justin Martyr. He begins by observing that the New Testament evidence for establishing the origins and earliest attestation of baptism and Eucharist is scanty and incidental, hence precludes drawing any firm conclusions. He further notes that, to some extent, the same is true also for the evidence from the Apostolic Fathers. He then studies in detail the long list of passages that deal with or (possibly) refer to baptism and/or Eucharist in the Didache (chapters 7, 9–10 and 14), Barnabas (6.8–18 and 11, perhaps also 2.5), Ignatius (Eph. 5.2; 13.1; 18.2; Magn. 7.2; Trall. 2.1–2; 7.2; Rom. 7.3; Phil. 4; Smyrn. 7.1–7; 8.1–2; and Pol. 6), 2 Clement (6.8), Hermas (Vis. 3), and also Justin Martyr (1 Apol. 61–67). The Didache informs in detail on the praxis, but does not develop a theology of baptism and does not explicitly speak of the Eucharist. The latter is possibly mentioned indirectly in Barnabas, but baptism is mentioned and dealt with on the basis of a number of biblical texts which should illustrate the author’s position that Israel has refused this offer for remission of its sins. Ignatius is primarily interested in arguing that the Eucharist can only be valid if presided over by the ἐπίσκοπος, though it remains unclear what the latter’s function precisely consists of. Justin seems to distinguish between the Sunday liturgy and such meals which follow baptism, but the distinction does not seem to be essential. He speaks of a “change” of the elements, but does not wish to understand this in any material way. Like Ignatius he draws attention to the presence and role of an appointed minister at the Eucharist. In sum, one should conclude that the evidence informs about Christian sacramental praxis, but does not allow for a consistent or systematic reconstruction.

VIII

Joseph Verheyden and Mark Grundeken

The Didache and the Eucharist is the topic of Clayton Jefford’s essay. Jefford argues that the Didache speaks of “old and new” and attests both to “the preservation of ancient traditions and innovative structures.” It did not prevent the work from (rapidly) becoming “outdated” as a witness of early Christian Eucharist. Reception of the tradition is shown in the juxtaposition of the Eucharistic prayers in chapters 9–10, which continue to be regarded by the author as an integral part of the community’s liturgical praxis, even though it can no longer be established in how far they represent mainstream tradition. Jefford presents in detail suggestions made by various authors about the Eucharistic situation reflected in the Didache and concludes that these prayers were “Jewish in practice, messianic in perspective, eschatological in orientation, and hopeful for the days to come.” It is an elegant way of drawing together the presence of Jewish tradition in an outspoken Christian text. If the material may be traditional, the embedding in a (kind of) church order brings a new (Jefford calls it, unique) element to the texts, for it reflects a concern and a need “to put a community into an orderly state” following the further spread and consolidation of Christian communities. It turns the Didache into a meeting place of past and present, of tradition and adaption to a new context. If formulated in terms of ideal and reality, the result is obvious: “The ideal was sacrificed for the necessities of daily reality.” The author did not seem to care about it and clearly considered it to be the right decision. 1 Clement is the topic of two essays. Taras Khomych deals with 1 Clement’s presentation of the organisation of the community in general, which he, somewhat ominously, labels as a development from “a glorious past” to “a miserable present.” The text documents the author’s sadness about certain evolutions in the community and his attempts to turn the tide. The play with past and present verbs illustrates this view and helps to express it. This is most clearly stated in 3.1 which serves as a transition from 1.2–2.8 to 3.2–4. It forms the framework for the whole of 4–39 that should exemplify the present situation in contrast with the past; and it remains a valid perspective also for understanding the final part of the work (40–65) which deals, among other things, with the origins of the ministry, an issue that shows up here for the first time and rather unexpectedly, as Khomych points out. Christian ministry is bound in with Israel’s past (43–4) and explained from that perspective. The two are not in opposition, for both are sanctioned by God. Appealing as this may be, it should be noted that this view is made a factor in the author’s argument on “past and present.” Khomych concludes with a warning: the evidence from 1 Clement is occasioned by a particular, and sad, event. This does not invalidate its importance, but should be taken into account when assessing the author’s position. The past is important because it may help remedy the present, when deficient. John Kloppenborg revisits the old paradigm, often illustrated on the basis of 1 Clement, that a major shift has taken place at the turn of the first and the ­second century from an original “office-less” and charismatic community to-



Introduction

IX

wards “an organisation” and finds the evidence for such a presentation wanting. He gives a detailed survey of the paradigm as it has first been formulated by R. Sohm and A. Harnack, and was then further developed by H. von Campenhausen and others. In evaluating the paradigm, Kloppenborg challenges the not always clearly expressed view that it was Paul who brought “structure” to the first communities, as if no “mechanics of organisation” had ever existed in the Hellenistic world. He criticises the unsubstantiated claim that the earliest communities were “driven by the Spirit,” a claim that can be countered from Paul’s letters. He dismisses as “a deeply naive reading of Paul” any argument for this claim based on the observation that Paul does not mention any ministers and functions in some of his letters. And he points out that these letters are rather to be taken as evidence of local practices in organising a group that can also be documented from non-Christian texts. This last point is then taken up and further illustrated by evidence from Greek associations arguing that this can be done in quite some detail and very concretely. Tensions in a group or association were nothing new or exceptional. 1 Clement, Kloppenborg argues, is not about replacing the Spirit and charisma with “leaders,” but rather about conflicting claims or styles of governance; such conflicts can be documented from epigraphic texts. James Kelhoffer contributes an essay on the genre of 2 Clement and what it may involve in studying the community it addresses. He agrees that the text is not a letter, but challenges the alternative suggestion, going back at least to Lightfoot, that it is a sermon or homily. He substantiates his critique by some comments that are meant to blur the lines between the two genres and by a long survey of the history of research from Lightfoot to Tuckett’s recent commentary. The survey includes three excursuses dealing with assumptions about the role of a sermon in Christian worship, its authority for developing a theological position, and the relevance of 2 Clem. 19.1 for the discussion. In Kelhoffer’s view, the latter may well mean that 2 Clement was part of “the Scriptures” that are said to have been read in the community; it does not say anything about a relation to “Scripture,” and so cannot be used to argue for the homily genre. In sum, the question remains open-ended: no letter, probably not a sermon, and no clear indication of which road to take. At best, we are left with some circumstantial evidence that the text was read, though not necessarily also composed for that purpose, in Christian gatherings. To some this is perhaps a sobering conclusion, but if true, it also offers further proof of the problems this corpus of texts unfortunately keeps posing. Paul Foster addresses two topics in Ignatius’ letters that have received much attention already, but remain vital for getting a better idea of this author’s self-understanding. The first topic is Ignatius’ presentation of the apostles. They are regarded as a group, much more than as individuals (but see Eph. 12.2 and Rom. 4.3). They are the model after which the presbyters should be organised, the model also of unity and loyalty to Christ. Ignatius is convinced that, as a body,

X

Joseph Verheyden and Mark Grundeken

the disciples of Christ should continue to play a role in the Christians’ reflection upon their own organisation. They are “a template” and “an example,” and in that capacity they have a lasting significance for the Christian community. From the apostles to Christ himself, the second topic. Foster has organised the mass of material the letters provide along five themes – Christ’s divinity, his humanity, the Eucharistic significance, his salvific coming, and the community’s (and individual’s) union with Christ. These five themes certainly cover the whole of the material, though one may have some reservation about the way of presenting it, as it might give the wrong impression that Ignatius has dealt with these topics in a more systematic way than actually is the case. But Foster is aware of the danger, and warns for it in his conclusion when noting, “What needs to be remembered is that such perspectives were not the result of some rarefied scholastic environment.” What holds them together, though, is the double context that occasioned Ignatius to speak out on these issues – the opinions of opponents and the needs of liturgical praxis. Mark Grundeken discusses two closely related topics from Hermas – baptism and metanoia (see, e. g., Man. 4.3). More specifically, he studies the relation between the two for what it reveals about the reality of Hermas’ community. Grundeken begins by reviewing the references and allusions to baptism that are distributed over all three parts of the work. The evidence shows that for Hermas baptism is a well-established practice that does not need to be explained or motivated. Its author is rather more interested in showing how baptism can help to consolidate the community, which to him seems to be more important than the task of ever furthering the expansion of the church at large. The second topic is a classic in Hermas research. Grundeken demonstrates the multiple aspects there are to the concept, including a social and ethical dimension, which he suggests to understand primarily in terms of transformation of “heart and soul.” It means that, for Hermas, metanoia is not so much a matter of addressing real issues in the community, but calling upon its members to “aim higher,” which Grundeken rephrases as a concern for the ideal rather than for the real community. Or as he formulates it in his conclusion, “Μετάνοια does in Hermas not involve any ritual, but means personal change.” Harry Maier picks up on the flood of studies on the material conditions of the early Christian gatherings that have been published in the past decades. More particularly, he proposes to have a look at what he calls “the spatial turn” in New Testament studies, focusing on what Hermas has to tell us about this. He surveys previous research, pointing out the diversity of aspects that have been touched upon and the opinions that have been ventured. Some of the results of these socio-historical investigations are now commonly accepted in studies on the organisation of early Christian groups. Maier applies some of these on Hermas, playing out the “real” and the “imagined” as these occur in the work. On the quite plausible hypothesis that Hermas preaches for a household commu-



Introduction

XI

nity, Maier looks into the conditions, restrictions and opportunities the famous Roman insula may have offered for such meetings. Evidence from Rome and Ostia is surveyed in some detail to reconstruct the partly imagined, partly real, life-condition of such groups and how it may have influenced, not only the way they organised themselves, but also how they look on life. Maier is well aware of this, as he notes: “All this is speculative and offers a very possible though by no means certain account of the physical space of Hermas’ social world.” The observation functions as a bridge to the final section of the essay, in which Maier, following Edward Soja, introduces the notion of “thirdspace” to describe what Hermas is doing. His real-life situation, and that of his audience, is transformed into a “lived space”; space is reconceptualised, the (bucolic) countryside is imported in the notoriously cramped space of the urban insula by means of visions and similitudes. The audience itself is given a sense of being taken on an imaginary voyage. The constraints of the own real-life world are broken. Hermas encourages the audience to think about “old” things in a new style. Three contributions deal with aspects of the community’s positioning towards outsiders. Judith Lieu addresses the topic in a wider perspective, and, quite innovatively, by looking back from the end of the second century towards the beginnings – that is, from Irenaeus to Paul, John, and Ignatius. The approach may be unexpected, but it pays off for it allows us to see, and perhaps better grasp, the development that has taken place from a concern about “mere” divisions in the community to the build-up of a “real outsider world,” which ultimately will translate in labelling these others “heretics.” Irenaeus innovates, that much is certain, but he is also tributary to others, in particular to Paul, in shaping his ideas on the dangers and challenges of diversity within the community and outside of it. Among the elements Lieu singles out as being of importance for Irenaeus, is the attention he gives, first, to the role of authority and authoritative texts in fighting the other side, and second, to warnings and admonitions about not mixing with such people. Lieu then proceeds to analyse Paul’s (cf. Gal 5:19–21 and 1 Cor 11:17–19) and John’s dealing with “divisions” (1 John 2:18–19), before turning to Ignatius and the further development of a specific vocabulary for addressing such questions. Lieu is not interested in trying to identify any of the opponents, if this would be possible at all, but rather in pointing out that the “obsessive” issue of otherness “is there from the start,” specific developments notwithstanding. James Carleton Paget looks into the vexed question of how Barnabas constructs a picture of Judaism – or Israel, as its author calls it – that should at the same time allow its intended Christian readership to boast its superiority in matters of interpreting Scripture and condemn the “opponent” for its ignorance and stubbornness in not wishing to see its failures and shortcomings in dealing with its own tradition. Carleton Paget argues that this “constructed” Israel is not a mere chimera or an abstract notion for the sake of polemics. As far as he is concerned, the author of Barnabas fights “real situations.” Evidence for this can

XII

Joseph Verheyden and Mark Grundeken

be found in his interest in core issues of Jewish identity, in the real concern for warning Christians not to be lured away from their faith, and in “real-life” issues in general, including an apparent attempt at reconstructing the Jerusalem temple. Carleton Paget takes issue with James Rhodes’ appealing thesis that the author is actually using Israel’s struggle with its own religious tradition as a model to warn his Christian readers to stay on the right track. If this aspect cannot be ruled out completely, the evidence rather seems to show that Barnabas addresses an audience for which Jews and Judaism are “real” opponents, but it appears to be impossible to be more concrete, beyond the reasonable assumption that the work originated in Alexandria, maybe even before the city became a hotbed of Jewish revolt, as Carleton Paget tentatively suggests. Tobias Nicklas analyses the construction of “the others” in the tractate Ad Diognetum. It is Judaism again that is the subject of the polemics its author develops in chapters 3–4. But this time it is in the company of paganism, which had been addressed and criticised in chapter 2. The double opposition makes sense in a work that opens with a statement to the effect that Christianity is a “new genos.” The world has changed, a third partner has come on the scene, and it immediately and very self-consciously takes the lead in a dispute about identity that had been going on between the two other protagonists. Nicklas surveys the criticism Ad Diognetum mounts against Greek religion, a criticism that centres on idolatry and sacrificial practice, two issues that are well known also from Jewish criticism of the same adversary. The way Ad Diognetum presents his arguments is a caricature. Greek and Roman religion cannot be reduced to these elements, as Nicklas and other commentators have noted. Actually, the caricaturing can be compared to that of Greek authors criticising their own tradition (Lucian of Samosata). It does not mean that the critique is unfounded, but Ad Diognetum is certainly not the strongest representative of Christian polemics, and it also misses out on certain aspects (Nicklas mentions the argument that pagans worship creation instead of the creator). The criticism against Judaism seems to focus above all on delineating the borderlines and distinguishing as much as possible between Jews and Christians. For Nicklas this move is part of the author’s attempt at making Christianity attractive to a certain audience of pagan origin. Early Christian communities were above all local communities. Some in the church may have aspired to universal mission and dreamt of conquering the world, but for the majority of the faithful in the early second century, Christianity was localised and largely restricted to the own community. The sources offer some reliable information on daily-life concerns and on concrete situations, though less perhaps than we might have hoped for. They also inform us about the aspirations of these local communities and about their pre-occupations, some of which sound familiar – constructing identity over against “the others” by means of polemics, theological arguments, or mere invective; putting up and (theologically) accounting for some sort of organisation; admonishing and en-



Introduction

XIII

couraging the audience to become better persons. And they inform us about dreams and ideals – improving on the existing situation, continuously building towards a better community, perhaps even reaching out at perfection. This is what this book is about.

Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts Andreas Lindemann In diesem Beitrag geht es um die Frage, wie in den christlichen Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts die Sakramente gefeiert wurden. Thema ist nicht die theologische Deutung von Taufe und Abendmahl, sondern die „sakramentale Praxis.“ Nach U. Köpf hat der Begriff „Sakramente“ im christlichen Sprachgebrauch eine doppelte Bedeutung: Es gebe einerseits eine „weite“ Bedeutung, die dem neutestamentlichen Begriff μυστήριον entspreche und die sich allgemein behauptet habe als Bezeichnung von Glaubensgeheimnissen; daneben stehe andererseits eine „engere“ Bedeutung des Begriffs „Sakrament,“ die sich beziehe auf „bestimmte gottesdienstliche Handlungen, die dem Gläubigen Anteil an der von Christus bewirkten heilbringenden Gnade geben.“ In dieser Bedeutung habe Tertullian das lateinische Wort sacramentum „Fahneneid“ in die christliche Sprache eingeführt, indem er in Marc. 4.34.5 vom sacramentum baptismatis et eucharistiae spricht1 und so Taufe und Mahlfeier parallelisiert. In dem zuletzt genannten Sinne wird der Gebrauch des Wortes „Sakrament“ im Folgenden vorausgesetzt. Zu beachten ist dabei allerdings, dass es weder im Neuen Testament noch in den Schriften der Apostolischen Väter oder bei Justin eine theoretische Grundlage für die Zusammenschau von Taufe und Abendmahl als „Sakramente“ gibt; aber schon Paulus verbindet in 1 Kor 10:1−4 Taufe und Abendmahl zumindest indirekt miteinander, und in den Schriften des 2. Jahrhunderts stehen Hinweise auf die Taufe und auf die Mahlfeier häufig nebeneinander. Die Verknüpfung dürfte also nicht nur systematisch-theologisch, sondern auch exegetisch und historisch gerechtfertigt sein.

I. Taufe und Abendmahl im Neuen Testament 1.1  Die Frage nach dem historischen Ursprung der Feier beider Sakramente gehört zu den im Grunde unlösbaren Problemen neutestamentlicher Forschung: Wann und warum die von Johannes dem Täufer initiierte und praktizierte Taufe (mit Wasser) von der Gemeinde der Jesusgläubigen übernommen wurde, sagen unsere Quellen nicht. Vermutlich geschah es vergleichsweise sehr früh; das las1 U. Köpf, ‚Sakramente. I. Kirchengeschichtlich‘, in RGG 7 (2004 4), 752.

2

Andreas Lindemann

sen die – freilich wenigen – Erwähnungen in den paulinischen Briefen erkennen, in denen die Taufe bereits als selbstverständliche „christliche“ Praxis vorausgesetzt ist. Auch das in der Apostelgeschichte gezeichnete Bild der Jerusalemer Urgemeinde und des späteren Urchristentums setzt die Taufe der gläubig Gewordenen selbstverständlich voraus. Einen ausdrücklichen „Taufbefehl“ Jesu liefert aber erst das Matthäusevangelium in 28:16−20; dabei ist es sicher kein Zufall, dass der Evangelist diese Anweisung erst dem Auferstandenen in den Mund legt. Für die Feier des Abendmahls ist die Quellenlage grundsätzlich ähnlich: Ein regelmäßig zu feierndes Gemeindemahl, das sich orientiert an Jesu letztem Mahl „in der Nacht, in der er ausgeliefert wurde,“ lässt sich nur aus 1 Kor 11:23−25 ableiten, wo Paulus zwar ausdrücklich „Tradition“ zitiert, aber nicht deren Herkunft nennt.2 Lukas spricht in der Apostelgeschichte mehrfach vom „Brotbrechen“ als einer gemeindlichen (Mahl-)Handlung, aber er stellt an keiner Stelle eine Verbindung dieser Handlung zu dem letzten Mahl Jesu mit seinen Jüngern her. Die Mahlberichte in der Passionsgeschichte der synoptischen Evangelien bieten in den Deuteworten zu Brot und Kelch − mit Ausnahme von Lk 22:19  − keinen Wiederholungsbefehl, d. h. es wird an keiner Stelle der Eindruck vermittelt, J­ esus stifte hier eine nachösterlich womöglich regelmäßig zu begehende rituelle Handlung. 1.2  Wie stellt sich die konkrete Praxis von Taufe und Mahl in den christlichen Gemeinden ausweislich der Paulusbriefe und des lukanischen Doppelwerks dar? In den urchristlichen und insbesondere auch in den paulinischen Gemeinden wird die Taufe praktiziert, ohne dass sie von Paulus zum eigentlichen Thema gemacht wird; die (wenigen) Erwähnungen des selbstverständlichen Getauft­ seins der Jesusgläubigen sind immer Teil einer auf andere Themen bezogenen Argumentation (Gal 3:27 f.; 1 Kor 1:13−17; 12:13; 15:29; Röm 6:1−4).3 Lukas lässt in seinem Evangelium Johannes den Täufer mit Worten der Q-Überlieferung von einer Taufpraxis des kommenden „Stärkeren“ sprechen; aber gedacht ist dabei offenbar nicht an eine weitere Wassertaufe, sondern mit dem angekündigten Taufen ἐν πνεύματι ἁγίῳ καὶ πυρί ist das kommende Gericht gemeint (Lk 3:16 / Mt 3:11; vgl. die Fortsetzung Lk 3:17 / Mt 11:12 im Unterschied zu Mk 1:8).4 In der Apostelgeschichte ist die Taufe als eine von Anfang an selbstverständliche Praxis vorausgesetzt; das wird schon in Apg 2:38, 41 deutlich, wobei das Problem des praktischen Vollzugs der Taufe von „etwa dreitausend“ Menschen in Jerusalem offenbar keine Rolle spielt. Die Selbstverständlichkeit der Taufe wird insbesondere auch in der Begegnung des Philippus mit dem 2 

Die Angabe ἀπὸ τοῦ κυρίου sagt nicht, dass Christus selber die Quelle ist. In Gal 3:27 und in Röm 6:3 f. basiert die paulinische Argumentation darauf, dass die Adressaten selbstverständlich getauft sind. 4  Der kommende Stärkere ist also zumindest auf der ursprünglichen Ebene der Tradition nicht der irdische Jesus, sondern vermutlich ist Gott gemeint. 3 



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

3

„äthiopischen Eunuchen“ vorausgesetzt, wenn der εὐνοῦχος im Anschluss an die „Missionspredigt“ des Philippus von sich aus die Taufe verlangt (Apg 8:36: ἰδοὺ ὕδωρ, τί κωλύει με βαπτισθῆναι;).5 Von der Mahlfeier spricht Paulus nur im 1. Korintherbrief. Wäre es in Korinth nicht zu den von Paulus scharf kritisierten Komplikationen bei den gemeindlichen Zusammenkünften gekommen, durch die nach dem Urteil des Paulus das κυριακὸν δεῖπνον „unmöglich“ wurde, so wüssten wir von einer Mahlpraxis in den paulinischen Gemeinden gar nichts; es ist also im Grunde reiner Zufall, dass wir bei Paulus überhaupt etwas über das „Herrenmahl“ erfahren und darüber hinaus auch die „Einsetzungsworte“ der Mahlfeier lesen können (11:23b−25). Dass diese Worte bei der Feier regelmäßig rezitiert wurden und womöglich geradezu konstitutiv für den Vollzug des Mahls waren, ist unwahrscheinlich; Paulus meint ja, die Probleme schon durch das bloße Zitieren der „Einsetzungsworte“ zumindest teilweise lösen zu können. Die vorangegangene Argumentation in 1 Kor 10:14−22 lässt überdies erkennen, dass dem Apostel die Nähe der „christlichen“ Mahlfeier zu bestimmten Aspekten von „Dämonenkulten“ durchaus bewusst war. Das Lukasevangelium spricht von Jesu Abschiedsmahl in einer literarischen Verknüpfung der Mk-Vorlage (14:22−25) mit jener Überlieferung, die sich in 1 Kor 11:23−25 findet; dabei bietet Lukas in dem textgeschichtlich vermutlich ursprünglichen „Langtext“ (Lk 22:15−20) die sonst niemals bezeugte Abfolge Kelch / Brot / Kelch,6 während sich der bei Markus und Matthäus völlig fehlende Wiederholungsbefehl anders als bei Paulus nur beim Brotwort findet (V. 19b). Das in Lk 22 geschilderte Mahl ist offensichtlich als analogielos zu denken – es soll als solches wohl nicht wiederholt oder gar regelmäßig begangen werden.7 Dementsprechend ist in der Apg durchweg nur vom „Brotbrechen“ die Rede, wenn das gemeinschaftliche Mahl der Jesusgläubigen erwähnt wird.8 1.3  Auch in den später entstandenen neutestamentlichen Texten ist von der Taufe und vom Mahl selten die Rede. Im Kolosserbrief wird in 2:12 mit der Wendung συνταφέντες αὐτῷ ἐν τῷ βαπτίσματι an Röm 6:1−4 angeknüpft, aber inhaltlich wird nichts zur Taufe gesagt. Der Autor des Epheserbriefes formuliert in 4:5 plakativ: „Ein Herr, ein Glaube, eine Taufe,“ aber welche sachliche Bedeutung dem 5  Vgl. A. Lindemann, ‚Der „äthiopische Eunuch“ und die Anfänge der Mission unter den Völkern nach Apg 8−11‘, in Idem, Die Evangelien und die Apostelgeschichte. Studien zu ihrer Theologie und zu ihrer Geschichte, WUNT 1.241 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 231−51, hier: 248. 6  Vgl. dazu M. Wolter, Das Lukasevangelium, HNT 5 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 698−708. 7 A. Lindemann, ‚Einheit und Vielfalt im lukanischen Doppelwerk. Beobachtungen zu Reden, Wundererzählungen und Mahlberichten‘, in Idem, Die Evangelien und die Apostelgeschichte, 186−212, hier: 209−12. 8 F. Hahn, ‚Abendmahl‘, in RGG 1 (19984), 14, führt dies auf fehlenden Wein in den frühen Gemeinden zurück; aber das ist sehr unwahrscheinlich.

4

Andreas Lindemann

so nachdrücklich betonten εἷς / μία / ἕν zukommt, ist gerade auch in Bezug auf die Taufe nicht klar. Von der Mahlfeier sprechen die deuteropaulinischen Briefe gar nicht. Im Hebräerbrief könnte in 13:10 beim Stichwort „Altar“ auf die Mahlpraxis angespielt sein (ἔχομεν θυσιαστήριον ἐξ οὗ φαγεῖν οὐκ ἔχουσιν ἐξουσίαν οἱ τῇ σκηνῇ λατρεύοντες). Aber nach E. Gräßer ist die Suche nach „versteckten oder offenen Anspielungen auf das Herrenmahl“ unnötig: „Sie sind nur formaler Art und laufen inhaltlich der Intention unseres Verf.s geradewegs zuwider.“9 Ob in den im Sendschreiben an die Gemeinde von Laodicea gerichteten Worten Apk 3:20 wirklich an das „Abendmahl“ gedacht ist, lässt sich kaum sagen.10 Im Johannesevangelium enthält die in die Brotrede mündende Mahlszene in Kap. 6 in dem m. E. sekundären Nachtrag 6:51c−58 vermutlich einen Hinweis auf die Abendmahlspraxis. Ursprünglich scheint die joh Gemeinde eine solche Mahlpraxis nicht gekannt zu haben; die mit der Speisungserzählung verbundene Rede vom Himmelsbrot könnte in einer kirchengeschichtlich späteren Phase Anlass dafür gegeben haben, eine der „sakramentalen“ Mahlhandlung in anderen Gemeinden entsprechende Praxis auch in der joh Gemeinde einzuführen und literarisch im Text des Evangeliums zu verankern.11 1.4  Fazit: Die Quellenlage lässt eine Antwort auf die Frage nach der Entstehung der (christlichen) Taufe und der Mahlfeier nicht zu. Die Frage nach der konkreten Praxis beider „Sakramente“ im frühen Urchristentum lässt sich nicht umfassend beantworten − mit Ausnahme der Aussagen in der Apostelgeschichte scheint die Erwähnung der Themen „Taufe“ und „(Herren-)Mahl“ offenbar abhängig zu sein von den unter Umständen ganz zufälligen Gegebenheiten beim Autor oder – wie 1 Kor zeigt − vor allem bei den Adressaten. Dies ist auch für die Folgezeit zu beachten.

II. Sakramentale Praxis in den Schriften der Apostolischen Väter Der im 17. Jahrhundert entstandene Begriff „Apostolische Väter“ als Bezeichnung für die überwiegend in der ersten Hälfte des 2. Jahrhunderts entstandenen christlichen Schriften ist umstritten, insofern von einer Einheitlichkeit der unter

9 E. Grässer, An die Hebräer, III: Hebr 10,19−13,25, EKK 17 (Zürich / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Benziger / Neukirchener, 1997), 379. 10  U. B. Müller, Die Offenbarung des Johannes, ÖTBK 19 (Gütersloh / Würzburg: Mohn, 1984), 138. 11  Vgl. R. Bultmann, Das Evangelium des Johannes, KEK 2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1964), 174−9; M. Theobald, Das Evangelium nach Johannes. Kapitel 1−12, RNT (Regensburg: Pustet, 2009), 475−83.



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

5

dieser Überschrift stehenden Texte keine Rede sein könne.12 Er wird im folgenden auf diejenigen Schriften bezogen, die, anders als die christlichen „Apokryphen,“ keine Herkunft aus dem ältesten Urchristentum behaupten; es handelt sich um die Didache, den Barnabasbrief, beide Clemensbriefe, die Briefe des Ignatius und des Polykarp sowie das Polykarpmartyrium, die Papiasfragmente und den Hirten des Hermas, außerdem die Schrift „An Diognet.“13 2.1  In einigen der genannten Schriften sind weder die Taufe noch das Abendmahl (bzw. „Herrenmahl“ bzw. „Eucharistie“) explizit ein Thema, ohne dass daraus jedoch − wie nicht zuletzt die Paulusbriefe zeigen − für die gemeindliche Praxis konkrete Schlüsse zu ziehen sind. Im Fall des umfangreichen 1. Clemensbriefes ist das Fehlen beider Themen vermutlich damit zu erklären, dass es in dem korinthischen Konflikt, in den die römische Gemeinde glaubte eingreifen zu müssen, offenbar ausschließlich um das Amt der Presbyter ging. Dass es in Korinth womöglich immer noch oder wieder eine „unwürdige“ Mahlpraxis gab, lässt der Brief aus Rom nicht erkennen; vermutlich hätte die römische Kirche das Thema nicht übergangen, wären Zustände wie die in 1 Kor 11:17 ff. beschriebenen in Korinth immer noch virulent und in Rom bekannt gewesen. Im Fall des Polykarpbriefes nach Philippi und der apologetischen Schrift „An Diognet“ kann das Schweigen zu den Themen Taufe und Abendmahl nur konstatiert werden – Erklärungsversuche sind m. E. nicht möglich. 2.2 In der nach ihrer (vermutlich sekundären) Überschrift als Didache14 bezeichneten Kirchenordnung, die vermutlich die älteste der hier zu untersuchenden Schriften ist, wird sehr eingehend vom liturgischen Vollzug der Taufe gesprochen.15 Die Didache bietet überdies ausführliche Mahlgebete, ohne dass 12  Das gilt ähnlich natürlich auch für das „Neue Testament“; vgl. A. Lindemann, ‚Apostolische Väter‘, in RGG 1 (19984), 652 f. Zur kirchen- und theologiegeschichtlichen Bedeutung der Schriften der Apostolischen Väter s. J. Ulrich, ‚Die Apostolischen Väter gestern und heute‘, in W. Pratscher (Hg.), Die Apostolischen Väter. Eine Einleitung, UTB 3272 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 254−71. 13 So die Zusammenstellung der Texte in: A. Lindemann und H. Paulsen (Hg.), Die Apostolischen Väter. Griechisch-deutsche Parallelausgabe auf der Grundlage der Ausgaben von Franz Xaver Funk / Karl Bihlmeyer und Molly Whittaker, mit Übersetzungen von M. Dibelius und D.-A. Koch (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992). 14  Zur Überschrift bzw. zum Titel der allgemein als „Didache“ bezeichneten Schrift s. vor allem K. Niederwimmer, Die Didache, KAV 1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 81 f.; ferner B. Steimer, Vertex Traditionis. Die Gattung der altchristlichen Kirchenordnungen, BZNW 63 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1992), 20−7. D. Lührmann, Die apokryph gewordenen Evangelien. Studien zu neuen Texten und zu neuen Fragen, NT.S 112 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 218 f. macht darauf aufmerksam, dass Didymus von Alexandria die Didache ausdrücklich als βίβλος τῆς κατηχήσεως bezeichnet. 15  Vgl. zum Folgenden A. Lindemann, ‚Zur frühchristlichen Taufpraxis. Die Taufe in der Didache, bei Justin und in der Didaskalia‘, in D. Hellholm, T. Vegge, Ø. Norderval und C. Hellholm (Hg.), Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism. Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Ear-

6

Andreas Lindemann

aber klar erkennbar wird, ob es hier wirklich um das „Abendmahl“ im Sinne von 1 Kor 11:23−25 geht. 2.2.1  Die Aussagen zur Taufpraxis folgen auf die „Zwei-Wege-Lehre.“ Vielleicht kann mit Blick auf Did. 1.1−6.2 von einer Taufkatechese gesprochen werden, die sich dann allerdings allein auf Fragen der Lebenspraxis bezieht, nicht auf Inhalte des Glaubens und der Lehre. Offenbar geht es in der Didache wirklich „nur um die äußeren Formen des Lebens in bereits etablierten Gemeinden.“16 In 6.3 beginnt ein größerer Abschnitt, der bis 10.7 (bzw. 10.817) reicht und sich folgendermaßen gliedern lässt: Erstes Thema ist das Essen (6.3: περὶ δὲ τῆς βρώσεως), als zweites Thema folgt die Taufe (7.1: περὶ δὲ τοῦ βαπτίσματος); in 8.1−3 wird dann vom Fasten gesprochen, verbunden mit dem Zitat des Vaterunser-Gebets, und das letzte Thema ist die „Eucharistie“ (9.1: περὶ δὲ τῆς εὐχαριστίας). Die knappen Ausführungen in 6.3 sind nicht ganz deutlich; zuvor war von „Speise“ nicht die Rede gewesen, und so ist unklar, was mit der an 6.2 anknüpfenden Wendung ὃ δύνασαι βάστασον konkret gemeint ist. Eindeutig ist dagegen das Verbot des εἰδωλόθυτον − der Genuss des ausdrücklich als λατρεία θεῶν νεκρῶν geltenden „Götzenopferfleisches“ ist strikt verboten; aber Speisevorschriften im eigentlichen Sinne, die sich auf die Nahrung als solche beziehen, sind damit nicht verbunden.18 Ein Zusammenhang zwischen der das εἰδωλόθυτον betreffenden ly Christianity / Waschungen, Initiation und Taufe. Spätantike, Frühes Judentum und Frühes Christentum, II, BZNW 176 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 767−815, hier: 767−85. 16 G. Schöllgen, ‚Die Didache als Kirchenordnung‘, in JbAC 29 (1986), 1−16, hier: 20, meint, es gehe „lediglich um eine autoritative Regelung von strittigen Punkten,“ was vor allem dadurch deutlich werde, „daß es häufig lediglich Fragen zweiten Ranges sind, die geklärt werden, während die wichtigen unbehandelt bleiben können, weil der Verfasser hier keine Schwierigkeiten sieht“ (ebd.). Vgl. Idem, ‚Der Abfassungszweck der frühchristlichen Kirchenordnungen. Anmerkungen zu den Thesen Bruno Steimers‘, in JbAC 40 (1997), 55−77, hier: 60. Steimer, Vertex Traditionis, 192 f. betont, die in der Forschung erfolgten Gattungsbestimmungen der Didache seien höchst ungenau. Er kommt aufgrund der Formanalyse zu dem Ergebnis, dass die Schrift „vier deutlich voneinander abgehobene Teile“ aufweist, nämlich „ethische, liturgische, gemeinderechtliche und eschatologische Unterweisung,“ wobei sich „eine paränetische Rahmung des in cc7−15 niedergelegten Normenbestandes durch cc1−6 (Zweiwegelehre) und c16 (eschatologischer Abschluß)“ erkennen lasse. Vgl. zur Thematik der Did. Niederwimmer, Didache, 13; nach J. A. Draper, ‚Die Didache‘, in Pratscher (Hg.), Die Apostolischen Väter, 17−38 (hier: 24−34) sind die theologischen Themen die Rede von Gott als dem Vater, die Christologie, freilich beschränkt auf den Aspekt, dass Jesus παῖς θεοῦ ist, der Geist sowie Eschatologie und Ekklesiologie. Vgl. Steimer, Vertex Traditionis, 339: „Der Verfasser der Did ist eine von der Gemeinde autorisierte Persönlichkeit, deren Anordnungen authentisch-reale Gemeindeverhältnisse widerspiegeln“; vgl. auch ibid., 253 f. 17  Ob der nur in der koptischen Übersetzung erhaltene Text in 10.8 über das „Salböl“ (kopt. stinŏufi, die Übersetzung ist unsicher) ursprünglich ist, kann hier offen bleiben. Vgl. dazu A. Vööbus, Liturgical Traditions in the Didache, PETSE 16 (Stockholm: ETSE, 1968), 42−60. Niederwimmer, Didache, 205−9 kommt zu dem Ergebnis, dass der Passus sekundär ist. 18  Insofern ist die grundsätzliche Haltung in Did. 6.3 m. E. tatsächlich dieselbe wie die des Paulus in 1 Kor 8−10 (zu Niederwimmer, Didache, 157 Anm. 39): Das Verbot des εἰδωλόθυτον



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

7

Anweisung und der gemeindlichen Mahlfeier ist natürlich nicht ausgeschlossen; er ist aber wenig wahrscheinlich, zumal sowohl in 6.1−2 wie dann auch in 6.3 der einzelne Christ auf sein Verhalten hin angesprochen wird (2. Pers. Sing. bzw. Impt. Sing.) und nicht die Gemeinde. In Did. 7 wendet sich der Text nach der Überschrift in 7.1a (περὶ δὲ τοῦ βαπτίσματος) an einen nicht näher bestimmten Personenkreis: Die Angesprochenen sollen das Taufen in einer bestimmten Weise praktizieren (οὕτω βαπτίσατε). Wer hier angesprochen ist, lässt sich nicht erkennen; offenbar handelt es sich jedenfalls nicht um Inhaber eines bestimmten „Amtes.“ Vor dem Hintergrund der frühen Taufpraxis, wie sie etwa in 1 Kor 1:17a indirekt sichtbar wird, ist vorstellbar, dass es tatsächlich nicht um die Person der Taufenden geht, sondern um den „korrekten Vollzug“ der Taufe.19 Die „technische“ Bedeutung der Worte βάπτισμα bzw. βαπτίζειν im Sinne von „Taufe“ / „taufen“ braucht den Adressaten nicht erläutert zu werden. Durch die Überschrift und die Weisung οὕτω βαπτίσατε ist schon angedeutet, dass im folgenden keine „Tauftheologie“ entwickelt wird; die einleitende Wendung ταῦτα πάντα προειπόντες stellt zwar eine Verbindung zu der vorangegangenen Zwei-Wege-Lehre her, aber es wird nicht gesagt, die Täuflinge müssten vor der Taufe „dies alles“ lernen und dann womöglich bei der Taufe in liturgischer Form bejahen.20 Es geht offenbar vor allem darum den Adressaten zu sagen, auf welche Weise die Taufe vollzogen werden soll. Nach 7.1b erfolgt das Taufen εἰς τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ πατρὸς καὶ τοῦ υἱοῦ καὶ τοῦ ἁγίου πνεύματος. Dabei ist vermutlich vorausgesetzt, dass diese Formel bei der Taufe tatsächlich ausgesprochen wird; es besteht jedenfalls keine „Arkandisziplin.“ Die Formel entspricht Mt 28:1921, aber es ist nicht zu erkennen, dass sie von fällt letztlich nicht unter die Speise- (Reinheits-)Gebote, sondern unter das Verbot des Götzendienstes. 19  Darauf hat A. Harnack, Die Lehre der zwölf Apostel nebst Untersuchungen zur ältesten Geschichte der Kirchenverfassung und des Kirchenrechts (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1884), 58 (offenkundig erfreut!) hingewiesen: „Bemerkenswert ist ferner, dass der Verf. nicht bestimmte Personen nennt, die mit dem Vollzug der Taufen betraut sind, und dass er noch eine solche Gemeinsamkeit aller Gemeindeglieder voraussetzt, dass er das Mitfasten derselben – als freie, nicht gebotene Handlung – vor jeder Taufe anräth.“ 20  Vgl. R. Knopf, Die Lehre der zwölf Apostel. Die zwei Clemensbriefe, HNT Erg. Die Apostolischen Väter 1 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1920), 21: „Ob das προειπόντες beim Katechumenenunterricht oder bei der Taufhandlung selber (als Liturgie) erfolgt, bleibt unklar.“ J.-P. Audet, La Didachè. Instructions des Apôtres, EtB (Paris: Lecoffre, 1958), 58−62, hält die von Codex H bezeugte Einleitung nicht nur für redaktionell, sondern entsprechend der Lesart in den Apostolischen Konstitutionen für eine sekundäre Glosse. Athanasius bezeuge im 39. Osterfestbrief im Jahre 367, dass Did. 1−6 in Ägypten seit langem als Lehre für die Katechumenen verwendet worden sei. „Un copiste pouvait donc s’autoriser de l’usage courant dans son milieu pour insérer ce que nous lisons dans H, reliant ainsi vaille que vaille la section baptismale à l’instruction morale qui précède.“ Zu lesen sei: περὶ δὲ τοῦ βαπτίσματος, οὕτω βαπτίσατε κτλ. (ibid., 61 f.). 21  Niederwimmer, Didache, 160: Die Übereinstimmung ergibt sich „aus der gemeinsamen

8

Andreas Lindemann

dort übernommen wurde. Anders als in 8.2 beim Herrengebet wird auch kein Hinweis darauf gegeben, dass die Taufformel auf den κύριος zurückgeht und womöglich ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ αὐτοῦ nachgelesen werden kann. Das entscheidende Gewicht besitzt der Hinweis auf den Namen (εἰς τὸ ὄνομα): In der Taufe wird der Täufling dem Machtbereich Gottes, des auferstandenen Christus und des ἅγιον πνεῦμα „zugewiesen.“22 Den ersten Abschluss bildet die konkrete Anweisung, dass ἐν ὕδατι ζῶντι getauft werden soll, wobei es angesichts der dann in V. 2−3 genannten Alternativen nahe liegt, den Ausdruck ὕδωρ ζῶν ganz vordergründig im Sinne von „fließendes Wasser“ aufzufassen und ihn nicht in dem in Joh 4:10 angedeuteten Doppelsinn zu verstehen. Vielleicht ist damit die Vorstellung verbunden, fließendes Wasser habe eine kultisch bessere Reinigungswirkung.23 Die Wirksamkeit der Taufe ist aber jedenfalls nicht an solches Wasser gebunden, denn in 7.2 werden Alternativen zum „lebendigen Wasser“ genannt. Da jetzt ein „Du“ angesprochen wird (ἐὰν δὲ μὴ ἔχῃς κτλ.), bezieht sich der Text möglicherweise auf denkbare Einzelfälle, und damit bestätigt sich, dass die „richtige“ Taufpraxis im Zentrum steht: Es wird geregelt, wie man taufen soll, wenn fließendes Wasser nicht vorhanden ist. Die Aussagen erfolgen sehr differenziert: Zunächst (V. 2a) wird ganz allgemein angenommen, dass „anderes“ Wasser anstelle des „lebendigen Wassers“ zur Verfügung steht. Vermutlich ist hier an ein stehendes Gewässer gedacht, vielleicht an einen Brunnen oder eine Zisterne; solches Wasser ist für das Taufen jedenfalls nicht ungeeignet. Aus V. 2b geht dann indirekt hervor, dass die bisher genannten Wasserarten „kalt“ sind; stehe solches Wasser nicht zur Verfügung, könne man auch „warmes“ Wasser nehmen. Da dort, wo die Didache entstand, ein stehendes Gewässer in der Regel nicht „kalt“ sein wird,24 ist bei dem ausdrücklich als „warm“ bezeichneten Wasser vielleicht an die Möglichkeit der Taufe in einer Therme gedacht.25 Abhängigkeit von der Liturgie.“ Nach H. Köster, Synoptische Überlieferung bei den Apostolischen Vätern, TU 65 = 5.10 (Berlin: Akademie, 1957), 191, „scheint die trinitarische Taufformel erst sehr spät“ in das Matthäusevangelium „eingedrungen zu sein“ als „spätere Sanktionierung eines im 2. Jahrhundert zur Herrschaft gelangten Brauches“; dementsprechend müsse man der Didache „die Ursprünglichkeit zuerkennen.“ Vgl. zur Diskussion auch Vööbus, Liturgical Traditions, 36−8: Mt „must have received it [i. e. the formula] from the liturgical practice and cultic tradition of the church“ (37). Vööbus vermutet allerdings, dass in Did. 9.5 eine andere, ältere Taufformel vorliegt. 22  Vgl. L. Hartman, Auf den Namen des Herrn Jesus. Die Taufe in den neutestamentlichen Schriften, SBS 148 (Stuttgart: Katholische Bibelwerk, 1992), 39−52. 23  Vgl. R. Pillinger, ‚Die Taufe nach der Didache. Philologisch-archäologische Untersuchung der Kapitel 7, 9, 10 und 14‘, in WSt 9 (1975), 152−62, hier: 153. 24  Der konkrete Entstehungsort der Didache ist aus der Angabe nicht abzuleiten. 25  Die grundsätzliche Möglichkeit der Taufe in einer (öffentlichen oder privaten) Therme wird von G. Kretschmar, Die Geschichte des Taufgottesdienstes in der alten Kirche, Leit. 5 (Kassel: Stauda, 1969), 46 f. für eine etwas spätere Zeit erwogen – entstanden sei die Taufe nicht „in dieser kultivierten Welt.“ Dass die Taufe für die Beteiligten mit einer Gefährdung verbun-



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

9

Die Aussagen in V. 1 und V. 2 setzen unausgesprochen voraus, dass der Täufling mit dem ganzen Körper in das Wasser eintaucht. Dann aber wird in V. 3 eine weitere Möglichkeit genannt: Falls für eine solche Immersionstaufe nicht genügend Wasser zur Verfügung steht, genügt es, wenn der Kopf des Täuflings dreimal mit Wasser begossen wird, wobei jetzt die Taufformel ausdrücklich noch einmal zitiert wird. Das dreimalige Begießen des Kopfes; könnte auf das dreifache ὄνομα zu beziehen sein, oder die dreimalige Handlung symbolisiert die „Ganzheit“ – von einem dreimaligen Untertauchen war jedenfalls nicht die Rede gewesen.26 Die erneute ausdrückliche Nennung der Taufformel soll möglicherweise die Gleichwertigkeit dieser Taufform unterstreichen. Nach Did. 7.1−3 gehört zur Taufe also jedenfalls Wasser, und die Taufe ist auf jeden Fall verbunden mit der Nennung des ὄνομα von „Vater,“ „Sohn“ und „Heiligem Geist.“27 Die Verwendung von Wasser bei der Taufhandlung ist natürlich immer vorausgesetzt; ausdrücklich erwähnt wird es aber außer im Zusammenhang der Taufe Jesu28 nur in der Apostelgeschichte, und auch dort nur im Zusammenhang der Taufe des „äthiopischen Eunuchen“ (8:36−39) und bei der Taufe der Gruppe um Cornelius (10:47, vgl. 11:16).29 Dass in Did. 7 das Wasser als solches eine so große Rolle spielt, ist möglicherweise darauf zurückzuführen, dass es im Umfeld der Didache innergemeindliche Diskussionen über die für eine Taufe möglichen „Wasserarten“ gab. In 7.4a kommt nun ein in früheren Texten überhaupt nicht erwähnter Aspekt hinzu, der dann auch bei Justin begegnen wird: Täufer und Täufling sollen vor der Taufe fasten, darüber hinaus möglichst auch noch „einige andere.“ Wie ist das Fasten zu verstehen? Wenn es ein Akt der Buße ist, dann wäre das Fasten des βαπτιζόμενος verständlich, nicht aber unbedingt das Fasten des βαπτίζων, aber den sein könnte und deshalb nicht „öffentlich“ vollzogen werden dürfte, ist übrigens durch nichts angedeutet. 26  Knopf, Lehre der zwölf Apostel, 22, folgert aus V. 3, „daß dreimaliges Untertauchen (bei jedem Namen) stattfindet“ (unter Verweis auf Tertullian Prax. 26 und das dreimalige Untertauchen bei den Mandäern). 27  Die davon abweichende Wendung in 9.5 (βαπτισθέντες εἰς ὄνομα κυρίου) verweist nicht auf eine andere Taufformel; es handelt sich lediglich um einen knappen Hinweis auf die Taufe im Blick auf die Nicht-Zulassung von Nicht-Getauften zur hier beschriebenen εὐχαριστία. Demgegenüber sieht Vööbus, Liturgical Traditions, 38, in 9.5 eine eigene ältere Taufformel, der es dank des anderen liturgischen Zusammenhangs gelungen sei „to hang on to its location and thus escape the scalpel of redactionism.“ W. Rordorf und A. Tuilier, La Doctrine des douze Apôtres (Didachè). Introduction, Texte, Traduction, Notes, Appendice et Index, SC 248 (Paris: Cerf, 1978), 170 Anm. 4, nehmen sogar an, die „trinitarische“ Taufformel („la formule baptismale trinitaire“) sei in der heidenchristlichen Mission verwendet worden, während man in der judenchristlichen Mission allein auf den Namen Jesu getauft habe („on baptisait au nom de Jésus seul“). Aber dafür gibt es keinen Hinweis, und es ist auch wenig plausibel, dass bei der Taufe von Juden die Erwähnung Gottes als des „Vaters“ vermieden worden wäre. 28  Mk 1:10; Mt 3:16; vgl. Joh 3:23. 29  In metaphorischen Aussagen, die sich auf die Taufe beziehen (könnten), ist bisweilen vom Wasser die Rede; vgl. Eph 5:26; Hebr 10:22; 1 Petr 3:20 f.; 1 Joh 5:6.

10

Andreas Lindemann

möglicherweise geht es allgemein um die (kultische) Reinheit aller an der Taufe Beteiligten.30 Jedenfalls wird durch die Fastenforderung die Besonderheit des mit der Taufe verbundenen Geschehens stark betont.31 Das schon in V. 2 und V. 3 angeredete „Du“ soll dem Täufling befehlen (κελεύεις), „ein oder zwei Tage“ zu fasten (V. 4b); über die Dauer des Fastens der τινες ἄλλοι wird dagegen nichts gesagt, so dass an eine eher symbolische Begleitung der Fastenden gedacht sein könnte. Kurt Niederwimmer meint, dass die Weisung in V. 4b vom „Didachisten“ stammt, der V. 4a korrigiere oder zumindest modifiziere; jetzt fastet ja nur noch der Täufling, und zudem „setzt der Redaktor (vielleicht in Polemik gegen andersartige Usancen) die Länge der Fastenzeit fest.“ Der Didachist habe in Did.  7 „eine rigorosere judenchristliche Vorlage übernommen, durch Zusätze liberalisiert und an seine eigenen Verhältnisse angepaßt bzw. angenähert.“32 In 8.1 findet der Gedankengang per Stichwortanschluss (αἱ δὲ νηστεῖαι ὑμῶν …) eine Fortsetzung. Jetzt aber wird von einem regelmäßigen Fasten gesprochen, und dabei sind nicht feste Fastenvorschriften gemeint, sondern es geht um ein freiwilliges Fasten, das an zwei bestimmten Wochentagen erfolgen soll.33 In 8.2 folgt der Text des Herrengebets, ausdrücklich eingeleitet mit dem Hinweis ὡς ἐκέλευσεν ὁ κύριος ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ αὐτοῦ. Dass für den ganzen Textzusammenhang Mt 6 im Hintergrund steht, ist deutlich, auch wenn die Abfolge von Fasten und Gebet dort eine andere ist als hier.34 Dem zitierten Gebetstext folgt abschließend die im MtEv nicht enthaltene Weisung τρὶς τῆς ἡμέρας οὕτω προσεύχεσθε. Die Didache enthält keine explizite „Theologie der Taufe.“ Sie macht keine Aussagen über das Verhältnis von Taufe und Gemeindezugehörigkeit,35 und sie gibt auch keinen Hinweis auf einen gottesdienstlichen Rahmen, in dem die 30  Knopf, Lehre der zwölf Apostel, 22: „Das Fasten hat reinigende und entsühnende Kraft, bricht die Dämonenherrschaft (auf älterer Stufe der Religion: versöhnt die Dämonen und macht sie mitleidig durch die freiwillige Selbsterniedrigung), bereitet den Leib zum Geistesempfang vor.“ Als Parallelen nennt Knopf die Einweihung in die Isismysterien und das lange Fasten der Mithrasmysten. Der Text lässt eine so massive Funktion des Fastens aber nicht erkennen. 31  Vööbus, Liturgical Traditions, 21, sieht in dem Fasten auch des Taufenden eine archaische Praxis, die schon vor dem Ende des 2. Jahrhunderts verschwunden war. „No such demand is found in later sources.“ Eine Parallele gibt es bei Justin, 1 Apol. 61.2 (s. u.). 32  Niederwimmer, Didache, 164. Vgl. die Analyse des Textes bei Steimer, Vertex Traditionis, 202, der auf den Wechsel zwischen den pluralischen Imperativformen in Did. 7−10 insgesamt und den abweichend davon im Imperativ Singular formulierten Anordnungen in 7.2 f., 4b hinweist. Ob hier ein späterer Interpolator oder aber der Redaktor der Didache eingegriffen hat, lässt Steimer offen. 33  Der Autor fordert Fastentage, die von den jüdischen Fastentagen abweichen. 34  Vgl. zur Textüberlieferung den Exkurs bei W. D. Davies und D. A. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel According to Saint Matthew, I, ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1988), 590−9. Sie nehmen an, dass Did. 8.2 direkt von Mt 6:9b−13 abhängig ist. 35  Vgl. dann aber die Bestimmung in 9.5 über die Teilnahme an der εὐχαριστία, bei der das Getauftsein ausdrücklich als Voraussetzung genannt ist.



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

11

Taufe womöglich vollzogen wird.36 Auch zur Rolle des Taufenden und zu dem von ihm womöglich wahrgenommenen „Amt“ wird nichts gesagt. Fragen kann man, ob der Autor bzw. die Redaktion der Didache entsprechendes Wissen bei den impliziten Adressaten des Textes voraussetzt; aber das lässt sich nicht sagen. Offen bleibt (für uns) insbesondere auch, mit welcher Autorität der Verfasser des Textes den Taufenden derartige Anweisungen für den Vollzug der Taufe glaubte geben zu können. 2.2.2 In Did. 9 und 10 wird eine Mahlfeier geschildert, die ausdrücklich als εὐχαριστία bezeichnet wird. Der Imperativ οὕτως εὐχαριστήσατε zeigt an, dass nicht eigentlich das Mahl im Zentrum steht, sondern das Dankgebet; dieses bezieht sich freilich auf ein Mahl, zu dem „Kelch“ und „gebrochenes Brot“ gehören. Dass es sich um ein alltägliches Sättigungsmahl handelt, ist nicht ausgeschlossen, aber wenig wahrscheinlich. Für einen kultischen Hintergrund sprechen vor allem die in dem Gebetstext enthaltenen heilsgeschichtlichen Bezüge – vor allem der Bezug zu Jesus bei der Erwähnung des Kelchs (9.2; vgl. 10.3) und der Bezug zur ἐκκλησία bei der Erwähnung des Brotes (9.4; vgl. 10.5). In 9.5 wird die Mahlzeit dann nochmals als ἡ εὐχαριστία ὑμῶν bezeichnet, und anschließend wird unter Verweis auf ein Wort des κύριος gesagt, nur Getaufte (οἱ βαπτίσθεντες εἰς ὄνομα κυρίου) dürften bei diesem Mahl „essen und trinken.“ Das an dieser Stelle zitierte Herrenwort entspricht Mt 7:6; hier liegt der erste Beleg dafür vor, dass es ein gemeindliches Mahl gibt, an dem Ungetaufte auf keinen Fall teilnehmen dürfen. Der Sättigung (10.1) schließt sich ein Dankgebet an, das starke Parallelen zu dem vorangegangenen Gebet aufweist (vgl. vor allem 8.4 f. und 10.5 f.). Dann wird anschließend in 10.6 zu einem „Kommen“ eingeladen, wobei es jetzt sehr grundsätzlich heißt: εἴ τις ἅγιός ἐστιν, ἐρχέσθω, während der, der nicht „heilig“ ist, Buße tun soll. Das erinnert an 9.5; aber die in 9.5 als κύνες Bezeichneten sind Ungetaufte (und Ungläubige), diejenigen aber, die nach 10.6 nicht „heilig“ sind, gehören offenbar zur eigenen Gruppe und für sie besteht die Möglichkeit zur Umkehr. Wohin die Eingeladenen „kommen“ sollen, wird nicht gesagt; von einer liturgischen Deutung, die mit dem erwähnten Mahl verbunden sein könnte, ist 36 N. Mitchell, ‚Baptism in the Didache‘, in C. N. Jefford (Hg.), The Didache in Context. Essays on Its Text, History and Transmission, NT.S 77 (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 226−55, hier: 226, nennt weitere „fehlende“ Elemente: „Nothing is said about exorcizing the candidates, blessing the waters, or anointing the neophytes before or after the water bath.“ Auch von der Absage an Satan sei nicht die Rede und von der Handauflegung als Geistvermittlung. Es gebe auch keine Beziehung „between the mandate ‚to baptize‘ and the historical life and ministry of ­Jesus.“ Aber alle diese Elemente „fehlen“ in der Didache nicht, sondern es gibt sie offenkundig noch gar nicht, wie die Taufaussagen vor allem in der wenig früher verfassten lukanischen Apostelgeschichte zeigen. Mitchells Schlussfolgerung, dass Did. 7 eigentlich nicht von einer „christlichen“ Taufe spricht, sondern von einer lediglich eschatologischen Taufe “which is closely related (ritually) to John’s baptism, while infused with the radical proclamation by Jesus concerning the nearness of God’s reign” (ibid., 248) verfehlt insofern den Hintergrund der Aussagen der Didache zur Taufe.

12

Andreas Lindemann

nicht die Rede, und eine entsprechende Formel wird nicht zitiert oder referiert. Deshalb lässt sich nicht sagen, ob mit der in Did. 9−10 erwähnten εὐχαριστία das „Herrenmahl“ gemeint ist oder aber ein anderes gemeindliches Mahl, das jedenfalls nicht mit dem Tod Jesu in Zusammenhang steht.37 In Did. 14 ist von der Zusammenkunft κατὰ κυριακὴν δὲ κυρίου die Rede, also vom „sonntäglichen“ Gottesdienst. Hier steht die Anweisung: κλάσατε ἄρτον καὶ εὐχαριστήσατε, und dieser Handlung soll ein Bekennen der Verfehlungen vorausgehen, „damit euer Opfer rein sei“ (ὅπως καθαρὰ ἡ θυσία ὑμῶν ᾖ, 14.1). Ob hier von der Feier der „Eucharistie“ die Rede ist und ob diese dabei als „Opfer“ gedeutet wird, lässt sich kaum sagen; das dann folgende Zitat von Mal 1:11b, 14b („An jeder Stelle und zu jeder Zeit mir ein reines Opfer darzubringen …“) könnte darauf hinweisen, dass der Widerspruch zur jüdischen Opferpraxis im Vordergrund steht,38 und dann wäre der Begriff θυσία in metaphorischem Sinn gemeint.39 2.2.3  Zum Vollzug gibt die Didache sehr detaillierte Anweisungen; dass sie explizit auch von jener Mahlfeier spricht, die von Paulus in 1 Kor 11 als κυριακὸν δεῖπνον bezeichnet wird und deren Stiftungsworte er in 11:23−25 zitiert, lässt sich hingegen zumindest nicht sicher sagen.40

37  Zum Problem vgl. D.-A. Koch, ‚Eucharistic Meal and Eucharistic Prayers in Didache 9 and 10‘, in StTh 64 (2010), 200−18; ferner Idem, Geschichte des Urchristentums. Ein Lehrbuch (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 382 Anm. 11: „Die ‚Eucharistie‘ von Did 9,1−10,7 ist ein vollständiges rituelles Mahl (vgl. den Rückblick auf ‚geistliche Speise und geistlichen Trank‘ in 10,3).“ Nach V. A. Alikin, The Earliest History of the Christian Gathering. Origin, Development and Content of the Christian Gathering in the First to Third Centuries, SVigChr 102 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 108−14, ist die in der Didache beschriebene Mahlpraxis älter als die von Paulus erwähnte Feier des Herrenmahls: „The Eucharist of the Didache is older than the Lord’s Supper known to Paul“; dieses Mahl „can be traced back to an earlier form of community supper, celebrated as early as the thirties of the first century“ (113). Aber dann ist dieses Mahl kaum als „eucharistisch“ zu beschreiben, sondern es ist eher ein (Fest-)Mahl der Gemeinde. 38  Vgl. aber Niederwimmer, Didache, 240: „Zumeist dient der Maleachi-Text [sc. in der frühen Kirche] als Standardargument, durch das der neue, der christliche Kult gegenüber dem Kult des alten Bundes abgehoben wird. Diese Gegenüberstellung ist indessen hier, in Did. 14,3 (wenigstens verbotenes) nicht betont.“ 39  Niederwimmer, Didache, 237: Mit θυσία könnte „die heilige Handlung der Eucharistiefeier“ gemeint sein, und dies wäre dann der älteste explizite Beleg für das Verständnis des Abendmahls als Opfer; aber der Kontext erlaube auch die Möglichkeit, „θυσία speziell auf εὐχαριστήσατε zu beziehen: das Opfer, von dem hier mehrfach geredet wird, wäre dann das eucharistische Gebet, das die Gemeinde darbringt.“ Möglicherweise aber sehe die Didache hier gar keine Alternative. 40  H. J. Stein, Frühchristliche Mahlfeiern. Ihre Gestalt und Bedeutung nach der neutestamentlichen Briefliteratur und der Johannesoffenbarung, WUNT 2.255 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 144: „Die Didache hätte die Einsetzungsworte, wenn sie Bestandteil des Mahlverlaufs gewesen wären, mit Sicherheit benannt, ist sie doch an einer Fixierung der mahlbegleitenden Worte interessiert und kennt sie die Worte zumindest aus dem Matthäusevangelium, auf das sie auch sonst zurückgreift.“



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

13

2.3 Der Barnabasbrief,41 in dem die biblischen, „alttestamentlichen“ Texte grundsätzlich allegorisch gedeutet werden, spricht in 6.8−18 von dem verheißenen Land, „das von Milch und Honig fließt“ (6.8); dazu wird, wie D.-A. Koch meint, in 6.10 eine Interpretation gegeben, die auf die Taufe bezogen ist. Der Begriff „Taufe“ wird zwar nicht ausdrücklich benutzt, „aber der Sache nach ist die Taufe präsent,“ wie in 6.11 der Hinweis auf die ἄφεσις τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν zeige,42 und aus 6.14 gehe hervor, dass die Taufe nicht nur „soteriologisch als Sündenvergebung“ verstanden ist, sondern auch „als Neuschöpfung.“43 Aber die Bezüge zur Taufe sind in Barn. 6 doch eher undeutlich, und zur Praxis der Taufe lassen sich hier gar keine Aussagen finden. 2.3.1  Ausdrücklich erwähnt wird die Taufe in Barn. 11.1: Der κύριος habe im Voraus eine Offenbarung ausgesprochen περὶ τοῦ ὕδατος καὶ περὶ τοῦ σταυροῦ.44 Hinsichtlich des Wassers gewinnt der Autor die Bestätigung seines Vorwurfs, Israel nehme „die Taufe, die Sündenvergebung bringt,“ nicht an, sondern baue sich stattdessen etwas Eigenes (τὸ βάπτισμα τὸ φέρον ἄφεσιν ἁμαρτιῶν οὐ μὴ προσδέξονται, ἀλλ᾿ ἑαυτοῖς οἰκοδομήσουσιν), aus dem in V. 2 zitierten Prophetenwort Jes 16:1b, 2 („Sie haben mich, die Quelle des Lebens, verlassen, und sie haben sich selbst eine Grube des Todes gegraben“). Aus weiteren in V. 3−7 zitierten biblischen Texten folgert er in V. 8a, dort werde vom Kreuz und vom Wasser gleichermaßen gesprochen.45 Den in V. 6 f. zitierten Text Ps 1:3−6 deutet er in V. 8b folgendermaßen: „Selig (sind die), die in der Hoffnung auf das Kreuz in das Wasser [sc. der Taufe] hinabgestiegen sind.“ In 11.11 zieht er aus Ez 47 – dort wird von einem Fluss gesprochen, an dem liebliche Bäume wachsen, „und wer von ihnen isst, wird in Ewigkeit leben“ − die Folgerung: Wir steigen „voll Sünden und Schmutz“ (γέμοντες ἁμαρτιῶν καὶ ῥύπου) in das (Tauf-)Wasser hinab und steigen heraus „Frucht bringend im Herzen, da wir im Geist Furcht und Hoffnung auf Jesus haben“ (καὶ ἀναβαίνομεν καρποφοροῦντες ἐν τῇ καρδίᾳ κτλ.). Der Bezug zur Taufe und zur Taufpraxis ist deutlich, auch wenn das Bild in V. 11 anders gezeichnet ist als zuvor in V. 6.46 41  Zu den Einleitungsfragen s. F. R. Prostmeier, ‚Der Barnabasbrief‘, in Pratscher (Hg.), Die Apostolischen Väter, 39−58. 42 D.-A. Koch, ‚Taufinterpretationen bei Ignatius und im Barnabasbrief. Christologische und soteriologische Deutungen‘, in Hellholm, Vegge, Norderval und Hellholm (Hg.), Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism, II, 817−48, hier: 835. Koch verweist auf Apg 2:38 und auf den „zeitlich nicht weit entfernten Titusbrief“ (Tit 3:5). 43  Ibid., 836. 44  Vgl. zum Folgenden ibid., 837−43. 45  Nicht alle zitierten Texte sprechen explizit von Wasser, Koch, ‚Taufinterpretationen‘, 842, spricht deshalb von einer „überraschenden Behauptung,“ die der Autor aufstelle. Ibid., 843: Er will „unbedingt ein kreuzestheologisch fundiertes Verständnis der Taufe zum Ausdruck bringen, obwohl das ihm vorgegebene Zitatenmaterial dafür keine ausreichende Grundlage bot.“ 46  Vgl. dazu Koch, ‚Taufinterpretationen‘, 841 f.

14

Andreas Lindemann

Der Barnabasbrief setzt für den Vollzug der Taufe die Verwendung von Wasser voraus, V. 11 zeigt überdies, dass die Immersionstaufe offenbar selbstverständlich ist; ob dem Verfasser analog zu den Aussagen in der Didache eine Alternative als zulässig erschienen wäre, lässt sich nicht sagen. Die Verwendung des Verbs ἀναβαίνω in V. 10 verdankt sich dem LXX-Text (vgl. Ez 47:1–12), aber die Gegenaussage in V. 11 (ἡμεῖς μὲν καταβαίνομεν εἰς τὸ ὕδωρ …) legt nahe, dass sich die ganze Aussage auf den konkreten Vollzug der Taufe beziehen soll. 2.3.2 Vom „Abendmahl“ spricht der Barnabasbrief explizit gar nicht. Möglicherweise erwähnt er es aber indirekt in 2.5, wo er prophetische Kritik an den materialen Opfern (Jes 1:11−13) zitiert und dann (2.6) sagt, solche Opfer habe Gott abgeschafft (κατήργησεν), damit der καινὸς νόμος Christi, der ohne Zwangsjoch ist, „keine von Menschen bereitete Opfergabe enthalte“ (μὴ ἀνθρωποποίητον ἔχῃ τὴν προσφοράν). Die materialen Opfer werden also abgewertet und verworfen; aber dass damit zugleich auf das Herrenmahl angespielt ist, das dann als ein immaterielles Opfer verstanden wäre, lässt sich nicht erkennen. 2.3.3 „Ein wesentliches Ziel des Barnabasbriefes ist es,“ wie D.-A. Koch betont, „die alttestamentlichen Kult- und Opfervorschriften allegorisch auf ­Christus hin auszulegen.“47 Dabei spielt die Taufe durchaus eine Rolle, aber konkrete Tauftraditionen und -texte werden nicht zitiert. Vom „Abendmahl“ ist allenfalls in vagen Andeutungen die Rede. Offenbar sind vom hermeneutischen Ansatz des Barn her ausdrückliche Verweise auf sakramentale Handlungen der Gemeinde kaum möglich. 2.4  Ignatius, Bischof von Antiochia, spricht in seinen sieben uns erhaltenen und mit hoher Wahrscheinlichkeit nicht pseudonymen Briefen48 vergleichsweise häufig von der Taufe und auch von der Mahlfeier. 2.4.1  In seinem Brief nach Ephesus schreibt Ignatius in Eph. 5.2: „Wenn einer nicht innerhalb des Altarraumes ist, so entbehrt er das Brot Gottes“ (ἐὰν μή τις ᾖ ἐντὸς τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου, ὑστερεῖται τοῦ ἄρτου τοῦ θεοῦ), und wer nicht zur Versammlung (ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτό) kommt, ist hochmütig und hat sich damit selbst das Urteil gesprochen. Diese Aussage dürfte sich auf die gemeindliche Mahlfeier beziehen, sofern man den Hinweis auf das „Brot Gottes“ konkret fasst. In Eph. 13.1 wirbt Ignatius dafür, häufiger zusammenzukommen εἰς εὐχαριστίαν θεοῦ καὶ εἰς δόξαν. Dabei übersetzt Henning Paulsen die Genitivverbindung εὐχαριστία θεοῦ ausdrücklich mit „Herrenmahl Gottes“; die Wendung εἰς εὐχαριστίαν gerade mit dem Genitivattribut θεοῦ und parallel zu εἰς δόξαν könnte allerdings auch das gemeinsame an Gott gerichtete Gebet bezeichnen.

47 

Ibid., 843. Diskussion vgl. H. Löhr, ‚Die Briefe des Ignatius von Antiochien‘, in Pratscher (Hg.), Die Apostolischen Väter, 104−29, zu Echtheit und Datierung vor allem 105−9. 48  Zur



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

15

In Eph. 20.2 spricht Ignatius tatsächlich von der Mahlfeier: Die Adressaten sollen zusammenkommen ἐν μιᾷ πίστει, um einmütigen Sinnes dem ἐπίσκοπος und dem Presbyterium zu gehorchen; es folgt der Nachsatz: ein Brot brechend (ἕνα ἄρτον κλῶντες). Der nächste Satz enthält geradezu eine Definition dieses Brotes und damit wohl des ganzen Mahls: Es ist φάρμακον ἀθανασίας, ἀντίδοτος τοῦ μὴ ἀποθανεῖν, ἀλλὰ ζῆν ἐν  Ἰησοῦ Χριστῷ διὰ παντός, „Unsterblichkeitsarznei, Gegengift gegen den Tod, Gabe, um immerfort in Christus zu leben.“ Meint Ignatius damit, dass das Mahl im physischen Sinne „Unsterblichkeit“ bewirkt? Oder geht es vor allem um das, was durch die Wendung ζῆν ἐν  Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ zum Ausdruck gebracht wird? In diesem Fall wäre ἀθανασία gemeint als Geschenk des Glaubens, etwa im Sinne von Joh 5:24.49 Zuvor in Eph. 18.2 hatte Ignatius explizit die Taufe Jesu erwähnt und zugleich damit implizit die Taufe der Christen. In der Aussage, dass Christus geboren und getauft wurde, „um durch sein Leiden das Wasser zu reinigen“ (ἵνα τῷ πάθει τὸ ὕδωρ καθαρίσῃ), ist eine Tauftheologie enthalten, denn Christus ließ sich taufen, damit auf diese Weise „reines Wasser“ für die (christliche) Taufe geschaffen würde.50 Ob darin auch der Gedanke enthalten ist, dass das „Wasser, das für kultische Zwecke benutzt werden soll, einer Reinigung bedarf,“51 scheint mir eher fraglich zu sein. In der Didache, also in jenem Text, der sich sehr eingehend mit dem Taufwasser befasst, war jedenfalls an keiner Stelle angedeutet worden, dieses Wasser müsse zuvor „gereinigt“ worden sein. 2.4.2  Ähnlich wie in Eph. 5.2 erwähnt Ignatius auch im Brief nach Magnesia den „Altar“ (θυσιαστήριον, 7.2); aber da er jetzt bildhafte Rede verwendet (πάντες ὡς εἰς ἕνα ναὸν συντρέχετε θεοῦ, ὡς ἐπὶ ἓν θυσιαστήριον, ἐπὶ ἓνα  Ἰησοῦν Χριστόν …) und sich der Hinweis auf den Altar deshalb aus der Rede vom Tempel Gottes ergeben könnte, braucht mit θυσιαστήριον nicht ein realer Altar gemeint zu sein, der bei der Mahlfeier verwendet wäre. 2.4.3  Im Brief an die Kirche in Tralles betont Ignatius in 2.1 f., wie auch sonst des Öfteren, die Notwendigkeit der Unterordnung unter den ἐπίσκοπος und unter das πρεσβυτήριον. Er fügt hinzu (2.3), diejenigen, die διάκονοι μυστηρίων  Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ sind, müssten in jeder Hinsicht allen gefallen (κατὰ πάντα τρὸπον πᾶσιν ἀρέσκειν), d. h. von allen akzeptiert werden; das wird erläutert durch den Hinweis, diese διάκονοι seien „nicht für Speisen und Getränke“ zuständig (οὐ γὰρ βρωμάτων καὶ ποτῶν εἰσὶν διάκονοι), sondern sie seien Diener der Kirche Gottes 49 

Alikin, Earliest History, 133, verweist darauf, dass „the phrase ‚medication toward immortality‘ (φάρμακον ἀθανασίας) originally was a popular medical term. It designated an ointment or elixir which, according to legend, had been invented by Isis and was said to cure all sorts of diseases.“ 50  Vgl. dazu Koch, ‚Taufinterpretationen‘, 823−6. Vgl. zur Taufe Jesu auch Ign. Smyrn. 1.1 f. (s. u.). 51 So Koch, ‚Taufinterpretationen‘, 824 unter Verweis auf jüdische rituelle Reinigungsbäder.

16

Andreas Lindemann

(ἐκκλησίας θεοῦ ὑπηρέται). Sollte mit den „Speisen und Getränken“ die Mahlfeier gemeint sein, so wäre gesagt, dass es sich nicht um profane Nahrungsmittel handelt, sondern um Konstituenten der ἐκκλησία θεοῦ.52 In Trall. 7.2 bezieht sich Ignatius abermals auf das θυσιαστήριον: Wer sich innerhalb des „Altarraums“ befindet, ist „rein“ (καθαρός), wer sich außerhalb befindet, ist es nicht (οὐ καθαρός). Die von Ignatius selbst gezogene Folgerung lautet, dass derjenige, der etwas tut ohne Bischof, Presbyterium und Diakon53 (ὁ χωρὶς ἐπισκόπου καὶ πρεσβυτερίου καὶ διακόνου πράσσων τι), nicht rein ist im Gewissen (οὗτος οὐ καθαρός ἐστιν τῇ συνειδήσει). Ob sich die Wendung πράσσων τι speziell auf eine sakramentale Handlung bezieht, lässt sich zumindest nicht sicher sagen. 2.4.4  Im Brief nach Rom steht in 7.3 die für uns schwer verständliche Aussage des Ignatius, er freue sich nicht an vergänglicher Nahrung und an den Freuden des Lebens (ἡδοναῖς τοῦ βίου), sondern es gelte: „Brot Gottes will ich, das ist das Fleisch Jesu Christi (ἄρτον θεοῦ θέλω, ὅ ἐστιν σὰρξ  Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ), der aus dem Samen Davids stammt, und zum Trank will ich sein Blut (καὶ πόμα θέλω τὸ αἷμα αὐτοῦ), das ist die unvergängliche Liebe (ὅ ἐστιν ἀγάπη ἄφθαρτος).“ Bezieht sich Ignatius mit den Worten ἄρτος und πόμα unmittelbar auf die „Elemente“ der Mahlfeier? Das könnte bedeuten, dass er, ähnlich wie es in Joh 6:51c−58 geschieht, das „Brot Gottes“ mit dem Fleisch Christi identifiziert und den „Kelch“ mit dem Blut Christi. Aber was bedeutet es dann, dass abschließend gesagt wird, dies sei ἀγάπη ἄφθαρτος? Vielleicht bezieht sich ἀγάπη auf das „Liebesmahl,“ die Agapefeier, so dass Ignatius zum Ausdruck bringen würde, die sakramentale Mahlfeier sei als „unvergängliche Agapefeier“ zu verstehen.54 Zuvor in Röm. 4.1 hatte Ignatius von sich selber im Blick auf den bevorstehenden Märtyrertod gesagt: „Gottes Weizen bin ich (σῖτός εἰμι θεοῦ), und durch der wilden Tiere Zähne werde ich gemahlen, damit ich als reines Brot des Christus erfunden werde (… ἵνα καθαρὸς ἄρτος εὑρεθῶ τοῦ Χριστοῦ).“ Auch hier könnte eine metaphorische Anspielung auf die Mahlfeier vorliegen.55 52  Nach H. Paulsen, Die Briefe des Ignatius von Antiochia und der Brief des Polykarp von Smyrna. Zweite, neubearbeitete Auflage der Auslegung von Walter Bauer, HNT 18 / Die Apostolischen Väter 2 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1985), 58 f., bezieht sich die Aussage „nicht auf die Wortverkündigung, auch kaum – trotz des Folgenden – exklusiv auf die Eucharistie, sondern auf die μυστήρια Christi insgesamt.“ Von der Rolle der διάκονοι bei der Mahlfeier schreibt Justin ausführlich in seiner Apologie (s. u.); der Unterschied liegt darin, dass sich Justin an Außenstehende wendet, Ignatius dagegen schreibt als Christ an Christen. 53  Bauer und Paulsen, Die Briefe des Ignatius, 62: Es handelt sich um einen „Singular der Kategorie.“ 54 Nach Paulsen, Die Briefe des Ignatius, 77 (anders Bauer), ist ἀγάπη nicht im Sinne des Liebesmahls zu deuten, sondern „im umfassenden, ign Verständnis von ἀγάπη.“ 55  Zu Taufe und Martyrium bei Ignatius s. Koch, ‚Taufinterpretationen‘, 829: „Eine indirekte Beziehung zwischen Taufe und Martyrium besteht insofern, als bei Ignatius die Taufe Jesu Teil des Konzepts der Inkarnation ist (IgnSm 4,2); die Inkarnation ihrerseits ist eng mit dem Thema des Martyriums verklammert.“



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

17

2.4.5  Im Brief an die ἐκκλησία in Philadelphia warnt Ignatius vor Spaltungstendenzen (3.3), und er leitet daraus in Kap. 4 eine sehr grundsätzlich formulierte Mahnung ab: σπουδάσατε οὖν μιᾷ ευχαριστίᾳ χρῆσθαι, d. h. er fordert dazu auf, bei der εὐχαριστία die Einheit zu bewahren. Das erläutert er mit dem Hinweis darauf, dass es nur ein Fleisch Christi gibt (μία γὰρ σὰρξ τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν  Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ), nur einen Kelch zur Einigung seines Blutes (καὶ ἓν ποτήριον εἰς ἕνωσιν τοῦ αἵματος αὐτοῦ) und nur einen Altar (ἓν θυσιαστήριον), wie es auch nur einen Bischof zusammen mit dem Presbyterium (ὡς εἶς ἐπίσκοπος ἅμα τῷ πρεσβυτερίῳ) gibt und mit den Diakonen, meinen „Mitsklaven“ (καὶ διακόνοις, τοῖς συνδούλοις μου); nur wenn die Adressaten darauf bedacht sind, handeln sie κατὰ θεόν. Ignatius leitet aus der Einheit Christi die Notwendigkeit der einen Mahlfeier ab,56 und zugleich bindet er diese Aussage an die besondere Rolle des einen ἐπίσκοπος, der vom Presbyterium und den Diakonen begleitet wird. 2.4.6  Im Brief nach Smyrna erwähnt Ignatius in dem einleitenden „biographisch“ von Jesus sprechenden Text dessen Taufe durch Johannes (1.1 f.), wobei die Bemerkung, die Taufe sei erfolgt ἵνα πληρωθῇ πᾶσα δικαιοσύνη ὑπ᾿ αὐτοῦ, erkennen lässt, dass die matthäische Fassung der Tauferzählung zugrunde liegt.57 Von Smyrn. 4.2 an argumentiert Ignatius gegen eine doketische Christologie, und er wendet sich gegen „gewisse Leute, die keine Kenntnis besitzen“ (τινες ἀγνοοῦντες, 5.1; vgl. 6.2). In 7.1 wirft er ihnen vor, sie hielten sich fern (ἀπέχονται) von εὐχαριστία und προσευχή, weil sie nicht bekennen (μὴ ὁμολογεῖν), dass die εὐχαριστία die σάρξ unseres Retters Jesus Christus ist. Es war diese σάρξ, die gelitten hat für unsere Sünden, und die Gott (ὁ πατήρ) in seiner Güte auferweckt hat. Von Leuten, die das nicht akzeptieren und sich so der Gabe Gottes widersetzen, müsse man sich vollständig trennen, und man müsse sich stattdessen an die Propheten halten (προσέχειν δὲ τοῖς προφήταις), vor allem aber an das Evangelium (ἐξαιρέτως δὲ τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ), in dem uns das Leiden (sc. Christi) kundgetan und die Auferstehung vollendet ist (καὶ ἡ ἀνάστασις τετελείωται). Die Spaltungen sind die ἀρχὴ κακῶν (7.2). Die Alternative dazu nennt Ignatius in Smyrn. 8.1a: „Folgt alle dem Bischof wie Jesus Christus dem Vater“ (πάντες τῷ ἐπισκόπῳ ἀκολουθεῖτε κτλ.), dann, in deutlicher Abstufung, „dem Presbyterium wie den Aposteln“; Ignatius fügt hinzu: „die Diakone aber achtet wie Gottes Gebot“ (τοὺς δὲ διακόνους ἐντρέπεσθε ὡς θεοῦ ἐντολήν). In kirchlichen Dingen (τι πρασσέτω τῶν ἀνηκόντων εἰς τὴν ἐκκλησίαν) dürfe niemand ohne den Bischof handeln (8.1b); dies wird dann kon56  Bauer und Paulsen, Die Briefe des Ignatius, 82: „In dem ἕνωσις τοῦ αἵματος kommt es für Ign weniger auf die Einigung mit dem Blut an als auf die durch das eine Blut herbeigeführte Einheit der Gemeinde, die keine Spaltung gestattet (vgl. 1 Kor 10,17).“ 57 Dazu Koch, ‚Taufinterpretationen‘, 818−23. Bauer und Paulsen, Die Briefe des Ignatius, 91, warnen vor „allzu weitreichenden Schlüssen“ zur Benutzung des MtEv durch Ignatius. Der ἵνα-Satz sei „so sehr in die formelhafte Sprache integriert, daß er eher beiläufig, nicht aber wie ein Zitat wirkt.“

18

Andreas Lindemann

kret auf die εὐχαριστία bezogen, womit zweifellos die gemeindliche Mahlfeier gemeint ist: Nur jene εὐχαριστία soll als βέβαια gelten, die unter dem ἐπίσκοπος oder der von ihm beauftragten Person vollzogen wird. In 8.2 folgen die grundsätzlichen Feststellungen: „Wo der Bischof erscheint, da soll auch die Gemeinde sein, wie da, wo Jesus Christus sich befindet, auch die allgemeine Kirche ist (ὅπου ἂν φάνῃ ὁ ἐπίσκοπος, ἐκεῖ τὸ πλῆθος ἔστω, ὧσπερ ὅπου ἂν ᾖ  Ἰησοῦς Χριστός, ἐκεῖ ἡ καθολικὴ ἐκκλησία). Es ist nicht erlaubt (οὐκ ἐξόν ἐστιν), ohne den ­Bischof zu taufen oder die Mahlfeier zu halten (χωρὶς ἐπισκόπου οὔτε βαπτίζειν οὔτε ἀγάπην ποιεῖν).“ Ignatius fordert offenbar, dass allein der ἐπίσκοπος die Taufe entweder selber vollzieht oder zumindest beaufsichtigt, und dass er den Vorsitz bei der nun als ἀγάπη bezeichneten Mahlfeier58 innehat. Die sehr stark betonten Aussagen über die Rolle des ἐπίσκοπος stellen vor die viel diskutierte Frage, ob Ignatius hier eine bereits vorhandene, gültige Norm unterstreicht, oder ob er etwas fordert, was bis dahin jedenfalls nicht in dieser Weise kirchliche Praxis gewesen war. Eine Antwort ist kaum möglich. 2.4.7  In seinem Brief an Polykarp59 erwähnt Ignatius in 6.2 im Rahmen des an den neutestamentlichen Epheserbrief (6:11−17) sowie an 1 Thess 5:8 erinnernden Bildes von der Waffenrüstung auch die Taufe: Die Adressaten sollen als Gottes Haushalter kämpfen, sie sollen „dem gefallen, für den sie kämpfen“ (ἀρέσκετε ᾧ στρατεύεσθε) und von dem sie ihren Sold erhalten (τὰ ὀψώνια κομίζεσθε); „keiner von euch soll sich als Fahnenflüchtiger erweisen“ (μή τις ὑμῶν δεσέρτωρ εὑρέθη).60 Für das eigentliche Bild der Rüstung wird als erstes die Taufe genannt: „Die Taufe bleibe eure Bewaffnung“ (τὸ βάπτισμα ὑμῶν μεινέτω ὡς ὅπλα), und dann folgen die πίστις als Helm, die ἀγάπη als Schwert und die Geduld als πανοπλία, schließlich sogar τὰ ἔργα ὑμῶν als die soldatischen deposita, finanzielle Einlagen, die Zinsen bringen sollen. Ignatius setzt in diesem Bild das Getauftsein voraus, und er sieht darin die Basis für alles Weitere.61 2.4.8  Die Briefe des Ignatius zeigen, dass die Taufe sowohl für den Autor wie für die impliziten Adressaten offenbar selbstverständlich ist, auch wenn sie nicht als eigenständiges Thema behandelt wird. Einzelheiten über den Vollzug der Taufe oder die Taufformel werden nicht erwähnt.62 Dass die Taufe nicht ohne den ἐπίσκοπος vollzogen werden dürfe, schreibt Ignatius nur an einer Stelle 58  Unklar ist, ob sich die in 8.1 εὐχαριστία und die in 8.2 genannte ἀγάπη denselben Vorgang meinen. 59  Wenn Ignatius in Pol. 6.1 die Adressaten mahnt, sie sollten sich „zum Bischof halten, damit sich auch Gott zu euch hält“ (τῷ ἐπισκόπῳ προσέχετε, ἵνα καὶ ὁ θεὸς ὑμῖν), so spricht das im Kontext eines an einen ἐπίσκοπος gerichteten Briefs dafür, dass die Vorstellungen des Ignatius zumindest nicht generell realisiert sind. 60  Zur militärischen Metaphorik vgl. Bauer und Paulsen, Die Briefe des Ignatius, 105 f. 61  Koch, ‚Taufinterpretationen‘, 828: Dass die Taufe zuerst genannt wird „zeigt, welche hohe Bedeutung für Ignatius gerade der Taufe als Grundlage des Vollzugs des Lebens der Gläubigen, d. h. ihrer Aufgabe, ‚dem Kriegsherrn zu gefallen‘, zukommt.“ 62  Vgl. ibid., 831: „Ignatius verhandelt die Taufe nicht als eigenständiges Thema, doch



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

19

(Smyrn. 8.2b), ohne dass ganz deutlich wird, ob der ἐπίσκοπος dabei selber der Taufende ist oder ob lediglich seine Anwesenheit als unverzichtbar gilt. Zur Mahlfeier, die als εὐχαριστία, vielleicht auch als ἀγάπη bezeichnet wird, sagt Ignatius dagegen in mehreren Briefen, ihr Vollzug sei ohne den ἐπίσκοπος nicht möglich. Welche Funktion der ἐπίσκοπος dabei wahrnimmt, ist aber auch hier nicht völlig klar: Spricht er die „Einsetzungsworte“ (die Ignatius freilich an keiner Stelle erwähnt)? Hat seine Anwesenheit Folgen für die „Qualität“ der Mahlfeier, hängt womöglich die „Qualität“ der Mahlelemente von der Gegenwart des ἐπίσκοπος ab? Oder geht es lediglich darum, dass durch die Gegenwart des ἐπίσκοπος die Ordnung der Feier sichergestellt werden soll? Ignatius scheint jedenfalls vorauszusetzen, dass seinen Adressaten dies alles bekannt ist, und so glaubt er sich offenbar darauf beschränken zu können, nur die Notwendigkeit der Präsenz des ἐπίσκοπος einzuschärfen bzw. nachdrücklich zu fordern, ohne dass er nähere Details nennen müsste. 2.5  Der sog. „Zweite Clemensbrief“63 zitiert in 6.8 ein Wort der γραφή, „eine sehr freie Paraphrase der an den Propheten gerichteten Gottesrede von Ez 14,13−20.“64 In der hier zitierten Fassung („Wenn auferstehen Noah, Hiob und Daniel, werden sie ihre Kinder in der Gefangenschaft nicht retten,“ οὐ ῥύσονται τὰ τέκνα αὐτῶν ἐν τῇ αἰχμαλωσίᾳ) ist gemeint, dass sie die Kinder im Gericht nicht werden bewahren können. Dazu formuliert der Verfasser in 6.9 eine sich auf die Gegenwart beziehende rhetorische Frage: „Wenn aber sogar solche Gerechte mit ihren eigenen rechtschaffenen Taten (ταῖς ἑαυτῶν δικαιοσύναις) ihre Kinder nicht retten können, mit welcher Zuversicht werden dann wir, wenn wir die Taufe nicht rein und unbefleckt bewahren (ἐὰν μὴ τηρήσσωμεν τὸ βάπτισμα ἁγνὸν καὶ ἀμίαντον), in das Reich Gottes (… εἰς τὸ βασίλειον τοῦ θεοῦ) hineinkommen?“65 Sollte 2 Clem. tatsächlich eine Predigt sein, so wäre hier der Appell an die Hörer ausgesprochen, sie sollten durch ein gerechtes Leben die Taufe und die mit ihr verbundenen Gaben bewahren. Dafür spricht auch die Fortsetzung: „Oder wer wird unser Anwalt (παράκλητος) sein, wenn wir nicht im Besitz frommer und gerechter Werke erfunden werden (… μὴ εὑρεθῶμεν ἔργα ἔχοντες ὅσια καὶ δίκαια)?“ Jedenfalls ist klar, dass die Taufe keinen character indelebilis verleiht, sondern ihre heilschaffende Wirkung scheint vom jeweiligen Handeln des Getauften abhängig zu sein. greift er – ähnlich wie Paulus – in für ihn wichtigen Themenbereichen auf die Taufe zurück. Dies spricht dagegen, dass die Taufe für Ignatius für beiläufiges Traditionselement war.“ 63  Zu den Einleitungsfragen s. W. Pratscher, ‚Der zweite Clemensbrief‘, in Idem (Hg.), Die Apostolischen Väter, 83−103. 64 A. Lindemann, Die Clemensbriefe, HNT 17 / Die Apostolischen Väter 1 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), 216. 65  Vgl. dazu K. O. Sandnes, ‚Seal and Baptism in Early Christianity‘, in Hellholm, ­Vegge, Norderval und Hellholm (Hg.), Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism, II, 1441−81, hier: 1461.

20

Andreas Lindemann

2.6  In ähnliche Richtung geht eine Aussage in der Schrift „Hirt“ des Hermas.66 Hermas hatte in Vis. 3.2.8, 9 (10.8, 9) den Bau eines auf Wasser errichteten Turmes gesehen, bei dem sich einige Steine als zum Bau des Turmes nicht brauchbar erwiesen hatten, während andere Steine weit von dem Turm weg geworfen wurden und dann entweder ins Ödland rollten oder ins Feuer, wo sie verbrannten; andere Steine waren in die Nähe des Wassers gerollt, vermochten sich aber nicht hineinzuwälzen, obwohl sie es sich wünschten. Aus der von einer als angelus interpres agierenden Greisin gegebenen Deutung erfährt Hermas, die zuletzt genannten Steine seien diejenigen Menschen, „welche die Predigt hören und sich auf den Namen des Herrn taufen lassen wollen (οὗτοί εἰσιν οἱ τὸν λόγον ἀκούσαντες καὶ θέλοντες βαπτισθῆναι εἰς τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ κυρίου); hernach aber, wenn sie an die Keuschheit denken, die zur Wahrheit gehört (ἡ ἁγνότης τῆς ἀληθείας), werden sie anderen Sinnes (μετανοοῦσιν) und folgen wieder ihren bösen Begierden“ (Vis. 3.7.3 [15.3]); im Hintergrund steht offensichtlich die Gleichniserzählung vom Sämann (Mk 4:3−9) und insbesondere deren Deutung (Mk 4:13−20, vgl. vor allem V. 18). Die Taufe spielt im „Hirt“ des Hermas sonst gar keine Rolle; aber mit der Formulierung der Aussage in Vis. 3.7.3 setzt der Autor das Wissen der Leser um die Taufe εἰς τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ κυρίου als gegeben voraus.67 Wer das Buch liest, der − so nimmt der Autor an – weiß, dass die Taufe die Absage an die ἐπιθυμίαι πονηροί bedeutet.

III. Taufe und Mahlfeier beim Apologeten Justin Die Schriften Justins68 bieten für die Frage nach der sakramentalen Praxis im 2. Jahrhundert reiches Anschauungsmaterial. Justin ist unter den frühen apologetischen Schriftstellern der einzige, der ausdrücklich von der Taufe und von der Eucharistiefeier spricht; offenbar sind die „Sakramente“ für ihn in besonderer Weise herausragende „kultische“ Handlungen des Christentums, die er gegenüber Außenstehenden glaubt erklären zu müssen. 66  Dazu D. Hellholm, ‚Der Hirt des Hermas‘, in Pratscher (Hg.), Die Apostolischen Väter, 226−53. 67 Vgl. Sandnes, ‚Seal and Baptism‘, in Hellholm, Vegge, Norderval und Hellholm (Hg.), Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism, II, 1450 f. 68  Zur Biographie Justins s. U. Neymeyr, Die christlichen Lehrer im zweiten Jahrhundert. Ihre Lehrtätigkeit, ihr Selbstverständnis und ihre Geschichte, SVigChr 4 (Leiden: Brill, 1989), 16−35; ferner O. Skarsaune, ‚Justin der Märtyrer‘, in TRE 17 (1998), 471 f.; S. Heid, ‚Iustinus Martyr I‘, in RAC 19 (2001), 801−46, bes. 805–22. Zum Verhältnis zwischen der „Ersten Apologie“ und der „Zweiten Apologie“ s. M. Marcovich (Hg.), Iustini Martyris Apologiae pro Christianis, PTS 38 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1994), 8−11: Die „Zweite Apologie“ ist „only an Appendix, Supplement or Postscript (‚Nachschrift‘, ‚Anhang‘, ‚Begleitschreiben‘)“ zur Ersten Apologie, kurze Zeit später verfasst. Der in Flavia Neapolis in Samaria geborene und dann in Rom wirkende Lehrer verfasste seine an Kaiser Antoninus Pius gerichtete (Erste) Apologie in den Jahren um 150/155.



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

21

3.1  Gegen Ende der (Ersten) Apologie beschreibt Justin in Kap. 61−66 die Taufe und das Mahl, das er ausdrücklich und geradezu im „technischen“ Sinne als εὐχαριστία bezeichnet. In Kap. 67 folgt die Schilderung des sonntäglichen Gottesdienstes der Christen, der ebenfalls eine Mahlfeier einschließt. 3.1.1  Der Textabschnitt zur Taufe,69 in dem freilich weder das Wort βάπτισμα noch das Verb βαπτίζειν begegnet, beginnt in 61.1 mit der Ankündigung Justins, er wolle nun darlegen, „auf welche Weise wir uns nach unserer Neuschaffung durch Christus Gott geweiht haben“ (ὃν τρόπον δὲ καὶ ἀνεθήκαμεν ἑαυτούς τῷ θεῷ καινοποιηθέντες διὰ τοῦ Χριστοῦ ἐξηγησόμεθα).70 Justin sagt zunächst, dass diejenigen, die sich von der Wahrheit der christlichen Verkündigung überzeugen ließen und sich zu einem neuen Leben verpflichten, „angeleitet werden zu beten und unter Fasten von Gott die Vergebung der früheren Verfehlungen zu erbitten“; ähnlich wie in Did. 7,4 ist in Apol. 61.2 vom gemeinsamen Beten und vom gemeinsamen Fasten die Rede. Dann wird eingehend der Taufvorgang geschildert; er geschieht dort, „wo Wasser ist.“ Justin spricht von einem „Bad,“ das auf den Namen (ἐπ᾿ ὀνόματος) Gottes geschieht, der ὁ πατὴρ τῶν ὅλων καὶ δεσπότης θεός genannt wird; es geschieht auch (auf den Namen) Jesu Christi (σωτὴρ ἡμῶν  Ἰησοῦς Χριστός), und es geschieht (auf den Namen) des πνεῦμα ἅγιον. Hier klingt also indirekt die triadische Taufformel an, aber ob sie während des „(Tauf-)Bades“ ausgesprochen wird, ist nicht eindeutig zu erkennen; jedenfalls ist sie nicht „geheim.“ Als Begründung für die Taufe zitiert Justin in 61.4 das Wort Jesu vom „Wieder geboren werden“ aus Joh 3:3. In 61.5−8 folgt als Beleg das ausdrücklich eingeführte Zitat von Jes 1:16−20, und dazu gibt Justin in 61.9 den Hinweis, dass „wir“ dies auch von den Aposteln gelernt haben (παρὰ τῶν ἀποστόλων ἐμάθομεν τοῦτον). In 61.10 wird die Taufe dann auch inhaltlich und geradezu mit Hilfe einer philosophischen Anthropologie erklärt: Unsere „erste Entstehung“ (πρώτη γένεσις) geschah unfreiwillig ohne unser Wissen, durch die sexuelle Vereinigung der Eltern; aber wir sollen nicht „Kinder der Notwendigkeit und der Unwissenheit bleiben“ (μὴ ἀνάγκης τέκνα μηδὲ ἀγνοίας μένωμεν), sondern wir sollen Kinder „der freien Wahl und der Einsicht“ (προαιρέσεως καὶ ἐπιστήμης) sein. Darum wird über dem, der wiedergeboren werden möchte und der für seine Verfehlungen Buße tut (μετανοήσαντι ἐπί τοῖς ἡμαρτημένοις), bei dem „Bad“ der Name Gottes ausgesprochen.71 Dieses λουτρόν werde als „Erleuchtung“ (φωτισμός) bezeichnet, 69  Die „Tauftexte“ bei Justin sind griechisch und deutsch abgedruckt bei A. Benoît und C. Munier, Die Taufe in der Alten Kirche (1.−3. Jahrhundert), TC 9 (Bern: P. Lang, 1994), 24−31 (Deutsch von Annemarie Spoerri). Zu den Einzelheiten der Taufe bei Justin s. Lindemann, ‚Zur frühchristlichen Taufpraxis‘, 785−96. 70  Der griechische Text wird zitiert nach der Ausgabe von C. Munier, Justin. Apologie pour les chrétiens. Introduction, texte critique, traduction et notes (Paris: Cerf, 2006). 71  Gott wird als πατὴρ τῶν ὅλων und als δεσπότης bezeichnet, und es heißt ausdrücklich, einen anderen Gottesnamen gebe es nicht (61.11).

22

Andreas Lindemann

denn auf diese Weise werde der Verstand (διάνοια) derer, die dies „lernen“ bzw. erfahren, „erleuchtet“ (61.12).72 In 61.13 fügt Justin in Aufnahme von 61.3 hinzu, dass diese „Abwaschung“ auch geschieht „auf den Namen“ (ἐπ᾿ ὀνόματος) des unter Pontius Pilatus gekreuzigten Jesus Christus und ἐπ᾿ ὀνόματος πνεύματος ἁγίου. Dann folgt in 62.1 die Bemerkung, die δαίμονες hätten dank der Vorhersagen durch die Propheten von diesem λουτρόν Kenntnis erhalten, und sie hätten daher eine ähnliche Praxis auch in ihre Kulthandlungen eingeführt. Dieser Hinweis veranlasst Justin zu einem längeren „Exkurs,“ in dem es um (scheinbare oder tatsächliche) Parallelen zwischen Dämonenkulten und Taufe sowie Gottesoffenbarung geht (62.2−64.6). In Kap. 65 wird der Bericht über den Taufvollzug wieder aufgenommen: Nach „diesem Bad“ (μετὰ τὸ οὕτως λοῦσαι) führen „wir“ den gläubig Gewordenen und „uns Beigetretenen“ (τὸν πεπεισμένον καὶ συγκατατεθειμένον) zu den „Brüdern“ zum gemeinsamen Gebet, an dessen Ende wir einander mit dem Kuss begrüßen (65.1, 2).73 Hier wird deutlich, dass die Taufe nicht nur den einzelnen Menschen in seiner Gottesbeziehung betrifft, sondern dass sie unmittelbar verbunden ist mit der Aufnahme in die Gemeinde. 3.1.2 In 1 Apol. 65.3−5; 66.1−4 folgt die Schilderung der auf die Taufe folgenden Mahlfeier: Man bringt dem „Vorsteher der Brüder“ (τῷ προεστῶτι τῶν ἀδελφῶν) Brot und einen Kelch mit Wasser und gemischtem Wein (ποτήριον ὕδατος καὶ κράματος)74; er preist Gott, den πατὴρ τῶν ὅλων, „durch den Namen des Sohnes und des Heiligen Geistes,“ und er dankt für diese Gabe, worauf das anwesende Volk (ὁ παρών λαός) mit dem Wort „Amen“ seine Zustimmung gibt.75 Die „bei uns so bezeichneten Diakonen“ (οἱ καλούμενοι παρ᾿ ἡμῖν διάκονοι) geben jedem Anwesenden davon, und sie bringen es auch denen, die nicht da sind. In 66.1 wird dann gesagt, an dieser Speise (τροφή), die εὐχαριστία genannt werde, dürfe nur teilnehmen, wer an die Wahrheit des von uns Gelehrten glaubt und getauft ist und so lebt, wie es Christus geboten hat. Hier wird also die Bindung an die Zugehörigkeit zur Gemeinde betont, ohne dass dafür jedoch ein bestimmter Begriff verwendet wird. In 66.2 erläutert Justin (γάρ), dass wir dieses Mahl nicht als profanes Brot und als gewöhnlichen Trank empfangen (οὐ γὰρ ὡς κοινὸν ἄρτον οὐδὲ κοινὸν πόμα ταῦτα λαμβάνομεν); wir sind vielmehr belehrt worden (ἐδιδάχθημεν), dass es 72  Vgl. E. F. Osborn, Justin Martyr, BHTh 47 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1973), 179: „Justin is the first person to describe baptism as illumination or φωτισμὸς. Yet he makes it clear that the term is not his own invention but is an accepted name for a rite which brings illumination of mind. Illumination brings the new law, new covenant, truth and light which come from Christ.“ 73  Zum „heiligen Kuss“ s. Alikin, Earliest History, 255−60. 74  Stein, Frühchristliche Mahlfeiern, 195, verweist darauf, dass Justin offenbar der erste ist, der sich für den Inhalt des Kelchs interessiert. 75 In 65.4 wird das ausdrücklich übersetzt: τὸ δὲ Ἀμὴν τῇ Ἑβραΐδι φωνῇ τὸ Γένοιτο σημαίνει.



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

23

sich um das Fleisch (σάρξ) und um das Blut (αἷμα) des durch den λόγος Fleisch gewordenen Jesus handelt.76 Dazu folgt in 66.3 als weitere Erläuterung (γάρ) die uns von den Aposteln in ihren als εὐαγγέλια bezeichneten „Erinnerungen“ (ἀπομνημονεύματα) überlieferte Anweisung, eine stark verkürzte, aber doch eindeutig erkennbare Fassung der „Einsetzungsworte“: Jesus habe das Brot genommen, das Dankgebet gesprochen und gesagt Τοῦτο ποιεῖτε εἰς τὴν ἀνάμνησίν μου, τοῦτ᾿ ἐστι τὸ σῶμά μου. Er habe ebenso (ὁμοίως) den Kelch genommen, das Dankgebet gesprochen und gesagt Τοῦτό ἐστι τὸ αἷμά μου. Er habe nur ihnen, also den Aposteln, daran Anteil gegeben (καὶ μόνοις αὐτοῖς μεταδοῦναι).77 Dass die „Einsetzungsworte“ während der Mahlfeier zitiert werden, geht aus der Darstellung des Justin nicht hervor; er hat jedenfalls keine Bedenken, diese Worte an Außenstehende weiterzugeben, obwohl auch jetzt wieder der Hinweis folgt, in den Mysterien des Mithras werde diese Mahlpraxis nachgeahmt (66.4). In Kap. 67 spricht Justin zunächst (67.1, 2) vom Zusammenleben in der Gemeinde. Dann schildert er in 67.3 ff. „die Zusammenkunft aller, die in den Städten und auf dem Land wohnen“ (πάντων κατὰ πόλεις ἢ ἀγρούς μενόντων ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτὸ συνέλευσις); sie finde am „sogenannten Sonntag“ (τῇ τοῦ ἡλίου λεγομένῃ ἡμέρᾳ) statt. Dabei würden die ἀπομνημονεύματα der Apostel oder die Schriften (συγγράμματα) der Propheten gelesen,78 dann folge eine Ansprache des προεστώς, in der dieser zur μίμησις des Guten auffordere (67.4). Ein gemeinsames Gebet schließt sich an (67.5), und dann werden, „wie schon erwähnt“ (ὡς προέφημεν), Brot, Wein und Wasser herbei gebracht, der Vorsteher spricht mit großer Kraft Gebete und Danksagungen (εὐχὰς ὁμοίως καὶ εὐχαριστίας), und das Volk stimmt zu, indem es ἀμήν sagt. Jeder erhält Anteil daran, und Justin sagt auch hier, dass den nicht Anwesenden das Mahl durch die διάκονοι gebracht wird. Neu ist der Hinweis (67.6), es werde je nach Möglichkeit und eigener Entscheidung eine Kollekte für Bedürftige gesammelt. Abschließend erläutert Justin (67.7), warum gerade der Sonntag als der erste Tag der Woche der Tag dieser Zusammenkunft ist.79 76  Die Auslegung dieses theologisch und sprachlich überaus schwierigen Textes muss an anderer Stelle erfolgen; in der vorliegenden Untersuchung geht es um die sakramentale Praxis. 77  Vgl. dazu L. Abramowski, ‚The ‚Memoirs of the Apostles‘ in Justin‘, in P. Stuhl­macher (Hg.), The Gospel and the Gospels (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 323−35; G. N. Stanton, ­‚Jesus Traditions and Gospels in Justin Martyr and Irenaeus‘, in J.-M. Auwers und H. J. de Jonge (Hg.), The Biblical Canons, BETL 163 (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 353−70, hier: 360−6. 78  Nach J. Becker, Mündliche und schriftliche Autorität im frühen Christentum (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 95, ist dies der erste eindeutige Beleg für eine regelmäßige gottesdienstliche Lesung im christlichen Gottesdienst. Aus dem ἢ zwischen Apostel- und Prophetenschriften ist m. E. kein „entweder / oder“ zu folgern; auch bei der Ortsangabe steht zwischen πόλεις und ἀγρούς ein ἤ. 79  ἡ τοῦ Ἡλίου ἡμέρα ist der erste Tag der Schöpfung (ὁ θεὸς τὸ σκότος καὶ τὴν ὕλην τρέψας κόσμον ἐποίησε) und der Tag der Auferstehung Jesu Christi, an dem er seinen Aposteln erschien und sie das lehrte, „was wir euch zur Erwägung (εἰς ἐπίσκεψιν) vorgestellt haben.“ Stein, Frühchristliche Mahlfeiern, 114: Zwar gibt es „keinen direkten Beleg für eine wöchentli-

24

Andreas Lindemann

3.1.3  Die in 1 Apol. 65 f. beschriebene im Anschluss an eine Taufe vollzogene gottesdienstliche Feier unterscheidet sich von dem in 1 Apol. 67 geschilderten regelmäßigen Sonntagsgottesdienst; aber es wird keine grundsätzlich abweichende Gottesdienstform und schon gar nicht eine andere Form der Mahlfeier beschrieben, wie sich ja schon durch die Wendung ὡς προέφημεν zeigt.80 3.2  In seiner umfangreichen Schrift Dialog mit dem Juden Tryphon81 setzt Justin andere Akzente. 3.2.1  Im Blick auf die Mahlfeier betont er in Dial. 116.3 die Rolle Jesu als des wahren Priesters; auf ihn beziehe sich die in Mal 1:11 bezeugte Aussage Gottes, „dass man an jedem Orte unter den Völkern ihm wohlgefällige und reine Opfer darbringe“ (… ἐν παντὶ τόπῳ ἐν τοῖς ἔθνεσι θυσίας εὐαρέστους αὐτῷ καὶ καθαρὰς προσφέροντες). Justin fährt dann fort (117.1), das (einzige) Gott wohlgefällige Opfer sei das „eucharistische Opfer von Brot und Kelch“ (εὐχαριστία τοῦ ἄρτου καὶ τοῦ ποτηρίου), das ἐν παντὶ τόπῳ τῆς γῆς von den Christen dargebracht werde. Die in der Bibel erwähnten Opfer seien weder die einst am Tempel dargebrachten Opfer noch sollten die Gebete im opferlosen jüdischen Gottesdienst in der Diaspora als Opfer bezeichnet werden, sondern allein Gebete und Danksagungen, die von würdigen Personen dargebracht werden, seien „vollkommene und Gott angenehme Opfer“ (117.2). Es seien die Χριστιανοί, die nur diese Opfer haben und sie darbringen, wenn sie bei Brot und Kelch82 das Gedächtnis feiern in Erinnerung an das Leiden, das der Sohn Gottes um ihretwillen erduldet hat (117.3). Ob diese Argumentation impliziert, dass die Mahlfeier selber als Opfer (θυσία) und Brot und Wein als die Opfergaben verstanden werden, lässt sich kaum sagen. Eine Schilderung der Mahlfeier wird nicht geboten. 3.2.2  Während Justin in seiner Apologie die Taufe für Außenstehende „erklärt,“ dabei aber den „technischen“ Begriff βάπτισμα vermieden und den Vollche Mahlfeier am Herrentag, sondern nur für unbestimmt unregelmäßige Mahlfeiern am Herrentag und dezidiert wöchentliche Mahlfeiern am Sonntag,“ aber „Herrentag, achter Tag und Sonntag“ meinen jedenfalls denselben Tag. H.-U. Weidemann, ‚Taufe und Taufeucharistie. Die postbaptismale Mahlgemeinschaft in Quellen des 2. und 3. Jahrhunderts‘, in Hellholm, Vegge, Norderval und Hellholm (Hg.), Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism, II, 1483−1530, unterscheidet die in c. 65 f. dargestellte „Taufeucharistie“ von der „Sonntagseucharistie,“ „auch wenn sich die beiden Eucharistieformen ähneln.“ Justin schildere „zwei grundlegende ‚Versammlungen‘ der Christen, und er muss damit rechnen, dass die römischen Behörden seine Darstellungen eventuell verifizieren oder dass ihnen eigene Berichte vorlagen“ (ibid., 1486). Ibid., 1490: Die „Sonntagseucharistie“ sei − „strukturell analog zur Taufeucharistie“ − zweigliedrig, denn der Mahlfeier gehe „eine Art ‚Wortgottesdienst‘ voran, der aus Schriftlesung und einer Predigt durch den Vorsteher besteht.“ 80  Man wird auch kaum annehmen, es habe bei der Mahlfeier nach einer Taufe keine Kollekte gegeben. 81  Über weite Strecken wird das Gespräch nicht allein mit Tryphon geführt, sondern dieser hat Begleiter, von denen zumindest einige der Diskussion nicht ausweichen (Dial. 9.2). 82  Wörtlich: „ihrer trockenen und ihrer nassen Speise“ (καὶ ἐπ᾿ ἀναμνήσει δὴ τῆς τροφῆς αὐτῶν ξηρᾶς τε καὶ ὑγρᾶς).



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

25

zug der Taufe mit anderen Worten geschildert hatte, verwendet er im Dialog das Wort βάπτισμα. In Dial. 14.1 ist βάπτισμα synonym mit λουτρόν, im Sinne von „Waschung“; aber der Begriff ist zweifellos auf die Taufe bezogen. In 88.7 f. referiert Justin in deutlicher Anlehnung an die Texte der Evangelien das Auftreten des Täufers und die Taufe Jesu,83 und dabei setzt er voraus, dass sowohl sein Gesprächspartner Tryphon als auch die Adressaten seiner Schrift wissen, was das Wort βάπτισμα bedeutet; eine Tauftheologie wird nicht geboten, die Taufpraxis wird in diesem Dialog nicht im Einzelnen beschrieben. 3.3  Fazit: In der Apologie betont Justin im Blick auf die (hier nicht so bezeichnete) Taufe die mit ihr verbundene Vergebung und die Bedeutung der Zugehörigkeit der Getauften zur Gruppe der „Brüder,“ einschließlich der Teilhabe an der εὐχαριστία. Auffällig und ungewöhnlich ist der Gedanke, dass sich aus der Taufe als der Wiedergeburt des Menschen dessen Entscheidungsfreiheit ergebe (61.9, 10). Zur εὐχαριστία schreibt Justin in der Apologie, dass Brot und Wein in der Mahlfeier ihren profanen Charakter als bloße Nahrungsmittel verlieren und zu Fleisch und Blut Christi werden; von einer „Wandlung“ der „Elemente,“ womöglich durch das Aussprechen der „Einsetzungsworte“ durch den προεστώς, ist allerdings nicht die Rede – die Aussagen könnten metaphorisch gemeint sein. Die Mahlhandlung und ihre Deutung ist orientiert an den als εὐαγγέλια bezeichneten „Erinnerungen der Apostel“; es handelt sich um Texte, die nicht geheim sind.84 Und auch die Tatsache, dass an der Mahlfeier nur Getaufte teilnehmen dürfen, macht aus der Gemeinde keinen Geheimbund.

IV. Zur sakramentalen Praxis im 2. Jahrhundert Eine „Geschichte der Tauf- und Mahlpraxis in der Kirche des 2. Jahrhunderts“ lässt sich angesichts der doch schmalen Quellenlage vermutlich nicht schreiben. Viele der uns erhaltenen Texte enthalten gar keine konkreten Aussagen zur Taufe und zum Gemeindemahl, viele sagen nichts zu deren praktischem Vollzug. Die sehr genauen Anweisungen zum Taufvollzug in der Didache und die Schilderungen sowohl der Taufe als auch der εὐχαριστία bei Justin sind die Ausnahme; möglicherweise gilt die Regel, dass das Selbstverständliche nicht ausgesprochen zu werden braucht. Dafür könnte der Befund in der Apostelgeschichte des Lukas sprechen, denn wenn dort Taufe und „Brotbrechen“ erwähnt werden, setzt Lukas 83 

Von Johannes dem Täufer ist in Dial. häufiger die Rede, vgl. 49.2 ff.; 50.2 f.; 88.3 ff. u.ö.. Schluss (67.8) schreibt Justin ausdrücklich, Jesus habe seine ἀπόστολοι und seine μαθηταί nach seiner Auferstehung „am Sonntag“ alles das gelehrt, „was wir euch auch zur Erwägung vorgetragen haben“ (εἰς ἐπίσκεψιν καὶ ὑμῖν ἀνεδώκαμεν). 84  Am

26

Andreas Lindemann

offensichtlich voraus, dass die impliziten Leser seines Buches den Sinn und die Weise des Vollzugs dieser kultischen Vorgänge kennen. Auch die Didache setzt voraus, dass die Adressaten wissen, was βάπτισμα bedeutet; ihnen wird aber nun in schriftlicher Form gesagt, wie das βαπτίζειν korrekt vollzogen wird und welche möglichen Alternativen es zur eigentlich „üblichen“ Form des Taufvollzugs gibt. Angesichts der sehr genauen Ausführungen zum Vollzug der Taufe ist es unwahrscheinlich, dass sich die in der Didache ebenfalls im Wortlaut zitierten Mahl-Gebete auf das Abendmahl (εὐχαριστία) beziehen; denn dann wäre zu erwarten, dass analog zur Zitierung der Taufformel auch die Stiftungsworte des Herrenmahls zitiert werden. Dass die Mahlworte fehlen, könnte bedeuten, dass die Didache-Gemeinde das Herrenmahl nicht kennt. Ignatius geht davon voraus, dass die Adressaten seiner Briefe wissen, wie die Taufe und die εὐχαριστία vollzogen werden, sie bedürfen also keiner Erläuterungen; Ignatius betont deshalb nur, dass beides auf keinen Fall ohne den ἐπίσκοπος geschehen darf. Allerdings wird nicht gesagt, welche Funktion der ἐπίσκοπος dabei wahrnimmt: Ist der ἐπίσκοπος der Gemeindeleiter, der gemeinsam mit dem Presbyterium und den διάκονοι die Gemeinde führt (Monepiskopat85)? Oder ist er der alles entscheidende Gemeindeleiter, dem die anderen Ämter nachgeordnet sind (monarchischer Episkopat)? Die Frage, „wer berechtigt ist, die beiden zentralen rituellen Handlungen der Gemeinde durchzuführen,“ führt nach D.-A. Koch „zum Nerv des Gemeinde- und Amtsverständnisses des Ignatius überhaupt.“86 Aber es bleibt (jedenfalls für uns!) unklar, ob Ignatius an eine bereits gültige gemeindliche Praxis erinnert, oder ob er im Begriff ist, diese im Grunde erstmals neu einzuführen.87 Analoges gilt für den προεστώς bei Justin. Möglicherweise ist mit dieser Bezeichnung eine Person gemeint, die dem ἐπίσκοπος bei Ignatius entspricht; vielleicht vermeidet Justin den Begriff ἐπίσκοπος lediglich wegen seiner Missverständlichkeit für Außenstehende. Dabei stellt sich auch hier die Frage, welche Funktion der προεστώς bei der Mahlfeier einnimmt: Er betet, hält die „Predigt“ und sorgt für die Sammlung und Verteilung der Kollekte. Aber was bedeutet sein Vorsitz bei der Mahlfeier für die Gültigkeit von deren Vollzug? Welche Funktion nimmt er außerhalb des Gottesdienstes wahr? Im Zusammenhang der Taufe ist von ihm jedenfalls nicht die Rede. So bleibt der Versuch einer Darstellung der sakramentalen Praxis im 2. Jahrhundert letztlich Fragment; deutlich ist aber die rasch wachsende Tendenz, dass, anders als noch in der Didache, nicht mehr der korrekte Vollzug der Taufe 85 Vgl. Koch, Geschichte des Urchristentums, 432−41. 86 

Koch, ‚Taufinterpretationen‘, 829. Ibid., „Für letzteres spricht, dass Ignatius offenbar schon froh ist, wenn die Eucharistie durch den Bischof, ‚oder wem er es anvertraut‘, durchgeführt wird. Analoges dürfte auch für die Taufe gelten.“ 87 



Sakramentale Praxis in Gemeinden des 2. Jahrhunderts

27

dargestellt bzw. die im Wortlaut „richtigen“ Mahlgebete überliefert werden, sondern dass die Rolle des Amtsträgers ins Zentrum rückt. Ist es bei Ignatius der ἐπίσκοπος, an den Taufe und Mahlfeier gebunden sind, so steht bei Justin der προεστώς bei der Mahlfeier im Anschluss an die Taufe und dann überhaupt im gottesdienstlichen Geschehen im Vordergrund. Hier werden – sit venia verbo! − die „frühkatholischen“ Tendenzen im frühen Christentum deutlich sichtbar.

The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community? Clayton N. Jefford I. Introduction The consideration of ancient Christian communities is troubled by pitfalls with significant dangers of interpretation that have noteworthy consequences. Among the more important of these are decisions about whether a community mirrors earlier prototypes, exists as a unique institution, or reflects movements beyond local and regional developments.1 A comprehensive appreciation for the evolution of community consciousness is clearly a necessary prerequisite by which to understand institutional development. Such queries are certainly necessary to fathom late first and early secondcentury Christian communities in general, but in the particular situation of the Didache they are foundational for further reasons. Here one must ask whether the author writes from personal perspective or reveals larger community vision. Does the text signify a singular perception or the collation of multiple views provided over different periods of time? Are materials within the text that have parallels elsewhere in literature (viz. sayings traditions, scriptural citations, liturgical instructions) the repetition of common wisdom and daily practices of a living community, or are they simply older beliefs no longer of true concern within the daily life of believers?2 1  Ignorance of such factors plagues many studies that otherwise offer intriguing insights into the development of early faith communities. This may be illustrated by the otherwise fine analysis of an early Christian community concept based on Acts 2:41–7 and 4:32–5, as offered by D. A. Hume, The Early Christian Community, WUNT 2.298 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). Undoubtedly more can be extrapolated from the ancient Christian community setting than would be suggested from what remains within our typically sparse literary evidence. 2  This final question has provided the background for basic assumptions about the text among many historians of ecclesiastical development, thus leading to early twentieth-century views that denied the antiquity of the Didache, assuming instead that the work represented a third or fourth-century reconstruction of Christianity’s origins. See here especially J. A. ­Robinson, Barnabas, Hermas, and the Didache (London: SPCK; New York: MacMillan, 1920), 69–83; J. Muilenburg, The Literary Relations of the Epistle of Barnabas and the Teaching of the Twelve Apostles (Marburg: n. p., 1929), 165–8; F. C. Burkitt, ‘Barnabas and the Didache’, in JThS 33 (1932), 25–7; R. H. Connolly, ‘The “Didache” in Relation to the Epistle of Barnabas’, in JThS 33 (1932), 237–53. More recent approaches reverse this trend, insisting that the Didache preserves some of the oldest of nascent Christianity’s traditions. Two authors who represent the extreme of such approaches include A. Milavec, The Didache (New York / Mahwah: Newman,

30

Clayton N. Jefford

Many questions about the ‘community’ of the Didache persist, but perhaps none more so than those associated with the eucharistic traditions of chapters 9–10. Scholars have given special attention to the exploration of these materials, but despite such research the role of the Eucharist within the Didache remains uncertain, persisting as a focus of constant debate.3 The special nature of these materials may provide a key for understanding community life in the early church in many respects, especially since a transition in perspective has begun to arise among contemporary scholars: from an older view that saw the Didache as a repository of traditions associated within a rare historical moment in ecclesiastical history, to a more widely accepted belief that the text reflects a broader vision eventually stifled by the rise of more widely observed liturgical practice. 1. Mirror or New Formation? To begin with the foundational questions, one must ask whether the Didache mirrors previously known communities or is instead some sort of advancement over earlier first-century practices. As to the idea of mirror, it is safe to say that if the community of the Didache reflects some earlier concept of Christian living, then that concept was largely overwhelmed or subsumed into larger ecclesiastical tradition. Literary components of the Didache were certainly typical within first-century Christian teaching. Dependence on the ‘two ways’ motif and the Decalogue (chaps. 1–5),4 attention given to eschatological theology (chap. 16),5 2003); A. J. P. Garrow, The Gospel of Matthew’s Dependence on the Didache, JSNTS 254 (London / New York: T&T Clark, 2004); W. Varner, The Way of the Didache (Lanham: University Press of America, 2007); T. O’Loughlin, The Didache (London: SPCK; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2010). 3  See, e.g., M. Dibelius, ‘Die Mahl-Gebete der Didache’, in H. Kraft and G. Bornkamm (eds.), Botschaft und Geschichte (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1956), 2:117–27; J. Betz, ‘Die Eucharistie in der Didache’, in ALW 11 (1969), 10–39, and E. Mazza, ‘Didachè IX–X: Elementi per una interpretazione eucaristica’, in EL 92 (1979), 393–419, reproduced in English translation as ‘The Eucharist in the Didache’ and ‘Didache 9–10: Elements of Eucharistic Interpretation’, in J. A. Draper (ed.), The Didache in Modern Research, AGJU 37 (Leiden / New York / Köln: Brill, 1996), 244–75 and 276–99 consecutively; J. A. Draper, ‘Ritual Process and Ritual Symbol in Didache 7–10’, in VigChr 54 (2000), 121–58; J. J. Clabeaux, ‘The Ritual Meal in Didache 9–10: Progress in Understanding’, in J. A. Draper and C. N. Jefford (eds.), The Didache (Atlanta: SBL, forthcoming). 4  Cf. Deut 30:15; Jer 21:8; Prov 12:28; Sir 15:17; Test. Levi 19.1; Test. Asher 1.5–9; 2 Enoch 30.15; 1QSa 3.13–4.1; Matt 7:13–14; Gal 5:17–18; Barn. 18–20; Herm. Mand. 6.1.1–6.2.10; Tg. ­Ps.-J. on Deut 30:15; see H. van de Sandt and D. Flusser, The Didache, CRINT 3/5 (Assen: Van Gorcum; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 140–90; Milavec, Didache, 62–5. 5  For Paul, 1 Thess 4:13–5:11 (2 Thess 2:1–11?); for the gospels, Matt 24:2–25:46; Mark 13:1–36; Luke 21:5–38. See generally, V. Balabanski, Eschatology in the Making, MSSNTS 97 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), especially 180–209; J. Verheyden, ‘Eschatology in the Didache and the Gospel of Matthew’, in H. van de Sandt (ed.), Matthew and the Didache (Assen: Van Gorcum; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 193–215.



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

31

and rubrics of almsgiving, fasting, and prayer (chaps. 1 and 8)6 are familiar from various New Testament passages. Instructions to avoid specified foods, commands to baptize, directions to pray the Lord’s Prayer, and guidance for offering prayers at meals (chaps. 6–10) are likewise familiar, even if they suggest a spin not obviously reflected elsewhere in the literature. Yet instructions on how to determine true from false prophets, elect overseers and deacons, and worship on the day of the Lord (chaps. 11–15) seem strange and without clear parallel. One may safely suggest that the Didache has its roots early in the tradition, even if the vagaries of that tradition are no longer familiar today.7 Can one say that the Didache represents a community that evolved beyond earlier ecclesiastical roots? The answer seems divided, at least on the surface. On the one hand, when one peers into rudimentary elements of the text and finds a resolute Jewish tenor that eventually was rejected by second-century Christianity, this option seems unworthy. The work preserves the old ways of the faith or at least the older perspective of ancient tradition. One might be disposed to say this is the view of community life against which the apostle Paul often disparaged in so many of his letters.8 On the other hand, instructions on the nature of ecclesiastical offices and the text’s concern to identify overseers and deacons suggest the Didache stands as a link between the first-century origins of the faith and later Christian perspective. Subsequent authors within the tradition were not satisfied to frame their own teachings concerning clerical authority around the instructions of the Didache, but they certainly employed the text to build much of the framework that exists today.9 In this respect then the Didache is neither fish nor fowl for the tradition – it is neither old nor new. Or perhaps better said, it is both fish and fowl – the preservation of ancient traditions and innovative structures. It takes its own position among the writings of Christian antiquity and demands to be considered as such. It offers a bridge between what once was and once may soon be. At the same time, however, this bridge was never crossed by subsequent church leaders. Christians chose not to be led by the strictures of Jewish Torah as they fashioned the nature of community life, choosing instead to take a different route that is now better recognized within the teachings of Ignatius of Antioch and Polycarp of Smyrna. 6 

Cf. Matt 6:1–18. sources of such traditions were already detailed some years ago in K. Niederwimmer, Die Didache, KAV 1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 19932 [1989]), 64–78, reproduced in English translation as The Didache, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 42–52; see also Idem, ‘Der Didachist und seine Quellen’, in C. N. Jefford (ed.), The Didache in Context, NT.S 77 (Leiden / New York / Köln: Brill, 1995), 15–36. 8  Or at least it is a perspective against which Paul competed; see D. Flusser, ‘Paul’s JewishChristian Opponents in the Didache’, in Draper, The Didache in Modern Research, 195–211. 9  This is readily demonstrated by how the Didache is employed as an authoritative source for Book 7 of the Apostolic Constitutions. 7 The

32

Clayton N. Jefford

2. Unique or Typical? A related question follows about whether the Didache is singular in perspective or instead representative of what most mainline believers experienced as typical of their lifestyles and worship practices. If the former is true, then it is difficult to explain why much of the text looks familiar to contemporary readers, especially compared with the teachings preserved in the text of Matthew.10 If the latter is accurate, then one must clarify why teachings and practices that appear to be unique within the text have no parallel elsewhere. Either the entirety of Christian tradition has forgotten the instructions and idiosyncratic nuances of the text or, more likely, the growth of ecclesiastical development swept such teachings and diversities aside in its quest for unified structure and amalgamation of doctrine. The parameters of this issue are already defined by one’s answer to the question of mirror or advancement: the Didache stands within its own niche preserving old ways in an attempt to confront new challenges. The text seems to represent typical late Christian antiquity as it faced an expanding population of believers who no longer had the benefits of a Jewish background by which to understand their faith experience. They were open to new possibilities and devoid of religious restrictions; they needed guidance to direct their growth. This likely is the rationale for the longer title of the text (“The Teaching of the Lord to the Nations by the Twelve Apostles”), an ascription not likely original but nevertheless accurately reflective of the way subsequent users made use of the text.11 But if the transition from Jewish to non-Jewish believers was typical of late first-century and second-century Christianity, what may one say is actually unique about the Didache? Clearly what is exceptional is the way in which the author preserves traditional Jewish teachings and insights as a foundation by which to incorporate non-Jews into the community. Admittedly such activity would not be considered unusual for earlier Christians such as the apostle Paul, and many scholars have thus sought in recent days to place the Didache within such a context in which this approach seems more representative.12 But if one may justifiably assign the text to a later setting, perhaps a generation after Paul, 10  In a paper delivered in 2008, e.g., John Welch identified over seventy parallels between the Didache and Matthew, though many of these were admittedly single words or phrases that might otherwise appear in early Christian literature; see J. W. Welch, ‘From the Sermon on the Mount to the Post-Temple Didache’ (Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, Boston, 25 November 2008). For further comparison of scripture parallels with the Didache, see W. Varner, ‘The Didache’s Use of the Old and New Testaments’, in MSJ 16 (2005), 127–51. 11  Unlike the shorter designation for the work (‘The Teaching of the [Twelve] Apostles’), which is properly distinguished as a formal title in the most complete copy of the Didache known (Codex Hierosolymitanus 54), the scribe does not similarly mark the longer title but offers it as the opening line of the text. 12  Though this is not a new idea, as is illustrated by the suggestion in 1919 that the Didache derives from the ‘school of James’; so J. H. J. Greyvenstein, ‘The Original “Teaching of the Twelve Apostles”’ (Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago, 1919), 123–30.



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

33

then it may be possible to identify the hand of a secondary (yet still early) generation of believers attempting to address the problems of a new community with tools derived from an older tradition. The Didache may thus offer a preserved moment in the life of the church when what was formerly valid according to traditional values found itself deficient in the face of new challenges. The teachings and approach of the Didache may have once been typical of an earlier form of Christian faith, but at some point not many years after its production it may have come to represent what was a unique preservation of old ways no longer useful for the evolving church. The Didache became an old classic in the library of the ecclesiastical elite, yet unfortunately no longer served any useful role for worshiping communities within a living tradition. One must thus turn to the matter of the eucharistic traditions preserved by the text. How were they received? How were they offered? What do they say about the community itself?

II. Context is Everything An appropriate first question must be whether the eucharistic prayers of Didache 9–10 are meant to stand apart within the text. This consideration seeks to understand these materials both as a reflection of their source and with respect to their role within the work’s structure. 1. As Source With respect to the origins of the prayers, there is nothing within the literature that compares precisely with these supplications. It is true that scholars have often found parallels between the prayers of the Didache and certain birkat ha-mazon blessings within Jewish tradition.13 But these parallels are inexact, and scholars often suggest that what now appears in the tradition is at most a transformation of such prayers or perhaps completely unrelated to Jewish tradition at all.14 13  See L. Finkelstein, ‘The Birkat ha-Mazon’, in JQR 19 (1928), 211–62; R. D. Middleton, ‘The Eucharistic Prayers of the Didache’, in JThS 36 (1935), 259–67; E. Mazza, The Origins of the Eucharistic Prayer (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1995), 17–30; M. Slee, The Church in Antioch in the First Century CE, JSNTS 244 (London / New York: Sheffield Academic, 2003), 58; J. Schwiebert, Knowledge and the Coming Kingdom, LNTS 373 (London / New York: T&T Clark, 2008), 116–21. Gibbins already had argued that the prayers come from a Jerusalem setting during the years 30–70 C.E.; see H. J. Gibbins, ‘The Problem of the Liturgical Sections of the Didache’, in JThS 36 (1935), 373–86. 14  See the varying positions of F. E. Vokes, The Riddle of the Didache (London: SPCK; New York: Macmillan, 1938), 179–82, 185–6, 192, 203; A. Vööbus, Liturgical Traditions in the Didache (Stockholm: PETSE, 1968), 168; Draper, ‘Ritual Process’, 138–43; M. Klinghardt, Gemeinschaftsmahl und Mahlgemeinschaft. Soziologie und Liturgie frühchristlicher Mahlfei-

34

Clayton N. Jefford

Otherwise, one is hard pressed to believe that the words of the Didache would ever have found general acceptance within a non-messianic branch of Judaism, considering their focus on the name of Jesus, reference to a select assembly of the ancient ἐκκλησία and the concluding messianic context of the final μαραναθα proclamation. Such elements inevitably suggest some type of messianic community, even if limited in its theological development. At the same time the prayers reside within the Didache without apparent alteration in form. This is to say that there is no clear attempt to remove the loose Jewish structure of the prayers, elevate their theology into a higher christological confession, or intermesh their elements with the so-called ‘words of institution’ widely associated with liturgical tradition by early Christians. The prayers are recognized by the Didachist as essential, whole units of the liturgical tradition. I would agree that they may not have arrived together into the text, an observation already raised by various scholars over the years who argue about whether one prayer is older than the next. But as a final collation of two independent prayers, they serve an interdependent function within the mind of the author. They are in fact a part of the received tradition behind the text, even if their origins remain vague.15 2. As Structure In a formal sense the Didache opens with a two ways sequence in chapters 1–5, otherwise reflected variously throughout late Jewish and early Christian literature, which itself is completed in chapter 6 with a call to avoid strictly any teachers who do not offer similar instruction.16 These injunctions are followed by community instructions in chapters 6–10 – regulations concerning which foods may be eaten, how new members should be baptized, the manner in which fasts should be observed, and the correct form of prayer, including the two eucharistic prayers of chapters 9–10 that stand as the culmination of the section. Thereafter in chapters 11–12 the text gives regulatory instructions about how to receive apostles and prophets from outside the community, the correct manner by which ern, TANZ 13 (Tübingen / Basel: Francke, 1996), 418–27; Van de Sandt and Flusser, Didache, 313–29; Milavec, Didache, 416–21; G. Rouwhorst, ‘Identität durch Gebet. Gebetstexte als Zeugen eines jahrhundertelangen Ringens um Kontinuität und Differenz zwischen Judentum und Christentum’, in A. Gerhards, A. Doeker, and P. Ebenbauer (eds.), Identität durch Gebet (Paderborn / München / Wien: Schöningh, 2003), 51; C. Claussen, ‘The Eucharist in the Gospel of John and in the Didache’, in A. F. Gregory and C. M. Tuckett (eds.), Trajectories through the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 144–51. 15  Taussig believes that the call to gather the “broken bread scattered on the mountains” in 9.4 is meant as the open inclusion of non-Jews into the community, but this is not necessarily obvious in the light of the Jewish diaspora; so H. Taussig, In the Beginning Was the Meal (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009), 48, 212 n. 87. 16  This holds true both in Codex Hierosolymitanus 54 and the Doctrina apostolorum.



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

35

to observe days of worship, and the process by which bishops and deacons are to be appointed. This third portion is concluded with specific directions by which community correction is to be undertaken. Finally, the writing ends in chapter 16 with apocalyptic teachings typical of other early Christian literature. Though scholars offer minor variations in their understanding of the structure of the Didache, most would agree on these basic divisions. In consideration of this organization, one must question whether the eucharistic prayers appear only as a haphazard element within the framework. On the one hand, a person may envisage their role within the sequence to be little more than an assignment to a certain set of instructions within a community handbook and thus not of particular significance. At the same time, the prayers certainly may stand at a meaningful juncture within the text, a moment that reflects their role within a larger liturgical moment during the process of a catechumen’s baptismal ritual.17 In either scenario it is clear that the Didachist foresees the prayers to be an integral part of the community’s liturgical experience (if not necessarily of the construction of the text itself) and thus they are preserved as an essential component of that understanding.

III. Mainstream or Unique? Because the prayers are rather distinctive within Christian literature, even though they show general elements of Jewish tradition, the question arises as to whether they were ever intended to reflect a singular trajectory of liturgical practices or are instead simply the component elements of a larger, more widely recognized development. If the former is true, then the community itself was unique in certain respects and likely subsumed into larger ecclesiastical tradition over time. If the latter is true, then one here witnesses a practice enjoyed by a local community or cluster of communities as part of mainstream tradition, something typical of many Christian liturgical practices even today when not heavily stylized by the dictates of hierarchical oversight. We will return to this question below.

17  At least this is the assumption of S. G. Hall, Doctrine and Practice in the Early Church (London: SPCK, 1991), 15–16; Draper, ‘Ritual Process’; Idem, ‘A Continuing Enigma: the “Yoke of the Lord” in Didache 6.2–3 and Early Jewish-Christian Relations’, in P. J. Tomson and D. Lambers-Petry (eds.), The Image of the Judaeo-Christians in Ancient Jewish and Christian Literature, WUNT 1.158 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 106–23; Van de Sandt and Flusser, Didache, 275–9 (specifically of proselytes); Milavec, Didache, 232–3; O’Loughlin, Didache, 46–65. One must be careful, however, not to base this assumption on how these materials are employed by the author of the fourth-century Apostolic Constitutions 7.28.4–6; so Schwiebert, Knowledge, 198.

36

Clayton N. Jefford

1. Mainstream There is little question that the primary form of the eucharistic tradition within the ancient church setting was that which preserved the so–called words of institution associated with the actions of Jesus of Nazareth. These are preserved in four different texts, including all the Synoptic Gospels and 1 Corinthians.18 There are variations among the texts that deserve note. One observes, for example, that Paul gives no indication that the occasion was the celebration of Passover (unlike the Synoptics). Also, if one were to include the words about eating the flesh and drinking the blood of the Son of man preserved in John 6:53–7, then one might have a separate witness to this non-Passover tradition. Further, if this is indeed a Passover meal, Mark (followed closely by Matthew) seems to have no clear idea that the meal should begin with a blessing over the cup before offering the same over the bread, having these elements in reverse. Luke, however, is indeed aware of this Passover connection and has combined the elements of Mark’s cup tradition together with that of Paul to provide a series of cup–bread–cup that makes the meal more acceptable as a Seder meal in Jewish eyes.19 Yet there is no direct relevancy for the ritual of the Didache in this matter, since the text does not contain such words of institution. If one were to see the situation in reverse, neither do the traditions of the New Testament preserve the witness of prayers that should be said over the words of institution, though one does observe that Mark (again followed closely by Matthew) concludes the eucharistic event with the singing of a hymn (Mark 14:26; Matt 26:30). To most ways of thinking, the form of eucharistic celebration known from the New Testament (though varying in slight detail) is viewed as the primary liturgical practice of the ancient church. This is confirmed for later theologians by its presence in the scripture; this is justified for historians by its continued practice within the contemporary tradition. 2. Unique The usual way to address the prayers of the Didache with respect to standard eucharistic tradition then has been to offer one of two options. Neither of these is especially palatable. The older, more traditional approach has been to deny that such prayers were ever intended for use within the context of the Eucharist event and thus 18  For a context in which meals were celebrated in the Jesus movement generally, see D. E. Smith and H. E. Taussig, Many Tables (London: SCM; Philadelphia: Trinity, 1990), 48–66. 19  Taussig (Meal, 42) notes the significance of the wine portion of the meal as “the basic “food” element of the symposium,” indicating the Didache to be among those rituals that recognize this reality. For an exhaustive consideration of the cup and bread, libation and blessing in the mind of the Didachist, see Klinghardt, Gemeinschaftsmahl, 373–488. Cf. also A. McGowan, Ascetic Eucharists, OECS (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 21–4.



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

37

are better suited to what has been called an agape meal. This is seen by many scholars as something of an alternative ritual practiced among early Christians. The foundations for such a ritual are not solid, nor is there sufficient evidence in the literature to describe such an event. Scholars have thus generally come to reject this notion of the prayers of Didache 9–10 as a worthy representation of such a liturgical event.20 The second, perhaps less popular, way to view these prayers is to argue that they were spoken during the course of the Eucharist together with the words of institution themselves.21 This is certainly possible but begs the question on two important issues. The first is that the prayer theology in the Didache indicates none of the cross and sacrificial elements traditionally linked with the Eucharist as echoed in the New Testament and followed by later tradition. The second is that if such an association were indeed made in the early church, no literary record remains to indicate the extent to which the practice would have been employed. One thus has an argument from silence based on the assumption that some prayers must have been offered at the earliest performance of the Eucharist and that the Didache, providing such prayers, must preserve representative samples of this practice. 3. Resolution This leaves one with an unresolved situation for the prayers. They are not present within mainline practices of the Eucharist, nor do they share either the context or theology of those traditions. 22 Furthermore, these traditions do not recognize the need for specified prayers associated with the words of institution. It is true that modern performances of the ritual contain prayers developed from subse-

20  See especially here E. Peterson, ‘Über einige Probleme der Didache-Überlieferung’, in Idem, Frühkirche, Judentum und Gnosis (Rome / Freiburg / Vienna: Herder, 1959), 146–82; Betz, ‘Eucharist’; Mazza, ‘Elements’, 285–7; Niederwimmer, Didache, 141–3; C. N. Jefford, The Sayings of Jesus in the Teachings of the Twelve Apostles, SVigChr 11 (Leiden: Brill, 1989), 139–40. See more recent and later discussions that envisage the ritual of the Didache as a related yet distinctive process within eucharistic practice; thus G. Schöllgen and W. Geerlings (eds.), Didache – Zwölf-Apostel-Lehre; Traditio Apostolica – Apostolische Überlieferung, FC 1 (Freiburg: Herder, 1991), 51–4; K. C. Felmy, ‘“Was unterscheidet diese Nacht von allen anderen Nächten?” Die Funktion des Stiftungsberichtes in der urchristlichen Eucharistiefeier nach Didache 9f und dem Zeugnis Justins’, in JLH 27 (1993), 1–15. 21 Jefford, Sayings, 140; E. LaVerdiere, The Eucharist in the New Testament and the Early Church (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1996), 128–47. 22  Though here one must consider the view of Claussen, who believes that the Didache and Gospel of John derive from “the same liturgical tradition.” Yet after his analysis of Didache 9–10 in the light of John 6 and 17, even he admits that, “Although there is a rather large number of verbal parallels…they are not close enough to allow a conclusion of textual dependence in one or the other direction”; so Claussen, ‘Eucharist’, 162–3.

38

Clayton N. Jefford

quent tradition, but they do not preserve the elements of the wording from the Didache itself. In result one is left with the more important question of whether contemporary eucharistic practices reflect the early Christian situation or instead only replicate the framework of the ancient context. May one envision a foundational framework in which the Didache preserves the living words of a working tradition that was typical of many (if not all) ancient faith communities, even if those words were not preserved in later practice? This must certainly be a proposal to consider.23

IV. Elements of the Didache Community 1. The Suggestion of Aaron Milavec In his 2003 commentary on the Didache, Aaron Milavec proposes that the text represents a system of training on the ‘way of God’ that was both prominent and widespread among early Christians.24 Though he offers only limited supporting evidence from literature of the period to support the widespread use of this tradition, in my opinion he correctly stresses that the Didache reflects a typical synagogue style of community focused on rule by elders. Following the work of J.T. Burtchaell, he observes that the community of the Didache likely functioned in the same way as other dissident groups. When they broke away from the local synagogue, they created a system of governance making use of ‘elders,’ but the titles for this office gradually changed. ‘Synagogue’ was replaced by ‘church’ (ekklēsia)—both terms originally referring to the assembly itself and only later being applied to the place of the assembly … ‘Elder’ was replaced by ‘bishop.’ ‘Assistant’ (chazzan) was replaced by ‘deacon’ (diakonos) …  .25 23 

See McGowan, Ascetic Eucharists, 21–4. See references in Mark 8:27 and 10:52 (“in the way”), as well as 12:14 (“the way of God”). 25  Milavec, Didache, 595; see J. T. Burtchaell, From Synagogue to Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 225, 317. Philip Harland notes ‘crossovers’ in language of leadership between Greek and Roman associations and Christian congregations, which presumably holds true for congregations and synagogues as well. He classifies these last two as minority cultural groups “due to their shared monotheism (and devotion to the same God) in a polytheistic culture”; see P. A. Harland, Associations, Synagogues, and Congregations (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 182. He notes further that contemporaries viewed both congregations and synagogues as assemblies in many cases (211–12), as with Lucian of Samosata’s characterization of Peregrinus as leader of a “cult society [θιασάρχης]” and Christianity itself as a “new initiation rite [καινὴν ταύτην τελετήν]” (Passing of Peregrinus 11), while Celsus called Christians “members of a cult society [θιασῶται]” and a secret “association koinōnias]” (Origen, Against Celsus 3.23; 8.17). Finally, Harland says, “The shared language of identity and the comparison between such groups is not surprising since congregations and synagogues were, like the local devotees of Zeus or Dionysus or the guild of purple-dyers, relatively small, unofficial groups that assembled regularly to socialize, share communal meals, and honor both their earthly and their divine benefactors” (212). 24 



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

39

While one need not agree with Milavec’s project itself in which he identifies the entirety of the Didache as a single, unified model for training members into the community (too much of the text is clearly written for those already well familiar with the traditions) and might debate the specifics of how administrative titles were shifted in such a process, his emphasis on connections between the Didache and systems of synagogue governance as an ideal for how the Didachist’s community became structured certainly should be applauded. There is little debate among scholars that what is featured within the Didache is in some sense a synagogue model of structure. So too the prayers of chapters 9–10 may be identified as Jewish constructions in a sense, as seen above. But these are not rabbinic prayers. They are modified petitions, messianic in tone and expectation. The motif of anticipation is evident and the concern for eschatological presence permeates the wording of both prayers. Many of these elements reflect those of the so-called Lord’s Prayer from 8.2: the reference to “our Father,” ingathering of “broken bread,” “holy name,” and repetition of the blessing of “the power and glory forever.” There is nothing specifically Christian about the Lord’s Prayer itself, of course. It too, like the prayers of chapters 9–10, could have been readily recited by a faithful Jewish Christian audience in expectation of the return of Christ. 2. The Suggestion of Dietrich-Alex Koch In 2007 Dietrich-Alex Koch read a paper on the prayers of the Didache at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in San Diego that he ultimately published the next year in German and then again with revisions in 2010 in English.26 In the course of his discussion about the meal to which the prayers related, he stresses that there was both a literal meal and ritual meal that served as the focus of the liturgical moment.27 He finds the foundation for this understanding in his exploration of the apostle Paul’s situation at Corinth, naming the liturgical experience of 1 Corinthians 10–11 as Paul’s effort to correct the Corinthian community’s understanding of the Eucharist. For Paul, the association with the Lord’s cross and resurrection, together with the prayers of praise found there, defines the boundaries of how the liturgy itself was conducted. There was first the so-called agape portion of the meal in which all were invited to take a portion, followed by the deipnon aspect of the meal in which only those who were believers in the faith participated. 26  D. A. Koch, ‘Die eucharistischen Gebete von Didache 9 und 10 und das Rätsel von ­ idache 10:6’, in R. Buitenwerf, H. W. Hollander, and J. Tromp (eds.), Jesus, Paul and Early D Christianity. Studies in Honour of Henk Jan de Jonge, NT.S 130 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 195–211; later in English as ‘Eucharistic Meal and Eucharistic Prayers in Didache 9 and 10’, in StTh 64 (2010), 77–96. 27  Compare Draper, ‘Ritual Process’.

40

Clayton N. Jefford

Koch observes that the prayers of the Didache share no such death or dying theology, and are not words of praise but are instead offerings of thanksgiving. These are important distinctions, since they serve to separate the ritual that Paul endorsed and such prayers as are featured by the Didachist. He continues onward to endorse the position of Jonathan Draper that subsequently “[t]he simplest solution is that the words of Institution were not known or not in use in the community of the Didache.”28 I am very much now in sympathy with this observation as stated both by Draper and Koch. But in the case of the Corinthians there remains a question that is rarely asked: so what was the custom that the Corinthians were following before Paul introduced the narrative of institution as the standard for their ritual practices? While commentators traditionally assume that Paul was simply correcting the process of the meal in which the Corinthians had ‘gone astray,’29 is it not much more likely that he is inserting what for them was an entirely novel way by which to understand the tradition of the meal with its focus on the words of institution?30 This seems an intriguing question that speaks to the matter of the most primitive aspects of the pre-Pauline Christian tradition, a world about which little is known beyond mere speculation. Can one find some hint of this tradition and the mindset of its communities within the Didache itself? Again, we shall return to this question below. 3. The Suggestion of Dennis Smith Dennis Smith offers further food for thought about the nature of ancient Christian eucharistic traditions that appear to complement the suggestions of Koch. In his own model, Smith envisages “that all special usages of meals draw from the same common tradition, the tradition of the banquet.”31 The structure of this progression includes the deipnon portion of the banquet,32 featuring the ‘dinner course’ or meal proper, followed by the symposium portion that features 28 Koch, ‘Eucharistic Meal’, 96 n. 39, citing Draper, ‘Ritual Process’, 148.

29  See, e.g., H. Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975), 195; C. H. Talbert, Reading Corinthians (New York: Crossroad, 1987), 73; G. T. Montague, First Corinthians, Catholic Commentary on Sacred Scripture (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2011), 190–3. 30 Supported already by H. Lietzmann, Mass and Lord’s Supper (Leiden: Brill, 1955), 207–8, who had argued in 1926 that the Corinthians had reverted to an older type of celebration originally observed in Jerusalem and unrelated to the redemptive meaning of Jesus’ death. Cf. Klinghardt, Gemeinschaftsmahl, 276–81. 31  D. E. Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 3. Smith believes such occasions were typical of the dining room in individual homes originally, a scenario that would have been an appropriate venue for the instruction of prophets who wished to speak to the community, as is suggested by the Didachist at 13.1; so Taussig, Meal, 43. 32  Taussig (Meal, 46) sees the instructions to give thanks for the bread in Didache 9 as a reference to the deipnon part of the meal, but no such clear reference appears within that context.



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

41

the ‘entertainment’ aspect or, in the case of religious and ceremonial festivities, the ‘boundary-defining practices’ of the community. As Smith reads the texts of ­Galatians (2:11–14) and 1 Corinthians (11:20–22, 33–34a), he argues that “meals at Antioch and Corinth represent the same basic meal tradition” and that “we may assume that similar meal practices would have been common at other Pauline churches, including especially Galatia and Rome.”33 Two aspects of this claim are especially intriguing here. The first is that the ancient Eucharist, at least as Smith sees the situation, involved two meal segments based on the formal structure of the culturally-acceptable banquet tradition. The first portion was the actual consumption of the meal proper while the latter was the more celebratory component. The second aspect is the acknowledgment that such early Christian meals were no doubt widely practiced according to these same general guidelines regardless of the occasion of whether they derived from Jewish or non-Jewish roots. This was simply the socio-cultural norm of the time and thus the likely framework for celebrations. The question that results is whether the symposium portion of the early Christian Eucharist always carried the metanarrative containing the words of institution and its association with the Passover meal featured by the Synoptics and Paul. If so, then the narrative Paul offered in 1 Corinthians likely assumed the Passover connection (to which he never specifically alluded). Otherwise he took an aberrational approach to the tradition if he did not make such an association. In the case of John 6, neither the narrative nor the Passover context is apparent, which places that gospel’s tradition outside the framework altogether. As with the situation of the Johannine tradition, the same may be said of the Didache: no words of institution means no Passover association.34 33 Smith, Symposium, 174; Smith and Taussig, Many Tables, 58–66. Smith envisages this in a house-church setting with limited participants, but it is equally plausible that such meals were conducted in rented tenements or within traditional association venues. For literary evidence of the latter from Attica, central Greece, Macedonia, and Thrace, see J. S. Kloppenborg and R. S. Ascough, Greco-Roman Associations, I: Attica, Central Greece, Macedonia, Thrace, BZNW 181 (Berlin / New York: de Gruyter, 2011). Several terms found in association contexts appear in the Didache, as for example, “father” (πατήρ; Did. 1.5; 8.2; 9.2–3; 10.2), “dogma” (δόγμα; Did. 11.3), “assembly” (ἐκκλησία; Did. 4.14; 9.4; 10.5; 11.11), “sacrifice” (θυσία; Did. 14.1, 3), “render service” (λειτουργία; Did. 15.1), “mystery” (μυστήρια; Did. 11.11), and “thanks/ credit” (χάρις; Did. 1.3; 10.6); see ‘Indexes’, 423–68. But since these reflect general usage in synagogue and early ecclesiastical contexts as well, they do not suggest any specific connection between the Didache and ancient cultic associations. 34  Smith and Taussig (Many Tables, 66–7) emphasize what has already become widely recognized about the Eucharist in the Didache, that it “is distinctive in many respects,” not least of which is that “it emphasized the social bonding of the community through the sharing of wine and bread and connected with it a hope and longing for a joyous eternal destiny with God.” There is “no apparent reference to the death of Jesus nor to a last meal tradition” within, thus removing the Didache from a trajectory of death that came to dominate subsequent practices of the ritual. In support, see Claussen, ‘Eucharist’, 155; H.-W. Kuhn, ‘The Qumran Meal and the Lord’s Supper in Paul in the Context of the Graeco-Roman World’, in A. Christophersen,

42

Clayton N. Jefford

But if the situation was otherwise within the early church, that is, that the Eucharist was not always conducted with the narrative in force or with a Passover connection, then Paul’s witness may as likely attest to a broadly observed form of the Eucharist that was known and employed apart from the more broadly practiced Passover tradition. Both John and the Didache would thus demonstrate evidence of scattered practices that observed neither the words of institution nor the Passover connection. Could this not have been the situation at Corinth prior to Paul’s directives in 1 Corinthians? Was Corinth actually a community that was perhaps better ‘watered by Apollos’35 in a tradition strange to Paul than secure in a liturgical practice the apostle preferred? 4. The Suggestion of Jonathan Schwiebert In his published dissertation of 2008, Jonathan Schwiebert offers further details for consideration. He blends ritual theory and historical context into a methodology by which to define the community of the Didache specifically by its prayer tradition. In conclusion he observes “that the eucharistic tradition attested in the Didache had some currency in certain regions, apart from its use within the Didache itself” and that it “left traces in … fragments from the pre-Constantinian period” in the documents that have survived.36 As to the former point, Schwiebert finds vestiges of similar prayer usage in Syria and Egypt, Smyrna, Asia Minor, and even Rome. As to the latter point, Barnabas, 1 Clement, Luke-Acts, the writings of Clement of Alexandria, and Justin Martyr all bear witness. Yet as he observes, “[l]iturgical reforms sweeping through post-Constantinian orthodoxy led gradually to a more uniform eucharistic practice throughout the empire.”37 Most interesting for the moment are two essential elements that Schwiebert indicates as symptomatic of the community by virtue of the prayers themselves. The first of these features includes traditional Jewish elements: thanksgiving as occasion for religious or group significance; precedence of the cup over the bread; shorter form of doxology; petition to be gathered into the kingdom from distant lands; and Hebrew/Aramaic acclamations behind the terms preserved by the Greek ὡσαννά, ἀμήν, and μαραναθα in 10.6.38 The second is the nature of “what has been made known” (9.2) to the community. The content of this revelation is likely the two ways convention at the opening of the text, perhaps associated with C. Claussen, J. Frey, and B. Longenecker (eds.), Paul, Luke and the Graeco-Roman World, JSNTS 217 (London: Sheffield Academic, 2002), 237 n. 57. 35  1 Cor 3:5. 36 Schwiebert, Knowledge, 247. 37  Ibid., 249. The reasoning behind this uniformity of liturgical practice undoubtedly finds its roots in standardization of doctrine through the post-Constantinian church; so Hall, Doctrine, 244–5. 38 Schwiebert, Knowledge, 114–16.



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

43

the eschatological tradition of chapter 16.39 But also to be included here is a large composite of the teachings of Jesus associated with the hypothetical Q source, as well as the interpretive traditions of John and the Gospel of Thomas.40 The resulting community valued both ‘knowledge and the coming kingdom.’ As Schwiebert observes, “[t]hese points of compatibility are sufficient to establish that the Didache’s prayers are at home in the milieu of the sayings of Jesus.”41 He continues to note that … the fundamental compatibility between the prayers and the sayings preserved in these early collections casts considerable doubt on the notion that Jesus’ sayings were transmitted in a ritual-free school setting. Rather, the meal ritual, generically common to all known Jesus groups, also had a role in these circles, fostering a distinctive communal ethos and focusing attention on what was central and thus constitutive for these followers of Jesus: his sayings.42

Schwiebert ultimately envisages that the prayers are indicative of a community that treasured the sayings of Jesus within a formal, catechetical context. These sayings can be associated with the two ways tradition and similar clusters of teachings attributed to Jesus of Nazareth both in canonical and non-canonical collections of aphorisms. Yet as he admits, such efforts were widely practiced among first-century Christians without particular geographical distinction.43

V. Summary and Analysis of Suggestions Using the conclusions of Milavec, Koch, Smith, and Schwiebert as suggestive of the early Christian eucharistic situation behind the Didache, the following observations may be offered. On the one hand, at least the traditions behind the formation of the Didache that include the prayers of thanksgiving were likely widespread among various Christian communities and not unique to that of the Didachist. They are thus a mirror and not a new formation. At the same time they likely were mainstream and not unique. This is an important distinction, since this places the text within a broader range of ancient perspectives and practices. 39  Balabanski as much as suggests this in her acknowledgment that “eschatological material came to be used in the interests of ethical and paraenetical concerns as a motivating force,” which is clearly the implication of Didache 1–6; so Balabanski, Eschatology, 202. She draws this conclusion from the argument of O. Knoch, ‘Kenntnis und Verwendung des Matthäus­ evangeliums bei den Apostolischen Vätern’, in L. Schenke (ed.), Studien zum Matthäusevangelium. FS Wilhelm Pesch (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1988), 157–78. 40 Schwiebert, Knowledge, 113–47. 41  Ibid., 146. 42  Ibid., 147. 43  Taussig likewise observes: “The Didache, in contrast to the letters of Paul and others, seems to have targeted not one particular community but rather a larger set of such communities” (Taussig, Meal, 37).

44

Clayton N. Jefford

The outlook is primarily eschatological in attitude and Jewish in tone; the practices neither assume a meal associated with a Passover narrative nor the symbols of cross and resurrection. The eschatological Jewish context is not surprising if the traditions are quite old, but only if attributed to the second century. The former view is favored here. The missing association with Passover and crucifixion elements may be unanticipated, but not if one aligns the two traditions appropriately. It is unnecessary to say that the Passover and crucifixion elements were original and that the Didache alone chose to deviate from this emphasis or simply did not know them. More likely, early Christians knew the Eucharist in two basic traditions, one of which featured crucifixion and Passover elements (thus, the Synoptics and in some respect Paul) and one of which featured an eschatological meal, sometimes including prayers of thanksgiving (thus, the Didache and in some respect the Gospel of John).44 The tradition is thus most likely divided at this point, and the community of the Didache that followed the latter trajectory considered itself to be a reflection of the ideal body of believers who, like their counterparts in Acts 2, shared all things in common and awaited the return of the Lord on the clouds.45 They were Jewish in practice, messianic in perspective, eschatological in orientation, and hopeful for the days to come.

VI. Community Support There is more to the story of the Didache, however, as has already been suggested in reference to instructions concerning community life, leadership, and structures of worship. Such concerns are not typical of people who find themselves in conflict with mainstream tradition, in this case messianic Jews who began to worship in a context separated from the synagogue. They are instead a reflection of leaders who recognized the need to put a community into an orderly state resulting from a new context, in this case a generation of believers who were encountering the evolving world of the universal church. The Didache is thus two separate perspectives united in form. The background of its traditions is mainstream according to a particular trajectory of early Christianity. But the choice to address the evolution of the faith in terms of institution and structure is decidedly unique to the extent that the Didachist confronted issues of ecclesiology in a distinctive manner nowhere seen in ancient 44 

See Taussig, Meal, 136–8. view is extrapolated from references in Acts where believers are seen to have sold their possessions and distributed the proceeds to meet the needs of the larger group (cf. 2:44– 45; 4:32), which undoubtedly led to general poverty among the faithful when the parousia was delayed. This may in part have been Paul’s rationale behind the collection of support for the church in Jerusalem (cf. Rom 15:25–31; 1 Cor 16:3), that is, to relieve the impoverishment of the community there. 45  This



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

45

literature. This approach clearly is influenced by the traditions behind Matthew and likely the customs of a common community that went into the formation of that gospel narrative.46 1. Primitive Models But perhaps most importantly, this later stage of the evolution of the Didache reflects a voice both prophetic in tone and administrative in orientation.47 This is the voice of an institution, though admittedly a primitive one. Whether it reflects the perspective of one person alone or a number of leaders remains unclear, but presumably what the text says is intended to be respected by a larger community and is not simply for a literary or fictive audience. In her monumental 1986 study entitled How Institutions Think, Mary Douglas identified several elements of concern that may apply to this situation. Indeed, these may actually be foundational for a serious consideration of the Didache and its community. From the outset one must recognize that institutions confer identity.48 As Douglas observes, “the scientific formulae that emerge always carry the marks of their social origins.”49 Such formulae are clearly evident in the Didache, appearing in such constructs as use of the Decalogue, repetition of the phrase “my child,” use of περὶ δέ constructions to present topics such as food, baptism, thanksgiving prayers, and the approach of apostles and prophets, and Hebrew (or Aramaic) admonitions such as ὡσαννά, ἀμήν, and μαραναθα. The evidence of Jewish tradition and synagogue traditions are thus explicit and scattered throughout. The basic context is Jewish; the institutional background is the synagogue. But other marks permeate the text as well. These are symbols of authority that challenge the synagogue setting. They come in comments like the following: on the matter of bearing the yoke of the Lord, “if you cannot, do what you can” (6.2); on baptism, “if you do not have running water, baptize in some other water; and if you cannot baptize in cold water, then baptize in warm”; and on the performance of ceremonial meals, “allow the prophets to give thanks as they wish” (10.7). This oppositional voice presumes the right to dismiss time-honored cultural and religious restrictions, and implicitly claims authority to instruct others to do the same. 46  In support of this view elsewhere, see Jefford, Teaching; Idem, ‘The Milieu of Matthew, the Didache, and Ignatius of Antioch: Agreements and Differences’, in Van de Sandt, Matthew and the Didache, 35–47; Idem, ‘Social Locators as a Bridge between the Didache and Matthew’, in Gregory and Tuckett, Trajectories, 245–64. 47  See C. N. Jefford, ‘Prophecy and Prophetism in the Apostolic Fathers’, in J. ­Ver­heyden, K. Zamfir, and T. Nicklas (eds.), Prophets and Prophesy in Jewish and Early Christian Literature, WUNT 2.286 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 297–303. 48  M. Douglas, How Institutions Think (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1986), 55–67. 49  Ibid., 56.

46

Clayton N. Jefford

With respect to such remarks, Douglas correctly notes that a “latent social function” is at stake. It is not so important that the prescribed rituals are circumvented but that social solidarity results for those who sidestep these boundaries together.50 The voice is thus paternal for the community, both in terms of its reassurance that a break with tradition is acceptable and with respect to its ability to lead the listener into new realms of belief. The Didachist is prophetic in vision and reassuring in tone. Following the research of Michael Taylor,51 Douglas identifies elements of social transition that explain the presence of this prophetic voice. From the outset social order is essential for collective actions to occur. In the case of the Didache this order is likely provided by synagogue tradition. But as Douglas indicates, “the problem of collective action can best be solved in very small communities because they have few possessions to quarrel about.”52 Thus it seems that whatever the broader social order may be for the traditions behind the Didache, the actual production of the text likely derives from a unique community. The Didache doubtless comes from a singular synagogue setting rather than arising as a text within a larger movement. Yet once social order is realized, there are four ways in which this is maintained, according to Taylor: social control based on threats and offers; use of socialization; set forms of structural character such as “patterns of reciprocity, kinship, and marriage”; and belief in supernatural sanctions “such as fear of witchcraft, sorcery, or punitive ancestors.”53 These four approaches, used in combination rather than separately, are typical of primitive societies and might be expected where they exist. This is an important distinction in the argument about whether the Didache stems from a primitive context or organized ecclesiastical setting. The characteristics indicated by Taylor suggest the former option more likely. Social control is evident throughout as the Didachist identifies people with whom the listener must not associate, including those who do not teach the way of life (6.1; 11.2), hypocrites of fasting and prayer (8.1–2), those not “baptized in the Lord’s name” (9.5), false prophets (11.2, 5–12), and “Christ peddlers [χριστέμποροι]” (12.5). Threats and offers support this approach, as in the promise that those who keep the yoke of the Lord shall be satisfied (6.2), recognition that the community knows truth and falsity in receiving those who come in the name of the Lord (12.1), and threats of the expected return of the Lord (16.1–8). 50  See the comments of Douglas on the studies of Robert K. Merton with regard to the Hopi rain ritual; so Douglas, Institutions, 42–3. 51 Ibid., 25–8; see M. Taylor, Community, Anarchy and Liberty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). 52 Douglas, Institutions, 27. 53 Taylor, Community, 90–4.



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

47

Socialization is also evident within the text as it focuses on the correct way of life (1.1–6.1), appropriate states of worship (14.1–3), and election of leaders (15.1–4). These are disparate items in that they address different elements of ritual prescription. Yet they are distinctly related in that the combination of features holds the ceremonial construction of the community together.54 The forms of this structural character seem to include Taylor’s named pattern of reciprocity, if not explicitly his categories of kinship and marriage. But even here these latter elements might be present in the same sense that the apostle Paul considered the believing community to be the ‘body of Christ’ and described relationships within that body in terms of physicality, especially seen in 1 Corinthians for example. The Didache is nothing if not about relationships within the community and maintenance of those associations. Finally, supernatural sanctions are also evident, sometimes indicated in a subtle way through appeals to scripture (implicitly, passim; explicitly, 14.3) and references to ‘the gospel’ (8.2; 11.3; 15.3–4). But sanctions are immediately obvious in two contexts: the need to pay attention to the return of the Lord (16.1–8) and the eschatological expectation of the prayers of Didache 9–10. Furthermore, the Didache actually warns against the fortuneteller, enchanter, astrologer, and magician (3.4) as those who generate idolatry. Thus the listener is counseled to avoid alternative sources of authority that may mislead. At the same time, it is clear that the Didachist holds the power of prophecy as an authority who can offer such warnings under the spirit of the Lord. 2. Cult, not Church It is thus important to recognize that the vision of the Didachist is essentially that of a singular perspective and thus essentially a cult leader. The author no longer speaks under the purview of the synagogue, which is suggested by a lack of references to the authority of Jewish tradition and structure as the basis for decisions. At the same time the Didachist does not speak with the voice of established ecclesiastical support, once more advocated by a lack of references to evolving literary or institutional models from the end of the first and beginning of the second centuries. Instead, the Didachist seems to stand alone, leader of a primitive community whose foundation is Jewish, whose context is eschatological, whose theology supports new life in the vine Jesus instead of through a cup full of the

54  See also on this topic, Hume, Community, 44–77, in which he frames the early Christian community in terms of friendship arrangements as understood through the philosophical views of Aristotle, Plutarch, Diogenes Laertius, and Iamblichus. Aristotle shows particular concern for reciprocity and hierarchy within societal relationships, including marriage and family life, as evidenced in his Nicomachean Ethics.

48

Clayton N. Jefford

blood of Christ, and who functions as a cultic groundbreaker between the former life of the synagogue and the encroaching existence of the institutional church.55

VII. Conclusions: Ideal and Reality So what does the Didache represent in terms of the early Christian community? From the outset it appears that at least two levels of evolution are to be found within the text: an earlier collection of primitive traditions that includes the prayers of Didache 9–10, and a slightly advanced (though likely not very late) prophetic and organizational perspective that has a vision as to how those traditions may be fashioned for the benefit of a limited community. This understanding provides an answer to all of our initial questions. The earlier level of primitive traditions mirrors earlier first-century prototypes, though these were only loosely organized in the early church setting. The prayers of Didache 9–10 likely represent petitions of thanksgiving commonly used in many places prior to the standardization of the words of institution commonly endorsed by the Synoptics. This level reflects common trends that were widely known. On the one hand, focus on eschatology was typical of the original Christian setting; on the other, Jewish structures and standards provided the foundation for this focus on the return of the Lord. The first level of tradition within the Didache repeats the common wisdom and daily practices of a living community with hope for the future. In a sense, this was the vision of an ideal community of faith. The later perspective of the Didachist that pulled these primitive traditions together indicates the evolving consciousness of an organizer, though not yet the outlook of an established institution. This seems evident by the limited way in which the Didache has been incorporated into later ecclesiastical literature. This perspective is prophetic in its acceptance of the earlier community’s vision of eschatology, but it is organizational in its desire to mold a singular (maybe unique) group of believers into a living body of faith.56 Other examples of such countercultural leaders are known from literature. One need only recall those 55  Perhaps

relevant within the Didache here is the restriction against “abortion” (φθορά), about which IG XII/1 789 offers specific instructions for purification before a celebrant may enter into the cultic ritual of the temple; see Kloppenborg and Ascough, Associations, 271–3. It is unlikely that the Didachist views restrictions beyond traditional Jewish sensitivities here, but it may be fruitful to recognize similar concerns for purification related to non-Jewish cults within second and third-century century C.E. settings. 56  The audience of the Didachist presumably shares the author’s core beliefs to some extent. As Taylor observes: “The first and most basic of these “core” characteristics is that the set of persons who compose a community have beliefs and values in common” (Taylor, Community, 26). Otherwise, the Didache must be viewed as irrelevant to the rise of Christian community expression.



The Didache and Eucharist: Signs of Community?

49

whom ‘Chloe’s people’ reported to Paul were causing division at Corinth (1 Cor 1:11–12), those who “went out from us, but did not belong to us” (1 John 2:19), the obstinate Diotrephes “who likes to put himself first” (3 John 9–10), those who removed the honored presbyters of tradition at Corinth (1 Clem. 21.6; 44.5; 54.2; 57.1), and the presbyter Valens about whom Polycarp spoke to the Philippians (Phil. 11.1). The skewed vision of ecclesiastical history labels all of these persons as troublemakers and schismatics, though they themselves likely saw their actions as the obvious extension of what the faith demanded. We continue to see the product of such efforts in the many cults and movements against which the heresiologists wrote some centuries later.57 But they themselves surely did not see their actions as invalid in any sense. Instead, they simply faced the reality of a changing world and evolving faith. With respect to the Didache, the community that resulted from the circumstances of the later stage of the text was an assembly of people whose leader, the Didachist, was found to be at a moment of crisis. That this person’s authority was supported by a prophetic vision seems obvious. This vision reflects the context of a cult, similar to the circumstances in which many early Christian communities in scattered locations likely found themselves. That this vision had no chance of survival in the face of the onslaught of the institutional church of the late second century likewise seems clear. This vision was individualistic, contextually unique, and obstinate against an institution that soon abandoned its Jewish heritage for a more Hellenistic approach to the nature of religious organizations and cultural practices. The church eventually traded prophetic vision and individual cultic revelation for the stability of unity and organization as endorsed by the larger institution. What the earliest community behind the Didache was (that is, a loosely organized group of Jewish messianic believers with diverse liturgical practices and an eschatological orientation) evolved into a more organized, singular assembly of believers driven by the individual vision of a prophetic cult leader. But none of this was the future of the faith. Instead, organization and conformity won out, and unified liturgical practices, practical daily ethics, and monolithic ecclesiastical strictures on the believer became standard for valid religious perspective. The ideal was sacrificed for the necessities of daily reality; the eschatological future yielded to the practical present. Both the living realities of primitive rituals and the organizational effort of a singular, prophetic, cultic vision were in their essence lost to history.

57  As Douglas observes, such authors represent institutions, which themselves “do the classifying” of what is acceptable (Douglas, Institutions, 91–109).

From Glorious Past to Miserable Present First Clement on the Organisation of the Corinthian Community

Taras Khomych I. Introductory Remarks The question of community formation is a perennial issue in early Christian literature, including the writings of the so-called “Apostolic Fathers,” which constitute a specific focus of this volume. For a number of reasons, the letter of the church at Rome to the church at Corinth, also known as 1 Clement, can claim a special place within this corpus. Being slightly younger than most of the writings that eventually formed the New Testament,1 1 Clement is found in their company in ancient collections.2 This epistel has played an important role in research on the origins of Christian ministry and ecclesial structures.3 The present article will contribute to this scholarship by paying special attention to the temporal aspect (the notions of past and present) which Clement appears to use in his portrayal of the Corinthian community and which so far has not been sufficiently investigated. It will be argued that for Clement the past constitutes the norm or the ideal, which the author contrasts to the present in crucial passages of his writing. In order to appreciate the message of 1 Clement better and to deal with its various interpretations, we need first to address the question of its contents and genre.

1  For a useful summary of discussions on the question of dating, see A. Gregory, ‘Disturbing Trajectories: 1 Clement, the Shepherd of Hermas and the Development of Early Roman Christianity’, in P. Oakes (ed.), Rome in the Bible and the Early Church (Carlisle: Paternoster, 2002), 142–66. Cf. L. L. Welborn, ‘The Date of First Clement’, in BR 29 (1985), 34–54; K. Erle­ mann, ‘Die Datierung des ersten Klemensbriefes – Anfragen an eine communis opinio’, in NTS 44 (1998), 591–607; A. Jaubert, Clément de Rome: Épître aux Corinthiens. Réimpression de la première édition revue et corrigée, SC 167 (Paris: Cerf, 2000), 15–23. 2 Although 1 Clement eventually did not make it into the New Testament, it was included among the canonical books in ancient times, e. g. in the fifth-century Codex Alexandrinus. See H. E. Lona, Der erste Clemensbrief, KAV 2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 109–10. 3  See references in W. Moriarty, ‘1 Clement’s View of Ministerial Appointments in the Early Church’, in VigChr 66 (2012), 115–38.

52

Taras Khomych

II. The Genre and Purpose of First Clement 1 Clement is an extensive epistle written on behalf of the church at Rome to the church at Corinth.4 The unity of style indicates that this text was composed by a single author, whose name, however, does not appear in the letter itself. An ancient Christian tradition ascribes this writing to Clement, a bishop of Rome.5 The occasion of the epistle was a disturbance in the church at Corinth, connected with a turnover in leadership. According to 1 Clement, the local leaders had been illegitimately deposed by a group of rebels, who took control over the church for themselves. In view of this, the author reproves the lack of discipline amongst the Corinthians and calls for peace and harmony within the community. It has often been observed that 1 Clement seems to be too long and too diffuse to pinpoint its purpose on this one clear objective. Its author alludes to the problems in Corinth already at the beginning (1 Clem. 1–3), but the essence of the conflict and concrete instructions of how to solve it are presented only towards the end (see esp. 1 Clem. 40–44). Some scholars even claimed that the author simply had forgotten the original reason for writing his letter!6 More recent scholarship, however, was able to identify some subtle organising principles in 1 Clement. W. Jaeger, for instance, traced the work’s literary and ideological affin­ nnik ities to ancient Greek tradition of political rhetoric.7 Later on, W. C. van U made an influential contribution to the interpretation of 1 Clement by paying special attention to its literary form.8 He pointed out that when compared with the three different kinds of rhetorical speeches – deliberative (συμβουλευτικόν), forensic (δικανικόν) and epideictic (ἐπιδεικτικόν), as described in ancient handbooks, 1 Clement fits best within the framework of the συμβουλευτικόν.9 This

4  “The church of God that sojourns in Rome to the church of God that sojourns in Corinth (Ἡ ἐκκλησία τοῦ θεοῦ ἡ παροικοῦσα ῾Ρώμην τῇ ἐκκλησίᾳ τοῦ θεοῦ τῇ παροικούσῃ Κόρινθον)” (1 Clem. inscr.). In this article the text and English translation of 1 Clement are quoted according to M. W. Holmes, The Apostolic Fathers: Greek Texts and English Translations (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 20073), 44–131. 5  Lona, Clemensbrief, 66. 6 So W. Wrede, Untersuchungen zum Ersten Klemensbriefe (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1891). 7  W. Jaeger, Early Christianity and the Greek Paideia (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1961), 12–26, 113–18. 8  W. C. van Unnik, Studies over de zogenaamde eerste brief van Clemens, I: Het litteraire genre, MNAW.L 33/4 (Amsterdam: Noord-Hollandsche Uitgevers Maatschappij, 1970). ET: W. C. van Unnik, ‘Studies on the So-called First Epistle of Clement: The Literary Genre’, in C. Breytenbach and L. L. Welborn (eds.), Encounters with Hellenism: Studies on the First Letter of Clement, AGJU 53 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 115–81. 9  Van Unnik, ‘Studies’, 151–63.



From Glorious Past to Miserable Present: First Clement

53

type of rhetoric was used with an aim of persuading the addressee.10 Van Unnik observed that the letter seems to be a “counsel” or “advice” (συμβουλή) to resolve the “revolt” (στάσις)11 and a “plea for peace and concord” (ἔντευξις περὶ εἰρήνης καὶ ὁμονοίας)12 in the community. He demonstrated that 1 Clement exhibits all of the major characteristics of συμβουλευτικόν and needs to be interpreted against the background of this type of literature.13 This identification of the genre of the letter pointed the direction for much of the subsequent research on 1 Clement.14 Within this growing body of literature, however, there remains a little yet not insignificant problem – Clement’s use of the category of time. When Aristotle outlines the major characteristics of the rhetorical genres, he indicates that each of them operates within a specific time frame. He points out that the future is a key feature of the deliberative speech.15 Advice, obviously, has to do mainly with the future, since it is impossible to give advice that would affect the past. Accordingly, O. M. Bakke notes “an abundant use of the hortatory subjunctive, which … implies either advice or dissuasion concerning a particular course of action in the future,” as well as many imperative statements, which provide further evidence to the author’s interest in the future.16 At the same time, Bakke points out that in the letter there are also some elements of the past and present time, including several examples “used as means of persuading the audience to follow the proposed course of action.”17 These aspects are in agreement with the provisions of the ancient authors, who envisaged a limited use of present18 and past19 for the purposes of the deliberative rhetoric. Bakke concludes his analysis of the tense aspect by stating that Clement’s use of time fits best the requirements of deliberative rhetoric. This analysis, however, lacks 10  Van Unnik relies here especially on Aristotle’s Rhet. (book 1) and on Quintilian’s Inst. (book 3). 11  1 Clem. 57.1–58.2. 12  1 Clem. 63.2. 13  For a more detailed analysis of Clement’s language and style, see Lona, Clemensbrief, 30–40. 14  See B. E. Bowe, A Church in Crisis: Ecclesiology and Paraenesis in Clement of Rome, HDR 23 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1988). One of the most penetrating rhetorical studies of 1 Clement, interpreting the letter consistently from the background of deliberative rhetoric, is O. M. Bakke, Concord and Peace: A Rhetorical Analysis of the First Letter of Clement with an Emphasis on the Language of Unity and Sedition, WUNT 2.143 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001). 15 Aristotle, Rhet. 1.3.4. 16  Bakke, Concord and Peace, 37. 17  Ibid., 38. 18 Aristotle, Rhet. 1.8.7. 19  “The deliberative department of oratory (also called the advisory department), while it deliberates about the future, also enquires about the past … (Ergo pars deliberativa, quae eadem suasoria dicitur, de tempore futuro consultans quaerit etiam de praeterito …)” (Quintilian, Inst. 3.8.6). The Latin text and its English translation are quoted from H. E. Butler (ed.), Quintilian. Institutio Oratoria. Books I-III, LCL 124 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1920), 480–3.

54

Taras Khomych

a more systematic engagement with the text. In particular, it does not pay sufficient attention to the use and function of the past and present, which provide not only static examples but appear as dynamic images set out next to each other. This interest in the aspect of time is also evidenced from the overall structure of the text. 1 Clement can be divided into two parts. The first one, up to chapter 39, presents the cause for the writing and offers different examples. In this way the audience is prepared to accept the major argument, which is stated in the second part, covering chapters 40 to 65.20 It is worth noting that each of these parts begins with a reference to the past, which is presented as an ideal or a norm.

III. Glorious Past versus Miserable Present of the Community Bakke correctly points out that in the captatio benevolentiae (1.2–2.8) Clement consistently employs the past tense, presenting a laudable image of the Corinthian community. It is worth quoting this text, which provides also some insights in the life of the community. At first the author praises the virtues of the Corinthians, listing masterly four rhetorical questions: For has anyone ever visited you who did not approve your most excellent and steadfast faith? Who did not admire your sober and magnanimous piety in Christ? Who did not proclaim the magnificent character of your hospitality? Who did not congratulate you on your complete and sound knowledge?21

This section, and the rest of the passage through the end of chapter 2, reflects an image of the ideal Christian community.22 This does not mean, however, that this image has nothing to do with reality. Corinth was an important seaport. As such it probably had good facilities for receiving travellers, and Christians most probably used these facilities to extend their hospitality to visitors.23 This sort of information about the Corinthian church would have easily been available in Rome.24 The author probably adapted it for the purpose of his letter. 20 See Bakke, Concord and Peace, 205–7.

21 τίς γὰρ παρεπιδημήσας πρὸς ὑμᾶς τὴν πανάρετον καὶ βεβαίαν ὑμῶν πίστιν οὐκ ἐδοκίμασεν; τήν τε σώφρονα καὶ ἐπιεικῆ ἐν Χριστῷ εὐσέβειαν οὐκ ἐθαύμασεν; καὶ τὸ μεγαλοπρεπὲς τῆς φιλοξενίας ὑμῶν ἦθος οὐκ ἐκήρυξεν; καὶ τὴν τελείαν καὶ ἀσφαλῆ γνῶσιν οὐκ ἐμακάρισεν; (1 Clem. 1.2). 22  A. von Harnack, Einführung in die alte Kirchengeschichte (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1929), 105. 23  Lona, Clemensbrief, 122. 24 There were most probably close links between Christians in Corinth and in Rome. Paul’s letter to the Romans contains precious evidence of vivid contacts between a Christian community at Corinth and at Rome. While staying at Corinth on his third journey, Paul writes to the church at Rome and, at the end of this epistle, he commends Phoebe, a deaconess of the church at Cenchreae (Rom 16:1–2), and mentions several other details, testifying to the



From Glorious Past to Miserable Present: First Clement

55

Having praised the virtues of the Corinthians, the author goes on to mention instances of exemplary relationships between different members of the community. At this point he refers to four categories of people within the Corinthian community: leaders, elders / presbyters, young people and women. Interestingly, these groups are not addressed separately. The readers would probably not identify themselves with only one of these groups, but would have at least something to do with each of them. The author addresses his audience using the second person plural and in this way reaches out to the entire congregation and presents the various tasks of the community members with respect to a particular group.25 Thus, the author describes how ideal relationships between members should look like. From this description we get an insight into the general structure of the community and the forms of relationship between its various groups. This passage runs as follows: For you did everything without partiality, and you lived in accordance with the laws of God, submitting yourselves to your leaders and giving to the older men / presbyters among you the honor due to them. You instructed the young people to think temperate and proper thoughts; you charged the women to perform all their duties with a blameless, reverent, and pure conscience, cherishing their own husbands, as is right; and you taught them to abide by the rule of obedience, and to manage the affairs of their household with dignity and all discretion.26

Two observations are important in this respect. First, the author begins with mentioning the responsibilities of the community members towards the first two groups (leaders and presbyters) and then points to the tasks and profile assigned to the other two (young men and women). Second, the responsibilities / tasks mentioned there fit well into (Roman) household mores of the time.27 There is nothing specifically Christian in this passage. This feature comes forward more clearly in chapter 21 (vv. 6–8), which lists the same groups of people in the same order, adding also children at the end. Further on the author extends his praises, referring to the community as a whole. It is worth observing that in this entire section (more precisely in 1.3–2.8) Clement uses predominantly verbs in the imperfect tense, which clearly refers to dynamic relations between Christians in both cities. 1 Clement provides yet further evidence of such relations. 25 Cf. Lona, Clemensbrief, 123. 26 ἀπροσωπολήμπτως γὰρ πάντα ἐποιεῖτε, καὶ ἐν τοῖς νομίμοις τοῦ θεοῦ ἐπορεύεσθε, ὑποτασσόμενοι τοῖς ἡγουμένοις ὑμῶν καὶ τιμὴν τὴν καθήκουσαν ἀπονέμοντες τοῖς παρ᾽ ὑμῖν πρεσβυτέροις· νέοις τε μέτρια καὶ σεμνὰ νοεῖν ἐπετρέπετε· γυναιξίν τε ἐν ἀμώμῳ καὶ σεμνῇ καὶ ἁγνῇ συνειδήσει πάντα ἐπιτελεῖν παρηγγέλλετε, στεργούσας καθηκόντως τοὺς ἄνδρας ἑαυτῶν· ἔν τε τῷ κανόνι τῆς ὑποταγῆς ὑπαρχούσας τὰ κατὰ τὸν οἶκον σεμνῶς οἰκουργεῖν ἐδιδάσκετε, πάνυ σωφρονούσας (1 Clem. 1.3). 27  Cf. H. O. Maier, The Social Setting of the Ministry as Reflected in the Writings of ­Hermas, Clement and Ignatius, Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion, Dissertations Series 1 (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier, 1991), 107.

56

Taras Khomych

the past. The use of the pluperfect (ἐγέγραπτο) at the very end28 seals up, as it were, the past tense frame of this passage. This elaborate presentation of the past is clearly contrasted to the current situation, as the author presents it in chapter 3. It begins as follows: “All glory and growth were given to you, and then that which is written was fulfilled: ‘My beloved ate and drank and was enlarged and grew fat and kicked.’”29 Bakke correctly points out that this verse marks a transition between passages 1.2–2.8 and 3.2–4, which presents Corinth’s lack of harmony. However, Bakke’s identification of the latter section as a narratio that is embedded in the past misses the point.30 In comparison to the previous passage, Clement does not, in fact, use either imperfect or pluperfect to locate the scene in the past. Instead, he employs verbs in the present tense and in the aorist, which indicates here the relevance of a past action for the present situation. Accordingly, Clement describes an image of the fallen Corinthian community in terms of a present reality. It would not be correct to identify the presentation of the past in 1.2–2.8 with the ideal, on the one hand, and the description of the present situation in chapter 3 with the real, on the other. The author probably constructs both images on the basis of his information about the Corinthian community and elaborates this information following rhetorical conventions of the time.31 Accordingly, we find both reality and fiction or amplification in both images or, more precisely, a rhetoric construction of the past and of the present of the Corinthian community.32 In this way, contrasting past and present, and virtue and vice, Clement sets the stage for his subsequent use of the examples in chapters 4–39, which he draws from both biblical and non-biblical sources. In particular, he uses extensively the Septuagint, Jesus traditions and the Pauline epistles. He also employs other sources, of Stoic tradition, which describe the evils that come from rivalry and the rewards that flow from obedience to God and humility. In contrast to the present situation of the Corinthian church, which fails to fulfil God’s will 28  “The commandments and the ordinances of the Lord were written on the tablets of your hearts (τὰ προστάγματα καὶ τὰ δικαιώματα τοῦ κυρίου ἐπὶ τὰ πλάτη τῆς καρδίας ὑμῶν ἐγέγραπτο)” (1 Clem. 2.8b). 29  Πᾶσα δόξα καὶ πλατυσμὸς ἐδόθη ὑμῖν, καὶ ἐπετελέσθη τὸ γεγραμμένον·   Ἔφαγεν καὶ ἔπιεν καὶ ἐπλατύνθη καὶ ἐπαχύνθη καὶ ἀπελάκτισεν ὁ ἠγαπημένος (1 Clem. 3.1). 30  Bakke, Concord and Peace, 224–6. 31 Cf. Lona, Clemensbrief, 122. 32  It is further worth noting that at the beginning of this section the Corinthians are praised for walking “in accordance with the laws of God” and towards the end the unrighteous ones are blamed for not walking “according to the laws of his [God’s] commandments.” These passages exhibit typical characteristics of the Two Ways tradition: presentation of vices and virtues, use of antithesis, the imagery of walking. On the taxonomy of the Two Ways tradition, see M. M. McKenna, The Two Ways in Jewish and Christian Writings of the Greco-Roman Period: A Study of the Form of the Repentance Parenesis (Pennsylvania: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1981), 260. Thus Clement clearly associates the past of the community with virtue and its present situation with vice.



From Glorious Past to Miserable Present: First Clement

57

and wanders away from the road to salvation, Clement’s presentation of the past provides a demanding yet attractive image, which the community is encouraged to adopt in the future.

IV. Noble Origins versus Present Conflict Having established the importance of obedience to God’s will and the harmony it produces, Clement comes to the heart of his argument in the second part of his writing, which includes chapters 40 to 65. This section again begins with a reference to the past, which the author presents as normative. This time Clement refers to the origins of ministry. At first he discusses the commandments of the Lord concerning the worship and ministry of Israel (chapter 40) and then of the Christian community (chapter 41). In contrast to the first part of the writing, which is full of references to non-biblical Greek and Roman imagery and ideas, he focuses exclusively on Israel and the church in these passages. He turns to the apostolic times, which he identifies clearly with the past. Clement appeals to the authority of the apostles by referring to their divine mandate. He uses the idea of procession in this context, building the following chain of thought: apostles come from Christ, just as Christ comes from God.33 These two movements, according to Clement, proceed from God’s will in good order. The origin of this entire procession is, thus, in God, the source of apostolic authority. This emphasis on the apostolic authority serves him to develop the idea of the apostolic institution of the Christian ministry of oversight, episkope,34 as he refers to the appointment35 of episkopoi and diakonoi by the apostles. Clement presents this idea as follows:

33  This idea resonates closely with John 17:18. See Jaubert, Clément de Rome, 55. However, a direct literary relationship between 1 Clement and John is very unlikely; see A. Gregory, ‘1  Clement and the Writings that Later Formed the New Testament’, in A. Gregory and C ­ . Tuckett (eds.), The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 129–57, here 139–40. 34  Holmes translates the term episkopoi as “bishops.” Clement’s terminology of ministry is not strict. The author tends to use the terms episkopoi and presbyteroi interchangeably (cf. esp. ch. 44). The same tendency is present in other writings contemporary to 1 Clement, e. g. Acts 20:17, 28. Further on this question of terminology, see P. Lampe, Die stadtrömischen Christen in den ersten beiden Jahrhunderten. Untersuchungen zur Sozialgeschichte, WUNT 2.18 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 19892), 337. In order to express the ambiguity embedded in these texts, some scholars prefer to translate the term episkopoi here as “presbyter-bishops”; see R. E.  Brown and J. P. Meier, Antioch and Rome: New Testament Cradles of Catholic Christianity (New York: Paulist Press, 1983), 163. 35  Clement uses the verb καθίστημι in this context. On the question of appointment / ordination to the ministry in early Christian centuries, see E. Ferguson, ‘Ordain, Ordination’, in ABD 5 (1992), 37–40, and the literature mentioned there.

58

Taras Khomych

So, preaching both in the country and in the towns, they [the apostles] appointed their first fruits, when they tested them by the Spirit, to be bishops and deacons for the future believers. And this was no new thing they did, for indeed something had been written about bishops and deacons many years ago; for somewhere thus says the scripture: “I will appoint their bishops in righteousness and their deacons in faith.”36

Clement’s reference to episkopoi and diakonoi comes somewhat unexpectedly. He did not mention them before, but he adds immediately that these are not new concepts. New is definitely not positive for him. Here again he shows that the good has to come from the past and refers to Scripture in order to confirm the ancient roots of these ministries. Clement mentions this two-fold structure of leadership in the community, but he does not further describe any of the functions of these ministers. He is here interested only in the origins. It is not clear how this structure of leadership relates to the structure of the community mentioned in 1.3 and in 21.6–8. As already said (see n. 34), ­Clement’s terminology of ministry is not strict. Taking this into account as well as the fact that episkopoi are always mentioned in the plural, one may assume that Clement does not know of a monepiscopal leadership. At the same time, the ­ recise terminology for the different forms of ministry seems to indicate lack of p that the reference to the four groups that constitute the community in chapters 1 and 26 and the two-fold structure of leadership in chapter 42 are not mutually exclusive. It is also important to note that Clement refers to Israel’s past in this context, more specifically to the time of Moses. Chapter 43 deals with the establishment of Israel’s priesthood as a model for creating the episcopate, presented further in chapter 44. Clement elaborates the following parallel: as Moses used the miracle of Aaron’s rod (cf. Num 17:1–8) in order to show who had been chosen by God for the priesthood, so also the apostles appointed particular people for the ministry. The author compares and does not oppose the ministries of Israel and of the church. According to Clement, these two ministries are sanctioned by God. In this context Clement formulates the references to the conflict in Corinth again in the present tense so as to distinguish them from the authoritative past. Thus, having traced the apostolic origins of the Christian ministry, Clement considers the local leaders “to be unjustly removed from their ministry.”37 In 36  κατὰ χώρας οὖν καὶ πόλεις κηρύσσοντες καθίστανον τὰς ἀπαρχὰς αὐτῶν, δοκιμάσαντες τῷ πνεύματι, εἰς ἐπισκόπους καὶ διακόνους τῶν μελλόντων πιστεύειν. καὶ τοῦτο οὐ καινῶς· ἐκ γὰρ δὴ πολλῶν χρόνων ἐγέγραπτο περὶ ἐπισκόπων καὶ διακόνων. οὕτως γάρ που λέγει ἡ γραφή· Καταστήσω τοὺς ἐπισκόπους αὐτῶν ἐν δικαιοσύνῃ καὶ τοὺς διακόνους αὐτῶν ἐν πίστει (1 Clem. 42.4–5). 37  Note the change from the past, which describes the origins of the ministry, to the present, referring to the current situation, within one and the same sentence: τοὺς οὖν κατασταθέντας ὑπ᾽ ἐκείνων ἢ μεταξὺ ὑφ᾽ ἑτέρων ἐλλογίμων ἀνδρῶν συνευδοκησάσης τῆς ἐκκλησίας πάσης, καὶ λειτουργήσαντας ἀμέμπτως τῷ ποιμνίῳ τοῦ Χριστοῦ μετὰ ταπεινοφροσύνης, ἡσύχως καὶ



From Glorious Past to Miserable Present: First Clement

59

a way reminiscent of the rhetorical questions of 1.2, Clement further asks his addressees: Why is there strife and angry outbursts and dissension and schisms and conflict among you? Do we not have one God and one Christ and one Spirit of grace that was poured out upon us? And is there not one calling in Christ? Why do we tear and rip apart the members of Christ, and rebel against our own body, and reach such a level of insanity that we forget that we are members of one another?38

To be sure, the author is aware of a similar conflict that happened in Corinth a long time ago – the one mentioned in “the epistle of the blessed Paul the apostle.”39 And yet, Clement considers this past event to be less shameful precisely because it happened in the (honourable) past, “in the beginning of the gospel” (ἐν ἀρχῇ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου), involving the “highly reputed apostles” (ἀποστόλοις μεμαρτυρημένοις). As a part of his general strategy, Clement deliberately tones down the importance of that conflict in order to contrast the present strife with the idealized past of “the well-established and ancient church of the Corinthians (ἡ βεβαιοτάτη καὶ ἀρχαία Κορινθίων ἐκκλησία)” just a few lines below (ch. 47.5–6). This passage provides yet another illustration of the author’s fascinating use of the opposition between the past and the present.

V. Conclusion 1 Clement provides valuable insights concerning the formation of the earliest Christian communities. The author models Christian ministry on the institutions of Israel, emphasising that both of them were sanctioned by God. At the same time, the community structure, reflected in the letter, appears to have much in common with the Roman household. It is worth remembering, however, that Clement does not provide us with a holistic view of the community. His writing is circumstantial, dealing with the schism within the Corinthian congregation. Accordingly, the author is first and foremost preoccupied with solving this problem. To achieve this goal, Clement appears to adopt a strategy which was common at that time by using deliberative rhetoric. In doing so, he masterly uses the tense aspect. Clement associates the past with authority, norm or ideal, ἀβαναύσως, μεμαρτυρημένους τε πολλοῖς χρόνοις ὑπὸ πάντων, τούτους οὐ δικαίως νομίζομεν ἀποβάλλεσθαι τῆς λειτουργίας (1 Clem. 44.3). 38  ἱνατί ἔρεις καὶ θυμοὶ καὶ διχοστασίαι καὶ σχίσματα πόλεμός τε ἐν ὑμῖν; ἢ οὐχὶ ἕνα θεὸν ἔχομεν καὶ ἕνα Χριστὸν καὶ ἓν πνεῦμα τῆς χάριτος τὸ ἐκχυθὲν ἐφ᾽ ἡμᾶς; καὶ μία κλῆσις ἐν Χριστῷ; ἱνατί διέλκομεν καὶ διασπῶμεν τὰ μέλη τοῦ Χριστοῦ καὶ στασιάζομεν πρὸς τὸ σῶμα τὸ ἴδιον, καὶ εἰς τοσαύτην ἀπόνοιαν ἐρχόμεθα, ὥστε ἐπιλαθέσθαι ἡμᾶς, ὅτι μέλη ἐσμὲν ἀλλήλων; (1 Clem. 46.5–7). 39  1 Clem. 47.1. The text which follows makes it clear that Clement refers here to the letter, which later on became the canonical 1 Corinthians.

60

Taras Khomych

which he refers to in order to deal with the present turmoil in Corinth. This emphasis on the past distinguishes this letter from other writings of the ­Apostolic Fathers from roughly the same time period, such as the Didache or Letters of Ignatius, which locate the ideal in the future, in the eschaton.40 The emphasis on the past in 1 Clement may be explained by the author’s use of particular rhetorical conventions of the time. The author juxtaposes the imagery of the past and the present of the Corinthian community. In so doing, Clement provides a challenging and, at the same time, appealing model, which the community is encouraged to adopt in the future.

40 Cf. T. Khomych, ‘Diversity of the Notion of Apostolicity in the Writings of the Apostolic Fathers’, in T. Hainthaler, F. Mali and G. Emmenegger (eds.), Heiligkeit und Apostolizität der Kirche. Forscher aus dem Osten und Westen Europas an den Quellen des gemeinsamen Glaubens, ProOr 35 / Wiener Patristische Tagungen 5  (Innsbruck / Vienna:  Tyrolia, 2010), 37–55.

Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement John S. Kloppenborg A dominant and still-influential representation of the late first and early second century ce is that it witnessed a dramatic shift, between charismatic, office-less ekklesiae, and structures modeled on secular forms of government in which the spirit was made subject to emerging ecclesial structures. This paradigm is exemplified in the classic works of Rudolf Sohm and Adolf von Harnack, and in more recent works by Von Campenhausen and many others. The point of transition between one model and the other is most commonly seen as 1 Clement. As this paper will argue, this paradigm is seriously flawed as a historical description of governance practices. This defect has consequences for the understanding of 1 Clement, since the dominant paradigm is routinely used as a foil against which to judge 1 Clement’s perspective on ecclesial organization. Hence, it is necessary to devote some time to the problems with the dominant paradigm before re-assessing 1 Clement.

I. Office-less ekklesiae The most extreme example of the dominant paradigm is found in Rudolf Sohm, who insisted that the apostolic church had a uniform and purely charismatic organization, lacking a legal constitution. In fact, Sohm declared, ecclesial law stood in contradiction to the essence of the church:1 Das Wesen der Ekklesia als des Leibes Christi schließt jede menschliche Rechtsordnung, jede Verfassung nach Art sonstiger Vereinsfassung, jede Gesetzgebung und Verwaltung nach Art sonstiger Gesetzgebung und Verwaltung aus.2

1  R. Sohm, Kirchenrecht, Systematisches Handbuch der deutschen Rechtswissenschaft 8/1–2 (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1892–1923), 1:1: “Das Kirchenrecht steht mit dem Wesen der Kirche in Widerspruch.” On the uniformity of ecclesial structure see Kirchenrecht, 1:105. 2  Sohm, Kirchenrecht, 1:160. See also R. Sohm and C. W. Rishell, Outlines of Church History (trans. M. Sinclair; London: Macmillan, 1909), 34: “The Church has no absolute need of any class of officials. They are all born ministers of the Word and ministers they ought to be. They all, by the Holy Spirit living within them, are bearers of the keys of heaven, and of the royal power which in the House of God is given to the Word of God.”

62

John S. Kloppenborg

For Sohm all of the ‘offices’ of the earliest ekklesiae were derived from the Spirit; no office or function was legally constituted; all depended on the Spirit, even presiding at the Eucharist, where one functionary might preside one day as the Spirit moved, and then give place to another.3 A decisive turning point was marked by 1 Clement, which articulated a theory of divine order grounded in the authority of the bishop and not in the Spirit.4 Charismatic governance modulated into governance through a human institution. This transition (or descent) to “Katholizis­mus,” Sohm explains, was the outcome of growing numbers coupled with the ‘natural instincts’ of people to desire order: The larger the assembly became, the more was felt the need of some fixed outward order. The natural man desires some legal surety that the Word and the Sacraments are administered to him aright.5

With Clement’s innovation, the charismatic nature of the church ended.6 What Sohm failed to explain is why charisma, which had been so fundamental a feature in the organization and governance of the primitive church, had worked as long as it had given the propensity of humans to seek to escape the demands of living in the Spirit,7 or why charisma failed as an organizing principle only in the late first century.8 His account of the pristine purity of ecclesial governance in the first century, and its swift descent into ‘Catholicism,’ not only seems an overly idealized (and unrealistic) view of the earliest Christ cults,9 3  R. Sohm, Wesen und Ursprung des Katholizismus, ASGW.PH 27/10 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1912), 62. 4  Sohm, Kirchenrecht, 1:159: “nach dem Clemensbrief haben die ‘bestellten Ältesten’ ein auf göttlicher Ordnung beruhendes Recht auf das Bischofsamt, d. h. auf Verwaltung der Eucharistie und des Kirchenguts, und zwar ein lebenslängliches Recht …, mit der Wirkung, daß sie jeden andern von dem gleichen Amte ausschließen.” 5  Sohm and Rishell, Outlines of Church History, 38. 6  “Das berühmte römische Gemeindeschreiben (der ‘erste Clemensbrief’) macht Epoche in der Kirchenverfassungsgeschichte. Dasselbe was bestimmt, der urchristlichen Versamm­ lung in der Kirche ein Ende zu machen” (Sohm, Kirchenrecht, 1:158). 7  Sohm and Rishell, Outlines of Church History, 334–5, account for the transition to ‘Catholicism’ in purely theological terms: “And yet there has arisen such a thing as Church law. How was that possible? The reason is not far to seek: Because the natural man is a born enemy of Christianity. There is in our nature a longing for salvation through Christ, the Immanuel, the Prince of Peace; and yet we strive against Him. Our heart opens itself to every word of Him who is the sunshine of the soul, and yet it sets itself against complete surrender, in its despair, its misery, and weariness of the world. The natural man desires to remain under law. He strives against the freedom of the Gospel, and he longs with all his strength for a religion of law and statute. He longs for some legally appointed service, in the performance of which he may exhaust his duty towards God, and so for the rest of his time be free for the service of the world, free from that ‘reasonable service’, the presenting of his whole life as a sacrifice to God.” 8  I owe this point to B. Zapata, ‘A Brief History of the Spirit in the Institutionalization of the Early Christian Church: Tracking the Charismatic Model Through the History of Scholarship’ (M. A. thesis, University of Toronto, 2011), 33. 9 See the analysis of Sohm’s model by B. Holmberg, ‘Sociological versus Theological



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

63

but an account infected by the polemics of the Reformation.10 Despite various criticisms, however, Sohm’s narrative has controlled much of the subsequent discussion of the structure of the earliest Christ groups and, by implication, the significance of 1 Clement. A contemporary of Sohm, Adolf von Harnack had been favorably impressed by Edwin Hatch’s 1880 Bampton Lectures, The Organization of the Early Christian Churches.11 Hatch had argued that the organizational structure of Christ groups derived from three sources. The ἐπίσκοπος was originally a financial officer akin to the ἐπιμεληταί that appear so frequently in Graeco-Roman cultic associations in the role of supervisors.12 Since the earliest Christ groups were involved in various charitable endeavors, it was appropriate to have supervisors (ἐπίσκοποι) to manage the affairs of the group. The πρεσβύτεροι had a dual origin: on the one hand, for Jewish Christian groups the choice of this term was “natural and simple” since synagogues had been governed by elders; on the other hand, since the governance of Greek cities was often in the hands of the γερουσία, and since, Hatch argued, members of the γερουσία were likely called πρεσβύτεροι, there would likely have been no resistance among Gentile Christ groups to employ the term πρεσβύτερος. [W]hen, in the course of the second century, the distinction between the Christian communities which had once been Jewish and those which were originally Gentile tended to pass away, the Jewish conception of the nature of the governing council undoubtedly became dominant.13

While in 1 Clement there is no evidence of a mono-episcopate, sometime in the second century the ἐπίσκοπος came to serve as the head of a council of πρεσβύτεροι as their permanent president and this set the course for later developments.14

Analy­sis of the Question Concerning a Pauline Church Order’, in S. Pedersen (ed.), Die paulinische Literatur und Theologie, TeolSt 7 (Århus: Forlaget Aros, 1980), 187–200. 10  The anti-catholic polemical tendency of Protestant patristic scholarship has been outlined in greater detail by E. A. Clark, ‘Contested Bodies: Early Christian Asceticism and Nineteenth-Century Polemics’, in JECS 17/2 (2009), 281–307. 11  E. Hatch, The Organization of the Early Christian Churches: Eight Lectures (Bampton Lectures, 1880; London: Rivingtons, 1881). Harnack had these translated into German as Die Gesellschaftsverfassung der christlichen Kirchen im Alterthum: acht Vorlesungen gehalten an der Universität Oxford im Jahre 1880 (trans. A. von Harnack; Giessen: J. Ricker’sche Buchhandlung, 1883). 12  Hatch, The Organization of the Early Christian Churches, 36–55. 13  Ibid., 67. 14  Ibid., 90–1.

64

John S. Kloppenborg

Between the publication of Hatch’s monograph and Harnack’s several works on church order,15 the Didache had been published in 1883 by Bryennios.16 Its references to wandering apostles and prophets (11.3), encouraged Harnack to modify Hatch’s model. As with Hatch’s model, bishops and deacons supervised financial matters and organized congregational gatherings. But the account of the apostles and prophets in the Didache led Harnack to posit a second sphere of ministry in the earliest (Pauline groups) – the “apostles, prophets and teachers” who were not “congregational office bearers” but who were “chosen by the Holy Spirit,” unconnected with any particular congregation, and serving in the “ministry of the Word.”17 Thus in disagreement with Sohm, Harnack argued that the Spirit and established order were not irreconcilable, but co-existent. Yet as with Sohm, Harnack averred that the basic organization of the church was “pneumatical.” Later Harnack would further divide the system of governance in Christ groups, adding a third category, the elders, absent from Pauline groups but attested in other early Christ groups. This triadic organization of pneumatic agents, elders, and elected administrative officials had distinct functions: The first belong to the religious sphere in the strict sense, the second have their function in the field of moral education and discipline, the third in service and administration, and at the very early period also in public worship.18

All owed their roles to the Spirit but “in the proper sense …, only the preachers of the word are borne by the Spirit.”19 For Harnack, 1 Clement also marked a transition, although not one quite as dramatic as that announced by Sohm. Harnack argued that the respective organizations of the Corinthian ekklesia and that in Rome did not differ from one another, and that in both cases πρεσβύτεροι was functionally synonymous with ἐπίσκοποι. Moreover, 1 Clement still displayed elements of what Harnack termed a “pneumatic democracy”: 15  A. von Harnack, Die Quellen der sogenannten Apostolischen Kirchenordnung, TU 2 (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1886); Idem, Die Apostellehre und die jüdischen beiden Wege (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1886 [18962]); Idem, ‘On the Origin of the Christian Ministry’, in Exp. 5 (1887), 321–43; Idem, Entstehung und Entwicklung der Kirchenverfassung und des Kirchenrechts in den zwei ersten Jahrhunderten. Urchristentum und Katholizismus (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1910); Idem, The Constitution & Law of the Church in the First Two Centuries, CrTL 31 (trans. F. Pogson; London: Williams & Norgate, 1910); Idem, Einführung in die Alte Kirchengeschichte. Das Schreiben der römischen Kirche an die korinthische aus der Zeit Domitians (I. Clemensbrief) (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1929). 16  P. Bryennios, Διδαχὴ τῶν δώδεκα ἀποστόλων ἐκ τοῦ ἱεροσολυμιτικοῦ χειρογράφου νῦν πρῶτον ἐκδιδομένη μετὰ προλεγομένων καὶ σημειώσεων ἐν οἷς καὶ τῆς συνόψεως τῆς Π.Δ., τῆς ὑπὸ  Ἰωάνν. τοῦ Χρυσοστόμου, σύγκρισις καὶ μέρος ἀνέκδοτον ἀπὸ τοῦ αὐτοῦ χειρογράφου (Constantinople, 1883). 17  Harnack, ‘On the Origin of the Christian Ministry’, 327, 331. 18  Harnack, Constitution & Law, 43. 19  Ibid., 43.



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

65

Weil die Lokalgemeinde Erscheinung der Gesamtgemeinde, der Kirche Gottes, ist, in der alle gleichmäßig Berufene und Erwählte sind und die vom heiligen Geiste erfüllt ist, stellt sie eine pneumatische Demokratie dar, in der nichts ohne den Willen der Gesamtheit geschehen darf.20

1 Clement did not signal break or demise, as it did for Sohm, because elements of the pneumatic democracy existed alongside elements of formal organization. But the letter betrayed a movement in favor of the latter: Die Gemeinde ist diesen Presbytern (= Bischöfen [und Diakonen]) nicht nur Ehrerbietung wie den “Alten”, sondern auch Gehorsam schuldig; das wird rund vom Briefschreiber verlangt bzw. vorausgesetzt (1,3; 21,6; 47,5), und damit ist die pneumatische Demokratie durchbrochen und heruntergedrückt. Bei konsequenter Anwendung dieses Gebots wird die beifällige Willensäußerung der Gemeinde zu einer bloßen Dekoration, und eine abweichende darf es nicht mehr geben. Wie weit die Entwicklung in dieser Hinsicht in Korinth damals vorgeschritten war, wissen wir nicht; aber in Rom hatte das Amt schon Bresche in die Demokratie geschlagen.21

The narrative described by Sohm and his successors, of an office-free, Spirit-guided ecclesial setting that was, by the time of 1 Clement, reduced to a catholic institutionalized arrangement, achieved almost canonical status after Sohm and Harnack.22 Von Campenhausen asserted that Paul developed the idea of the “Spirit as the organizing principle of the congregation,” lacking any concept of formal authority, but rather a “unitary, living cosmos of free, spiritual gifts which serve and complement one another.” Although Pauline groups lacked elders – because Paul had adopted the practices of the Antiochene church, which (supposedly) also lacked elders –,23 other Christ groups had πρεσβύτεροι and this Jewish and Jewish-Christian institution, conceived as a permanent office, eventually became widespread.24 As for Sohm, 1 Clement (and Hermas) evidenced a new stage, although Von Campenhausen thought that 1 Clement was likely not the innovator here, 20  Harnack, Einführung in die Alte Kirchengeschichte, 89, repr. as ‘Das Schreiben der römischen Kirche an die korinthische aus der Zeit Domitians (I. Clemensbrief)’, in C. Breytenbach and L. L. Welborn (eds.), Encounters with Hellenism: Studies on the First Letter of Clement, AGJU 53 (Leiden / Boston: Brill, 2004), 73 (I cite from the reprint). Harnack refers to 1 Clem. 44.3 συνευδοκησάσης τῆς ἐκκλησίας πάσης, “with the entire assembly approving” and 54.2, ποιῶ τὰ προστασσόμενα ὑπὸ τοῦ πλήθους, “do what is commanded by the whole group.” 21  Harnack, ‘Das Schreiben der römischen Kirche’, 74. 22  For a fuller survey of the legacy of Sohm, see especially J. Fuellenbach, Ecclesiastical Office and the Primacy of Rome: An Evaluation of Recent Theological Discussion of First Clement, SCA 20 (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 1980), 25–71. 23  H. von Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority and Spiritual Power in the Church of the First Three Centuries (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1969), 70. 24  Ibid., 58, 64, 70, 76–83: “There had for a long time been elders at the head of every Jewish congregation, especially in Palestine” (77).

66

John S. Kloppenborg

but simply reflected a transition that had already occurred in Rome.25 While still admitting of some fluidity, the “patriarchal” (i. e., presbyterial) system of governance had merged with the episcopal system to produce a set of leaders variously called ἐπίσκοποι, πρεσβύτεροι, (προ)ἡγούμενοι (1 Clem. 1.3; 21.6) or πρωτοκαθεδρῖται (Hermas, Vis. 3.9.7). The net result of this transformation was that, unlike the putative primitive (Pauline) ekklesia, “the patriarchal element has taken precedence over the pneumatic.”26 Clement promoted the presbyterial system as an institution established by the apostles.27 Therefore, whereas in earlier times it was a matter of individuals chosen on an ad hoc basis to address particular tasks, the elders now enjoyed lifetime tenure. With this, the system of elders takes on, more than it has done hitherto, the quality of a definite, fixed ‘constitution’, and that senior patriarchal figures within the community are now regarded as invested with a clearly defined office. They are officers of the congregation, and by virtue of their office can expect obedience from it, and exercise authority over it.28

The apogee of a theologically-laden description of ministry is found in Ernst Käsemann, who privileged the Pauline ekklesia as normative and who described the practices of the early ekklesiae as caught between the opposing tensions of “Judaism” and “enthusiasm.”29 In the earliest Pauline groups all were endowed with the Spirit and, hence, authority was transiently exercised: there was no sense of permanent offices or even a distinction between spiritual and technical ministries, as there had been for Harnack.30 With the fading of primitive eschatology and especially with threats from the outside, in particular enthusiasts, the presbytery was institutionalized, a development already visible in the Pastorals: … the bestowal of the Spirit … empowers those who receive it to administer the depositum fidei of 1 Tim. 6,20, which we are to understand, more exactly defined, as the tradition of Pauline teaching. But the significance of this is that an office which stands over against the rest of the community is now the real bearer of the Spirit; and the primitive Christian view, that every Christian receives the Spirit in his baptism, recedes into the background and indeed, for all practical purposes, disappears. … The Jewish heritage expels the Pauline … .31

25 

Ibid., 84 n. 40. Ibid., 85. 27  1 Clem. 42.4: κατὰ χώρας οὖν καὶ πόλεις κηρύσσοντες [οἱ ἀπόστολοι] καθίστανον τὰς ἀπαρχὰς αὐτῶν, δοκιμάσαντες τῷ πνεύματι, εἰς ἐπισκόπους καὶ διακόνους τῶν μελλόντων πιστεύειν. 28  Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority, 92. 29  E. Käsemann, ‘Unity and Diversity in New Testament Ecclesiology’, in NT 6 (1963), 292. 30  E. Käsemann, ‘Ministry and Community in the New Testament’, in Idem, Essays on New Testament Themes, SBT 41 (trans. W. Montague; London: SCM Press, 1964), 83. 31  Ibid., 87 (emphasis added). 26 



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

67

Käsemann’s view comes close to that of Sohm: “[Paul’s] conception of the essence and order of the Church cannot possibly be reconciled with that which comes to prevail in early Catholicism. It is in the starkest contradiction to it.”32 Although indebted to some elements of the standard model, Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza has complicated the picture by including in her analysis both gender and wealth. With Sohm and others, she argues that the earliest ekklesiae exhibited “organizational equality” with “shifting and alternating authority and leadership” based on the claim that all were endowed with the Spirit/Sophia.33 Rejecting counterclaims by Countryman to the effect that recognition of an official hierarchy already existed in the first century,34 Fiorenza pointed out that in assessing the conflicts about leadership in the earliest period, it is necessary to distinguish between translocal authorities – prophets and apostles such as Paul and his rivals – and the local authorities whose authority seems to have developed by analogy to the administrative offices of Greco-Roman private associations and Jewish synagogue organizations, and were dependent on the community.35

Fiorenza’s acknowledged debt to Hatch helps her to nuance the transition from local leadership patterns which were “charismatic and communal” – where wealthier individuals, including wealthy women, assumed leadership, on a rotating basis and with the approval or election of members – to the emergence of patriarchal leadership, which entailed the transfer of authority from wealthy benefactors to permanent administrative officials. The result was the reduction of the influence of the wealthy (including especially women), the development of a clerical class, and the vesting of financial control in the hands of the bishop. This development had important consequences: it converted the rich from patron-leaders to the rich whose role it was simply to give; it represented a ‘patriarchalization’ of leadership and correspondingly restricted the sphere of activity 32  Ibid., 92. See also J. D. G. Dunn, Unity and Diversity in the New Testament: An Inquiry into the Character of Earliest Christianity (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1977), 114, who argues that the Pauline conception of ministry differs not only from that of Jesus and his disciples, but also from the Jerusalem church. The Pauline conception is “essentially a concept of charismatic community and nothing else, of free fellowship, developing through the living interplay of spiritual gifts and ministries, without benefit of official authority or responsible ‘elders’ …. For Paul the Spirit had surmounted the old Jewish distinction between priest and people and left it behind – all have ministry and any member may be called upon to exercise any ministry” (emphasis original). In Christianity in the Making, II: Beginning from Jerusalem (Grand Rapids / Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2009), 639, Dunn reiterates the lack of mention of leadership titles in Corinth, Galatia and Thessalonike. 33  E. Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins (New York: Crossroad, 1983), 296. 34  L. W. Countryman, ‘Christian Equality and the Early Catholic Episcopate’, in AThR 63/2 (1979), 115–38. 35  Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her, 286.

68

John S. Kloppenborg

of women; and it resulted in the merger of prophetic and teaching roles with the role of the bishop.36 Fiorenza sees this transition beginning to occur in the Pastorals, which deny to women eligibility to the episcopate but which probably still reflect a pattern of male and female household heads, that is, male and female πρεσβύτεροι.37 A propos of 1 Clement, Fiorenza recognizes (with Harnack) that the letter betrays the author’s knowledge of a system at Corinth where leadership was charismatic and communal in the sense that it depended on the approval of the congregation, but surmises that such wealthy women leaders may have been instrumental in removing the Corinthian elders from their office, having disagreed with them over how their funds were to be used.38

II. Evaluating the Paradigm Several initial comments are in order at this point. 1. First, in the works of Sohm, Von Campenhausen and Käsemann, there is a strong tendency to speak as if Paul were the author of the organization of the ekklesiae in which he was active. Hence, the tendency to take Paul’s discourse on the Spirit in 1 Corinthians as though it were a description of ecclesial practices. Such an approach tacitly assumes that the Corinthians and Thessalonians were incapable of organizing themselves and that Paul, therefore, had to instruct them how to do this. Stated in this way, it should be obvious that the assumption is absurd. Rich epigraphic and other data makes clear that Greeks in cities and towns had been organizing themselves into θίασοι, ὀργεῶνες, κοινά, συναγωγαί, συνεργασίαι, and συνκλίται for several centuries.39 It is unreasonable to suppose that Paul was required to orchestrate the organization of the group. In fact, nothing in the Pauline letters indicates this sort of instruction. Paul has many things to say about conduct and beliefs, but nothing on the mechanics of organization.40 On the contrary, 1 Thess 5:12 merely recognizes various persons who already served 36 

Ibid., 286–8. Ibid., 290. 38  Ibid., 293. 39 See J. S. Kloppenborg and R. S. Ascough, Greco-Roman Associations: Texts, Translations, and Commentary, I: Attica, Central Greece, Macedonia, Thrace, BZNW 181 (Berlin / New York: de Gruyter, 2011) and R. S. Ascough, Ph. A. Harland and J. S. Kloppenborg, Associations in the Greco-Roman World: A Sourcebook (Waco: Baylor, 2012). 40  Even the comments in 1 Cor 16:1–4 on the organization of the collection are best understood not as instructions on how to organize a collection, but rather why the Corinthians should be collecting funds for another group and how the funds should be transferred to that group (i. e., in order to avoid fraud, always a concern in associations). Hence, Paul’s assurances in 16:3, οὓς ἐὰν δοκιμάσητε, δι’ ἐπιστολῶν τούτους πέμψω ἀπενεγκεῖν τὴν χάριν ὑμῶν εἰς  Ἰερουσαλήμ. 37 



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

69

as leaders of some sort (τοὺς κοπιῶντας ἐν ὑμῖν καὶ προϊσταμένους ὑμῶν ἐν κυρίῳ καὶ νουθετοῦντας ὑμᾶς) and 1 Corinthians seems to recognize various household heads that were already in place (1 Cor 16:15).41 In this respect, Fiorenza’s approach, which takes seriously indigenous patterns of organization and governance, is a more credible model than one that assumes that Paul ‘invented’ the structure of each community. 2. Second, the claim that the earliest ekklesiae, as ‘charismatic’ groups, were office-less and that forms of governance were transitory and functions of the movements of the Spirit rests on an idealization, even romanticizing, of community structures. More seriously, it reflects a basic misreading of Pauline discourse, confusing Paul’s rhetorical intervention in a situation of conflict with a description of ecclesial organization. As attractive as the models of an office-free early church might be, Bengt Holmberg is correct in arguing that they confuse Paul’s theology of charisma with social description. Paul’s talk of the χαρίσματα is an interpretive category (“ein Interpretament”), a theologically grounded interpretation of an already existing and rather heterogeneous reality, intended to correct a development in the Corinthian church life that had gone wrong. The conclusion is that Paul’s theology of charisma is not the normative basis for the interaction structure of the typical Pauline church, but an interpreting, correcting commentary on a special and untypical interaction structure in the church of Corinth.42

In fact Holmberg’s analysis of the named figures in Pauline circles indicates that they are “not very charismatic in the sociological sense of the term”: None of the leaders mentioned in the short description above of the interaction structure of Pauline churches exhibits the characteristics of a genuinely charismatic leader: a personal calling direct from God; superhuman powers; being his group’s “saviour”; an extraordinary way of life with no family, property, regular work or respect for traditional custom and belief; a radical, destructive and innovative message and mission from God; a following devoted uniquely to himself and living in a communistic fellowship together with him. Even the prophets, who were after all considered to transmit divine revelation, are firmly placed under the authority of the apostle, as is evidenced by 1 Cor. 14,29–32 and 37–40, where Paul limits their freedom to talk and to teach. And both Paul and the local prophets and teachers are bound to the normative doctrinal tradition which he calls “the Gospel.”43 41  Dunn, Beginning from Jerusalem, 639–40, points out that Paul’s description of Ste­pha­ nas’s household in 1 Cor 16:15, εἰς διακονίαν τοῖς ἁγίοις ἔταξαν ἑαυτούς, indicates that they appointed themselves to ministry. One should note the obfuscating nature of many translations: RSV; NRSV; NAB; NJB: “they have devoted themselves”; ASV: “they have set themselves.” The Vulgate renders this (correctly), in ministerium sanctorum ordinaverunt seipsos. 42  Holmberg, ‘Sociological Versus Theological Analysis’, 195. Similarly, 199: “in so far the Pauline churches have a church order it is not “Pauline” in the meaning defined at the outset (both distinctive for these churches, and planned and given by Paul himself). And in so far we find anything Pauline here, it is not the church order as such, but a paraenetical interpretation of an existing order, which is still developing.” 43  Ibid., 198.

70

John S. Kloppenborg

If this is correct, several important consequences follow. First, Paul’s statement in 1 Cor 12:28, that “in the ekklesia, God has established first apostles, second prophets, third teachers, then (workers of) power, then gifts of healing, assistance, governance, and types of tongues,” is not a matter of Paul laying down a church order, but rather part of a rhetorical strategy that aims at reducing rivalry and factionalism. “Spirit” is not a descriptive category but a rhetorical one. The second implication is that one cannot use Paul or the putative early charismatic ekklesia as a foil for discussing 1 Clement and whatever transformations in ecclesial structure might have occurred there. 3. The fact that the authentic Pauline letters, excepting Philippians and Romans 16 do not mention titles of officers should hardly be taken as an indication that there were no offices or governance structures. Von Campenhausen ventured that “the Church is not a human natural entity, but a sheerly miraculous transcendent phenomenon,”44 pointing to relative silence of Paul on offices as evidence of a lack of offices. He dismissed διάκονος in Rom 16:1 as meaning only “servant,” and he dealt with the ἐπίσκοποι καὶ διάκονοι of Phil 1:1 by arguing that it reflects “a later stage of church development” – we are apparently to suppose that he means a movement away from the “Pauline” conception.45 In any case, he insists that “there is … no question of offices in the strict sense, and absolutely none of sacral offices on the lines of the later ‘hierarchy’.”46 This is a deeply naive reading of Paul. The lack of mention of explicit offices is more likely a function of Paul’s purposes in writing, not a reflection of the organi­zation of the group. Typically, inscriptions from associations mention officers explicitly only when there is reason to do so. For example, in honorific decrees when the honoree served as an officer and when that service is the basis of the recognition, the office is expressly noted. In other cases, such as IG II2 1275 (Piraeus; 325–275 bce),47 a list of obligations imposed on association members, no titles are mentioned. This is simply because titles are not relevant to the purpose at hand. But this is no reason to suppose that the association represented by IG II2 1275 did not have an organizational structure with officers. Associations collected dues, organized banquets, sometimes made loans, and required basic organizations. For these functions officers were required and to the extent that collection of funds was involved (as it normally was), officers who were responsible to the membership and could render their accounts.48 The same 44 

Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority, 64. Ibid., 68–9. 46  Ibid., 69. 47 = GRA I no. 8. 48 The requirement that officers render yearly accounts of income and expenses is a standard part of many inscriptions: Agora 16:161.9–10, 16–17 (early III bce); IG II2 1263.9–12 (300/299 bce); IG II2 1277.16–17 (278/7 bce); IG II2 1284.26–7 (241/0 bce); IG II2 1292.7–8 (215/4 bce); IRhamnous II 59.33–4 (after 216/5 bce); SEG 2:9.5–6, 11 (243/2 bce); SEG 31:122.30, 40 (early II ce). 45 



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

71

considerations apply to early Christ groups. We even have a list of members of an association who were honored with crowns which lacks any mention of their titles even though the grounds for the honors, ἀρετῆς ἕνεκα καὶ δικαιοσύνης τῆς εἰς τὸ κοινόν, strongly suggests that those honored were ἐπιμεληταί, ταμίαι or γραμματεῖς.49 The lack of explicit mention of the offices is hardly an indication that the association lacked offices; on the contrary, the omission is likely due to the fact that anyone reading the decree would either know the offices held by the honorees, or deduce from the stated grounds that at least some were officers. Neither Paul’s generic comments in 1 Thess 5:12 nor his references to Stephanas in 1 Cor 16:15 requires that he refer to a specific title. He does, however, have good reason to mention the status of Phoebe as a διάκονος and προστάτις in Rom 16:1 since in a letter of recommendation it is critical to impress the recipient with the letter bearer’s credentials, and there is scarcely a better way to do this than to note her status as an officer, her role as a benefactor, and her personal relationship with Paul. Given the stubbornly vertical nature of Mediterranean society, it is reasonable to assume that all clubs and associations had officers. To suppose otherwise is to posit a socially and culturally anomalous situation. This does not mean, however, that we need to suppose that officers in early Christ groups were either permanent or appointed by superiors. On the contrary, a study of associations in the Graeco-Roman period suggests that most associations had rotating officers or, if we may use the term, a “flat hierarchy.”50 The fact that many honorific decrees refer to officials as “those who were supervisors (epimelētai) of the sanctuary during the year that x was archon” indicates that a rotating hierarchy was typical and that new supervisors were chosen yearly.51 The same conclusion can be drawn from inscriptions which mandate some future action on the part of the supervisors without naming them – because the actual names of the supervisors were not known at the time of the decree. This should perhaps cause us to think differently about Phil 1:1, the reference to ἐπίσκοποι καὶ διάκονοι. While Von Campenhausen was convinced that there was not a rapid turnover of ministries and that they were enjoyed “on a permanent basis, or at any rate for a fairly long time,”52 the analogy of the rich data we have from associations suggests that Paul does not name the ἐπίσκοποι καὶ διάκονοι because they were elected or chosen on a rotating basis. Paul did know Epaphroditos, Syntyche, Euodia, and Clement and names them. But because 49 

IG II2 2347 (Salamis, ca. 300 bce) = GRA I no. 12. In organizational studies, “flat hierarchy” refers to organizational patterns in which organization is wider than deep, i. e., units or persons are under a single level of supervision. “Flat hierarchy” in the sense in which I and Andreas Bendlin use the term refers to an organizational pattern in which organization is shallow and wide, but also that governance is impermanent and rotating. 51 See Kloppenborg and Ascough, GRA I, passim. 52  Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority, 68. 50 

72

John S. Kloppenborg

Paul, in prison, did not know the names of the current ἐπίσκοποι καὶ διάκονοι, he simply refers to them with a generic phrase. A similar argument can be made a propos of 1Thess 5:12: Paul uses the generic term οἱ προϊστάμενοι because he does not know the names of the current officers. By his own admission, he had been away from Thessalonike for some time and until the arrival of Timothy did not know the state of the group at all. We might also note that sometime later, the Didache (15.3) uses the verb χειροτονέω to describe the selection of ἐπίσκοποι and διάκονοι,53 a verb whose basic meaning is “to elect by a show of hands,” a verb normally used in connection with the election of yearly supervisors in Greek associations.54 If χειροτονέω retains this basic meaning, it would imply a quasi-democratic principle of leadership selection. There were, of course, some officers in associations who enjoyed longer, even permanent tenures of office. An honorific inscriptions from Athens (IG II2 1323; 194/3 bce) honors two officers, one, Theon, who had served as treasurer for at least seven years.55 Another inscription, IG II2 1328 (Piraeus, 183/2 bce; 175/4 bce), contains two decrees of the orgeōnes of the Mother of the Gods, the second awarding the title of attendant (ζάκορος) for life (διὰ [βίου]) to a certain Metrodora. This would not be so striking were it not for the first decree, inscribed 53 

Didache 15.1: Χειροτονήσατε οὖν ἑαυτοῖς ἐπισκόπους καὶ διακόνους ἀξίους τοῦ κυρίου, ἄνδρας πραεῖς καὶ ἀφιλαργύρους καὶ ἀληθεῖς καὶ δεδοκιμασμένους· ὑμῖν γὰρ λειτουργοῦσι καὶ αὐτοὶ τὴν λειτουργίαν τῶν προφητῶν καὶ διδασκάλων. See also 2 Cor 8:18–19: (Titus) … οὐ μόνον δέ, ἀλλὰ καὶ χειροτονηθεὶς ὑπὸ τῶν ἐκκλησιῶν συνέκδημος ἡμῶν σὺν τῇ χάριτι ταύτῃ τῇ διακονουμένῃ ὑφ’ ἡμῶν πρὸς τὴν [αὐτοῦ] τοῦ κυρίου δόξαν καὶ προθυμίαν ἡμῶν. In Acts 14:23 χειροτονήσαντες δὲ αὐτοῖς κατ’ ἐκκλησίαν πρεσβυτέρους the verb is usually translated “select,” but may yet have in view a process that presupposes a ratification by the assembly. 54  The term is especially frequent in inscriptions from Attica, the Aegean Islands, and Asia to denote the election of officials by the dēmos. It also appears in association inscriptions such as IRhamnous II 59.2–4 (Rhamnous, after 216/5 bce): [ἐπει]δὴ Ἀπολ.[λόδωρος χειροτονηθεὶς στρατηγὸς] | [δια]τε­τέλεκ[εν εὔνους ὢν καὶ ἰδίαι καὶ κοι]|[νε]ῖ τῶι δήμωι ἐ.[ν παντὶ καιρῶι  …., “Whereas Apollodoros, who was elected as stratēgos, has continued to be well-intentioned towards the People (dēmos) – both to individuals and collectively – at all times ….” In Ignatius, the verb refers only to the election or selection of ambassadors, presumably a temporary role: Phld. 10.1: πρέπον ἐστὶν ὑμῖν, ὡς ἐκκλησίᾳ θεοῦ, χειροτονῆσαι διάκονον εἰς τὸ πρεσβεῦσαι ἐκεῖ θεοῦ πρεσβείαν, “it is fitting for you, as an assembly of God, to elect a diakonos to be an ambassador of God there [in Antioch]”; Smyrn. 11.2: πρέπει εἰς τιμὴν θεοῦ χειροτονῆσαι τὴν ἐκκλησίαν ὑμῶν θεοπρεσβεύτην …, “it is fitting for the honor of God that your assembly elect a divine ambassador ….”; Pol. 7.2: πρέπει, Πολύκαρπε θεομακαριστότατε, συμβούλιον ἀγαγεῖν θεοπρεπέστατον καὶ χειροτονῆσαί τινα, ὃν ἀγαπητὸν λίαν ἔχετε καὶ ἄοκνον, ὃς δυνήσεται θεο­δρόμος καλεῖσθαι· τοῦτον καταξιῶσαι, “it is fitting Polycarp, most blessed by God, to hold a most divine council and to elect someone whom you love greatly and who is resolute, who will be able to be designated as godly and to honor this one.” The subscriptions to Timothy and Titus in minuscule 1739 and M also use the verb: Πρὸς Τιμόθεον β’ τῆς Ἐφεσιων ἐκκλησίας ἐπίσκοπον πρῶτον χειροτονήθεντα ἐγράφη ἀπὸ  Ῥώμης. … and Παύλου ἀποστόλου πρὸς Τίτον τῆς Κρήτων ἐκκλησίας πρῶτον ἐπίσκοπον χειροτονή­θεντα. …, where it has come to mean “select” or even “appoint.” This latter development is documented by C. Turner, ‘Χειροτονία, χειροθεσία, ἐπίθεσις χειρῶν’, in JThS 24 (1923), 496–504. 55  See the discussion in Kloppenborg and Ascough, GRA I, 156–8.



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

73

eight years earlier, recording the decision that the priestess chosen each year be permitted to choose a former priestess as an attendant (ζάκορος), but that no one be given this honour twice before all former priestesses had been given their turn. Certainly in the case of Metrodora, but perhaps also in the case of Theon, it is likely that status and influence played a key role in securing an office for a long period or even on a permanent basis.56 Closer to the common era, the Iobakchoi inscription (IG II2 1368; Athens, 164/5 ce) records the decision of the assembly to award the priesthood to Herodes Atticus, evidently for life. This is a noteworthy decision, since in order to make this appointment, the former priest, Aurelius Nikomachos, who had served at priest for twenty-three years, had to resign “while living” and re-assume the position of vice-priest, an office he had earlier held for seventeen years. The phrase in l. 7 παραχωρήσαντος ζῶντος likely implies that Nikomachos had been awarded a lifetime priesthood which he now had to relinquish. He had been persuaded to resign in favor of the millionaire philanthropist Herodes, either because that was the price of Herodes’ patronage of the Iobakchoi, or because that was the inducement that the Iobakchoi were prepared to offer Herodes in order to attract so wealthy and influential a patron. These instances of the status and influence of members or patrons of associations precipitating an adjustment in normal governance practices are hardly surprising, and are entirely coherent with Fiorenza’s suspicion that wealth – and we must add, status – likely played a significant role in the governance of Christ groups, even if the ‘normal’ practice, as suggested by Phil 1:1 and Did. 15.3, was the election of rotating leaders in a system of flat hierarchy. Thus, there is a grain of truth in Von Campenhausen’s view that “ministries,” as he calls them (or “offices”) were at least sometimes enjoyed on a more or less permanent basis, but this would especially be the case when the office-holder had wealth, influence, and status which allowed him or her to insist on a permanent office, or which made it advantageous for the group to prevail on the office-holder to assume a permanent role. 4. Fiorenza’s suggestion that indigenous practices affected the complexion of Christ groups is also no doubt correct.57 Rather than, with Von Campenhausen, considering the ἐπίσκοποι καὶ διάκονοι of Phil 1:1 as a symptom of a late development, it is more likely that it simply reflects indigenous practices in Macedo56  The phrase διὰ βίου appears in a number of association inscriptions in connection with officers: e. g., IG II2 1326.36 (176/5 bce) (priesthood); IG II2 1328 (183/2, 175/4 bce) (attendant); IG II2 1368.7 (164/5 ce) (priest); IG II2 2361.10, 68 (200–211 ce) (priest; priestess); A.-F. ­Jaccottet, Choisir Dionysos: les associations dionysiaques ou la face cachée du dionysisme (Zürich: Akanthus, 2003), 2: no. 7 (141 ce). 57 Similarly, J. Reumann, ‘Church Office in Paul, especially in Philippians’, in B. McLean (ed.), Origins and Method: Towards a New Understanding of Judaism and Christianity: Essays in Honour of John C. Hurd, JSNTS 86 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 82–91, who argues that the ἐπίσκοποι καὶ διάκονοι of Phil 1:1 were indigenous officers drawn from Hellenistic models.

74

John S. Kloppenborg

nia, and the high degree of variability in organizational practices attested among associations from one locale to another.58 Sometimes the governance structure of associations mimicked the political structures of the city in which they were found. Thus in Athens many associations had a trio of ἐπιμεληταί, ταμίας and γραμματεύς, imitating the titles of civic officials. Associations that had cultic functions of course often had ἱερεῖς, ἱέρειαι or ἱεροποιοί. At times the name of the association and the name of the chief officer were coordinated, as in the case of an ἀρχισυνάγωγος serving as the president of assemblies (συναγωγή) of Judaeans or of barbers59 or the ἀρχίβακχος of a Dionysiac association.60 But this was not always the case: for example, were ἀρχισυνάγωγοι were the chief officers of two guilds devoted to heroes.61 Titles and functions varied from one locale to another, as Arnaoutoglou has observed a propos of one title attested in some associations: Associations were not monolithic groupings, but groups which would adapt to new developments by transforming their structure, or more often, their nomenclature; the semantic variety of the term ἀρχερανιστής reveals that what is true for one region of the Greek world it is not necessarily valid for another.62

Even in the same type of associations there could be differing titles depending on the locale. Dionysiac associations in Athens and Central Greece attest a ἱερεύς as the senior officer,63 while on Thera and Delos, ἐπίσκοποι appear to be the officers in charge.64 It is not even clear that the ἐπίσκοποι in Thera, who seem to have functioned as financial managers like a ταμίας in Athens, had the same suite of functions as the ἐπίσκοποι on Delos, whose function it was to announce honors, akin to the ἐπιμεληταί in Athens. It should not surprise us, then, if ἐπίσκοπος and διάκονος appear in Macedonia, at Philippi, but not in Thessalonike or in Corinth. And we should not automatically suppose that the ἐπίσκοποι attested at Philippi or in the Pastorals had the same function. In sum: the model of an office-free, Spirit-guided system of governance in the Christ groups of the first century rests on a confusion of Pauline rhetorical intervention in a situation of conflict at Corinth with a description of the system 58 See R. S. Ascough, ‘Voluntary Associations and the Formation of Pauline Christian communities: Overcoming the Objections’, in A. Gutsfeld and D.-A. Koch (eds.), Vereine, Synagogen und Gemeinden im kaiserzeitlichen Kleinasien, STAC 25 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), esp. 162–9. 59  IPerinthos 49.A8–9 (= GRA I no. 86) (I ce). 60  IG II2 1368.12–13, 67, 93, 117–18, 123, 140 (= GRA I no. 51) (164/5 ce). 61 P. Petsas, ‘ΧΡΟΝΙΚΑ’, in Ἀρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον 24B2 (1969), 300–2 (Thessalonike, 59/60 ce); CIG II 2007f (Hagios Mamas; II ce = GRA I no. 66). 62  I. Arnaoutoglou, ‘ΑΡΧΕΡΑΝΙΣΤΗΣ and Its Meaning in Inscriptions’, in ZPE  104 (1994), 110. 63  IG II2 1368 (Athens, 164/5 ce) = GRA I no. 51; Jaccottet, Dionysos, 2: no. 7 (Megara, 141 ce) = GRA I no. 60. 64  IG XII/3 329/1295 (Thera, II bce); I.Delos 1522 (Delos, time of Trajan).



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

75

of governance there, or elsewhere; and implausibly constructs both Paul as the author of a charismatic system of governance and his ekklesiae as incapable of creating systems of governance on their own. Comparative data suggests, on the contrary, that indigenous and highly varied systems of governance existed in every city and town in the Mediterranean world. There is little reason to suppose that early Christ groups, anomalously, had an office-free regime, and good reason to suppose that they mimicked both the flat-hierarchical practices widely attested elsewhere, and that patronage and wealth function to install some leaders as permanent officers. This being the case, a reassessment of 1 Clement is in order.

III. 1 Clement in the Context of Associations It is usual to argue that the principal concern of 1 Clement is to respond to conflicts over leadership (“Amt”). Lona puts the problem of the Corinthian Christ group thus: As the concern over appropriate leadership in the Pastorals shows, one can recognize in Pauline communities at the end of the first century the unmistakable tendency to define the functions of ecclesial leadership and the preconditions for the appointment of leaders. The sources do not provide evidence of the extent to which this development was accompanied by tensions and disputes in the churches, but it would be remarkable if such a change in the Corinthian community could have been effected in an entirely unproblematic way. The charismatic-enthusiastic voice which is so clearly attested in 1 Corinthians speaks against a smooth transition from a community that was once so charismatically oriented to a communal structure characterized by a growing institutionalization of leadership.65

This diagnosis of the issue in Corinth requires some adjustment. Almost all agree that the occasion of the letter is the report that former leaders at Corinth have been removed and replaced by others: Τοὺς οὖν κατασταθέντας ὑπ’ ἐκείνων ἢ μεταξὺ ὑφ’ ἑτέρων ἐλλογίμων ἀνδρῶν συνευδοκησάσης τῆς ἐκκλησίας πάσης, καὶ λειτουργήσαντας ἀμέμπτως τῷ ποιμνίῳ τοῦ Χριστοῦ μετὰ ταπεινοφροσύνης, ἡσύχως καὶ ἀβαναύσως, μεμαρτυρημένους τε πολλοῖς χρόνοις ὑπὸ πάντων, τούτους οὐ δικαίως νομίζομεν ἀποβάλλεσθαι τῆς λειτουργίας. (44.3) Those who were appointed by them [the apostles] or afterwards, by other men of reputation, and with the entire ekklesia approving, and having served the flock of Christ blamelessly and in humbleness of mind, quietly and with all modesty, and have been reputed for a long time by all – these we consider to have been unjustly thrust from their ministry.

65  H. E. Lona, Der erste Clemensbrief, KAV 2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 81. This view is earlier espoused by W. Wrede, Untersuchungen zum ersten Klemensbrief ­(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1891), 25–8.

76

John S. Kloppenborg

However, if the letter were designed simply to address an alteration in the system of governance – from a Spirit-guided practice to an institu­tionalized one – it is singularly strange that Clement does not raise the issue during the first forty-two chapters. The first two-thirds of the letter would be orphaned as unrelated musings about jealousy, repentance, obedience, hospitality, humility, and the gifts of God. An alternate understanding of the letter, proposed by almost simultaneously by W. C. van Unnik and Paul Mikat,66 and more recently endorsed by Barbara Bowe and Odd Magne Bakke, argues that the issue for the letter writer is στάσις, and that the letter itself is a defense of ὁμόνοια καὶ εἰρήνη.67 As Van Unnik argues, when 1 Clement is read from the perspective of a symbouleutikon on concord and peace, its various exhortations and admonitions fit within that framework. In Corinth, certain things were in dispute, cf. 1,1 …, thus a sumbolê was in order. In keeping with the dogmatic framework of the Christian Clement, naturally the decisive question for him lies, not in terms of what is “beneficial or harmful” but in terms of the commandments of God and God’s judgment. … Clement is conscious of the fact that he does not write on his own authority, but he appeals to the knowledge of the Holy Scripture which his readers possess, as he says in praise of them, and which he repeatedly calls to remembrance: the word of God shows where the ways of obedience and disobedience lead. When the order established by God is destroyed through discord, salvation is put at risk.68

Van Unnik pointed out that Clement’s appeal for ὁμόνοια καὶ εἰρήνη echoes a trope in political discourse widespread from the mid-first century ce onwards, promoting concord and peace as a precondition to prosperity. This trope, attested in Dio Chrysostom, Plutarch, Cassius Dio, Tacitus, Lucian of Samosata and others is connected in particular with idealizations of the polis or the state: when the polis exhibits ὁμόνοια καὶ εἰρήνη its citizens will prosper and are saved from various disasters. Dio treats ὁμόνοια καὶ εἰρήνη as the condition of a city founded by the gods (Or. 39.2)69 and promotes it as the ideal state of a city that is governed by philosophers (Or. 49.6).70 66  P. Mikat, Die Bedeutung der Begriffe Stasis und Aponoia für das Verständnis des 1. Clemensbriefes, VAFLNW.G 155 (Köln: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1969); W. C. van Unnik, ‘Studies on the So-called First Epistle of Clement: The Literary Genre’, in Breytenbach and W ­ elborn, Encounters with Hellenism, 115–81. 67  B. E. Bowe, A Church in Crisis: Ecclesiology and Paraenesis in Clement of Rome, HDR 23 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1988); O. M. Bakke, “Concord and Peace”: A Rhetorical Analysis of the First Letter of Clement with an Emphasis on the Language of Unity and Sedition, WUNT 2.141 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001). 68  Van Unnik, ‘Studies’, 159–60. 69 Dio, Or. 39.2: πρέπει δὲ τοῖς ὑπὸ θεῶν ᾠκισμένοις εἰρήνη καὶ ὁμόνοια καὶ φιλία πρὸς αὑτούς …. θεοὶ γὰρ οἰκισταὶ καὶ συγγενεῖς καὶ προπάτορες οὐδὲν οὕτως ἐθέλουσι τοὺς αὑτῶν ἔχειν, οὔτε χώρας κάλλος οὔτε καρπῶν ἀφθονίαν οὔτε πλῆθος ἀνθρώπων, ὡς σωφροσύνην καὶ ἀρετὴν καὶ πολιτείαν νόμιμον καὶ τῶν μὲν ἀγαθῶν πολιτῶν τιμήν, τῶν δὲ κακῶν ἀτιμίαν, “Now peace and concord and friendship are appropriate for those (whose city) is founded by the gods …. For the gods as founders and kinsmen and forefathers desire for them nothing – neither



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

77

For his part, Clement retells various biblical stories, inserting ὁμόνοια into the account. For example, Noah is said to have “proclaimed the renewal of the cosmos and the Lord saved through him the animals that had entered the arc in concord ”71 and the fate of Lot’s wife is said to have resulted from her having “a different opinion and being out of concord.”72 Like Dio, Clement represents concord as the basic condition established by God in creation (20.3, 10, 11), and as the condition to be sought as a divine gift for the ekklesia (21.1; 30.3; 34.7, 49.5; 50.5) and for earthly rulers (60.4; 61.1). It is this concern – for concord and peace instead of στάσις – that is the overwhelming rhetorical concern for Clement.73 The cause of the στάσις is still a matter of speculation. As indicated above, the most commonly ventured suggestion is that pneumatics at Corinth – representatives of the original style of governance – had resisted creeping institutionalization and had displaced a few of the leaders.74 There are numerous problems with this view, not least of which is the fact that the evidence for an original pneumatic charter of the Corinthian ekklesia is lacking. Moreover, as noted above, the rhetorical construction of 1 Clement does not support the thesis that Clement sees the problem as one of charismatics opposing other forms of leadership. Some have suggested that the issue is intergenerational, and that younger members had displaced older ones.75 Countryman adopts a version of this, sugbeautiful countryside nor an abundance of crops nor a huge population – so much as moderation, virtue, lawful government, and honor for good citizens and dishonor for the wicked.” 70 Dio, Or. 49.6: εὕροι δ’ ἄν τις σπανίως μὲν φιλοσόφους ἄρξαντας ἐν τοῖς ἀνθρώποις, λέγω δὲ τὰς ὠνομασμένας ἀρχάς, στρατηγοὺς ἢ σατράπας ἢ βασιλέας καθισταμένους· πλεῖστα δὲ καὶ μέγιστα ἀπολαύσαντας αὐτῶν ἀγαθὰ τοὺς ἀρχομένους· … τοσοῦτον χρόνον εὐδαιμονήσαντας καὶ μετὰ πλείστης ὁμονοίας καὶ εἰρήνης πολιτευσαμένους, ὅσον ἐκεῖνοι χρόνον τὰς πόλεις διεῖπον, “Now while only rarely one might find philosophers governing among people – I mean appointed to designated offices, or as generals, satraps, or kings –, those ruled by them enjoying the greatest of benefits … for they were happy and conducted themselves with the greatest concord and peace as long as the [the philosophers] managed the cities.” 71  1 Clem. 9.4: Νῶε … παλιγγενεσίαν κόσμῳ ἐκήρυξεν, καὶ διέσωσεν δι’ αὐτοῦ ὁ δεσπότης τὰ εἰσελθόντα ἐν ὁμονοίᾳ ζῶα εἰς τὴν κιβωτόν. 72  1 Clem. 11.2: συνεξελθούσης γὰρ αὐτῷ τῆς γυναικὸς ἑτερογνώμονος ὑπαρχούσης καὶ οὐκ ἐν ὁμονοίᾳ, εἰς τοῦτο σημεῖον ἐτέθη, ὥστε γενέσθαι αὐτὴν στήλην ἁλὸς ἕως τῆς ἡμέρας ταύτης, εἰς τὸ γνωστὸν εἶναι πᾶσιν, ὅτι οἱ δίψυχοι καὶ οἱ διστάζοντες περὶ τῆς τοῦ θεοῦ δυνάμεως εἰς κρίμα καὶ εἰς σημείωσιν πάσαις ταῖς γενεαῖς γίνονται. 73  Mikat, Die Begriffe Stasis und Aponoia, 24–34, concurs that the concern of Clement is for concord and peace, but puts this in a juridical context: Clement understands that στάσις has a legal meaning and would in some circumstances evoke the power of the state to suppress sedition by force, execution or exile. Thus Clement urges the Corinthians to return to the state of concord by having the leaders of the στάσις accept self-exile (51.1–4). 74  See, with varying nuances, Wrede, Untersuchungen zum ersten Klemensbrief, 34, 37; P. Meinhold, ‘Geschehen und Deutung im ersten Klemensbrief’, in ZKG 58 (1939), 99–100; Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority, 86, and others. K. Beyschlag, Clemens Romanus und der Frühkatholizismus. Untersuchungen zu I Clemens 1–7, BHTh 35 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1966), 4 n. 2: “Diese Vermutung erscheint in fast alle Clemensdarstellungen in monotoner Wiederkehr.” 75  H. Lietzmann, Geschichte der alten Kirche (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1953–1961), 1:201–2.

78

John S. Kloppenborg

gesting that the “insurgents” were neoi not in the sense of youth, but in terms of experience within the ekklesia.76 Fiorenza thinks that the young had joined forces with wealthy women to resist the imposition of patriarchal power by some elders.77 This rendering of the conflict depends largely on interpreting 1 Clem. 3.3, οἱ νέοι ἐπὶ τοὺς πρεσβυτέρους, as more than a rhetorical cliché adapted from Isa 3:5,78 a conclusion that Bowe and others reject.79 Bakke urges that 1 Clem. 3.3 points to conflict over socio-economic status, continuing the conflict between the ‘strong’ and the ‘weak’ evidenced, on ­Theissen’s reading, in 1 Corinthians.80 Bakke thus argues The circumstance makes it reasonable to assume that the presbyters who were removed from their office in Corinth were relatively wealthy house-hosts who functioned as patrons for the members of their respective house-churches. The suggestion that the presbyters were wealthy is, furthermore, consistent with our interpretation of 3,3. The instigators of the sedition belonged according to this interpretation to the lower strata of the church.81

The fault of the instigators is that they failed to observe the basic rule of patronalia – the loyalty of clients to their patron. This view assigns a good deal of weight to 1 Clem. 3.3 as a description of the situation. While 1 Clem 3.1–4 should be regarded as the narratio,82 it is also replete with hyperbole and biblical allusions which defy a simple translation into the current social situation in Corinth, and hence it is not clear that οἱ ἄτιμοι, οἱ ἄδοξοι, οἱ ἄφρονες, and οἱ νέοι – the first and final members cribbed from Isaiah – should taken as sober social description. Moreover, when ­Clement later suggests self-exile for the instigators of the στάσις, he appeals to their ­civic-mindedness and nobility (γενναῖος), willingness to sacrifice for the entire group, and assures them that should they do this, ἑαυτῷ μέγα κλέος ἐν Χριστῷ περιποιήσεται, καὶ πᾶς τόπος δέξεται αὐτόν (54.3), an assurance that is hardly credible if directed at non-elite who had demonstrated ingratitude towards their social betters. 76  L. W. Countryman, The Rich Christian in the Church of the Early Empire: Contradictions and Accommodations (Lewiston / Queenstown: Mellen, 1980), 156. 77  Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her, 293. 78  1 Clem. 3.3: οὕτως ἐπηγέρθησαν οἱ ἄτιμοι ἐπὶ τοὺς ἐντίμους, οἱ ἄδοξοι ἐπὶ τοὺς ἐνδόξους, οἱ ἄφρονες ἐπὶ τοὺς φρονίμους, οἱ νέοι ἐπὶ τοὺς πρεσβυτέρους, alluding to Isa 3:5: καὶ συμπεσεῖται ὁ λαός, ἄνθρωπος πρὸς ἄνθρωπον καὶ ἄνθρωπος πρὸς τὸν πλησίον αὐτοῦ· προσκόψει τὸ παιδίον πρὸς τὸν πρεσβύτην, ὁ ἄτιμος πρὸς τὸν ἔντιμον, “and the people collapse, man against man, and man against his neighbor; the child will strike the elder and the worthless the noble.” 79  Bowe, A Church in Crisis, 18–19. 80  G. Theissen, The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity: Essays on Corinth (trans. J. H. Schütz; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982). 81  Bakke, Concord and Peace, 289–316, here 314. 82  Ibid., 224–6.



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

79

A more credible scenario is the suggestion of Maier, that the dispute is between patrons of house churches, and that conflict over governance (44.1: περὶ τοῦ ὀνόματος τῆς ἐπισκοπῆς) led to a division within one or two of the Corinthian house churches which had resulted in the creation of an alternative meeting place, the exodus of members who are sympathetic with these persons and, presumably, the exclusion of members who are opposed to them.83

Maier himself is sympathetic to Harnack’s characterization of the dispute as one of “persönliche Cliquenwirtschaft.”84 Consideration of data from associations can concretize the situation proposed by Maier. Above I have mentioned two instances of the complexion of an association being altered. In the cases of IG II2 1328 an explicit decree of an association to allow only a flat hierarchy of assistants to the yearly priestess was subsequently overridden to allow Metrodora to assume the role of ζάκορος for life. In the second case, IG II2 1368, a longtime priest was persuaded to relinquish his position as priest (and the honor that went with this) in favor of a more powerful figure, Herodes Atticus. Of course, the fact that we have these inscriptions is mute testimony to the fact that all the members agreed – or were thought to agree – to these changes.85 The scenarios outlined in IG II2 1328 and 1368 both concern the persons of high status and influence who were either able to persuade the association in question to alter its long-standing practices of governance, or persons whose benefactions the associations wished to attract and were thus willing to deviate from their own practices. The Iobakchoi decree describes their consequential decision to demote a former priest and install another one in the most enthusiastic of terms: ἐπαινέσαντος τοῦ ἱερέως καὶ τοῦ ἀρ- χιβάχχου καὶ τοῦ προστάτου ἐξ(εβόησαν)· «τούτοις ἀεὶ χρώμεθα», «καλῶς ὁ ἱερεύς», «ἀνάκτησαι 15 [τ]ὰ δόγματα»· «σοὶ πρέπει», «εὐστάθειαν τῷ Βακχείῳ καὶ εὐκοσμίαν», «ἐν στήλῃ τὰ δό- γματα» «ἐπερώτα». (IG II2 1368.12–17) … after the priest and archibakchos and the president had approved, they (all) shouted: “We will use these forever!” “Bravo for the priest!” “Revive the statutes!” “It is fitting for 83  H. O. Maier, The Social Setting of the Ministry as Reflected in the Writings of Hermas, Clement, and Ignatius, Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion, Dissertations Series 1 (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier, 1991), 93. 84  Harnack, ‘Das Schreiben der römischen Kirche’, 76. 85  Voting is expressly attested in IG II2 1343 (Athens, 37/6 or 36/5 bce) = GRA I no. 48 (on association decrees); SEG 21: 122.9 (Liopesi, early II ce) = GRA I no. 50 (vote to expel a member); IG II2 1368.35–6, 53, 86–7, 146 (Athens, 164/5 ce) = GRA I no. 51 (vote to admit a new member; vote to disciple members; vote to select a treasurer); also IG X/2.1 192 (Thessalonike, III ce) (voting an honor).

80

John S. Kloppenborg

you (to do so)!” “Health and good order to the Bakcheion!” “(Inscribe) the statutes on a stele!” “Put the question!”

Yet the rule of the Iobakchoi goes on to establish penalties for fighting and disorderly conduct, for failing to attend a meeting, and even for the disciplinary officer (eukosmos) failing to act on an instance of violence. Behind the seeming unanimity at the beginning of the decree, it is clear that many types of agonistic behavior lurk, most of them symptomatic of the struggle for honor and status among peers that was typical of Mediterranean society. It is far from unlikely that the changes to the complexion of these two associations (and others) resulted in opposition, grumbling, absenteeism from meetings when honors were voted, and for some, departure from the group entirely. A decree from late Ptolemaic Egypt anticipates such behavior and forbids the establishing of factions and departure from “the brotherhood of the leader” for another group (ἐξέστω{ι} … μη{ι}δὲ σχί{σ}ματα συνίστασ[θαι] | μηιδ’ ἀπ[ο] χωρή{ι}σε[ιν ἐκ] τῆς τοῦ ἡγ[ου]μένου φράτρας εἰς ἑτέραν φράτραν).86 Many honorific decrees add a codicil that threatens those charged with enacting and announcing honors with fines should they fail to discharge the association’s will.87 Such a measure is not enacted to deal with forgetfulness on the part of the supervisors; it was needed because one year’s supervisors might be tempted to deny the promulgation of honors to their predecessors out of rivalry or even enmity. Associations were zones of conflict as well as zones of concord. Conflict had to be managed, but φιλοτιμία in members was routinely commended and encouraged, and such behavior is inherently agonistic.88 It would be naive to suppose that, in a culture so attuned to social status and the gradients of honor, that the promotion of Herodes Atticus and Metrodora was not attended by raised eyebrows at the very least, and perhaps by complaints and open hostility. This kind of reaction, it should be recognized, is not an unusual one, but given the complexion of Mediterranean society, a perfectly usual and even predictable reaction. Hence, the scenario dimly sketched by 1 Clement, of long-time leaders being displace in favor of others is hardly a singular one, and the accusations by Clement of manifestations of ζῆλος καὶ φθόνος, ἔρις καὶ στάσις hardly unexpected. On this scenario, the conflict is not, as Bakke would have it, between low and high-statused persons, but probably a conflict provoked by an influential person and potentially powerful patron managing to displace some long-time leaders – the same situation of Herodes Atticus and Nikomachos, but with less happy 86 

P.Lond VII 2193.13–14; Philadelpheia (Arsinoites), 69–58 bce. ΑΜ 66 228 no. 4.18–20 (138/7 bce) (GRA I no. 39); IG II2 1263.43–5 (300/299 bce) (GRA I no. 11); IG II2 1273AB.22–3 (265/4 bce) (GRA I no. 18); IG II2 1292.16–17 (215/4 bce) (GRA I no. 26); IG II2 1297.17–18 (236/5 bce) (GRA I no. 24). 88 See D. Whitehead, ‘Competitive Outlay and Community Profit: φιλοτιμία in Democratic Athens’, in CM 34 (1983), 55–74. 87 



Pneumatic Democracy and the Conflict in 1 Clement

81

consequences. It also resembles aspects of Fiorenza’s scenario: those with wealth managing to unseat others, though not necessarily because there is a conflict between a vision of an egalitarian community and ‘patriarchalizing’ tendencies. Clement’s advice to the persons he sees as the instigators of the problem that they should accept self-exile appeals to the same high-minded and civic responsibility that is aptly expressed by Milo’s speech in Cicero’s Pro Milone 93 “valeant,” inquit “valeant cives mei; sint incolumes, sint florentes, sint beati; stet haec urbs praeclara mihique patria carissima, quoquo modo erit merita de me; tranquilla re publicamei cives, quoniam mihi cum illis non licet, sine me ipsi, sed propter me tamen perfruantur. ego cedam atque abibo. si mihi bona re publica frui non licuerit, at carebo mala, etquam primum tetigero bene moratam et liberam civitatem, in ea conquiescam.” “May my fellow-citizens fare well,” he says, “may they fare well. May they be safe, and prosperous, and happy; ever may this distinguished city and my dearest country, however it may treat me, long endure; may my fellow-citizens, since I cannot be with them, enjoy without me the republic in tranquillity, but still in consequence of my conduct. I will submit and depart; if I am not allowed to enjoy good things of the republic, at least I shall be at a distance from a bad one; and the first well regulated and free city that I arrive at in that will I rest.”

This is not the sentiment of the non-elite, but of an optimus who puts the safety and concord of the city above personal convenience; it is the same sense of civic responsibility to which Clement appeals in chapter 54.

IV. Conclusion The thesis of an office-free, pneumatically governed early community, as incorrigible as it has seemed, rests on some basic misunderstandings of Pauline rhetoric and is unrealistic as a model of human organization, especially in the Mediterranean world. Consequently, this picture cannot and should not be employed as a foil against which to judge 1 Clement. Recent analysis of 1 Clement has shown that, contrary to earlier views, it is not principally concerned to promote or defend institutionalization, it is concerned with στάσις and its consequences, and offers its advice to the Corinthian Christ group from within the framework of widespread civic discourse of “concord and peace” as the ideals of civic interaction. The cause of the discord in Corinth is hardly one of an original pneumatic organization being displaced by institutionalization or ‘patriarchalization,’ but rather conflict – of a relatively predictable sort – between common flat hierarchical practices among associations, and equally common interaction with persons of high social status and influence who demanded, or were offered, more than just fleeting prominence in associations with which they were connected.

If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon,” How Would We Know, and Why Would We Care? Prolegomena to Analyses of the Writing’s Genre and Community1

James A. Kelhoffer ἐγὼ μὲν γὰρ ἀπὼν τῷ σώματι παρὼν δὲ τῷ πνεύματι (1 Cor 5:3a) κατὰ τὴν ἔντευξιν … ἐν τῇδε τῇ ἐπιστολῇ (1 Clem. 63.2b) ἀναγινώσκω ὑμῖν ἔντευξιν (2 Clem. 19.1a) “That which we call a rose / by any other name would smell as sweet.”2

I.  Second Clement Is Not a Letter All scholars, including myself, concur that the so-called Second Letter of Clement is not a letter. The opening verses contain no epistolary prescript, commencing instead with a characterization of God – and, by extension, of Jesus Christ – as “judge” (κριτής), and urging that believers not “belittle” Christ or their salvation (2 Clem. 1.1–2). Also, the original conclusion (2 Clement 18), where the author refers to himself as “utterly sinful” (πανθαμαρτωλός) and in “fear of the coming judgment” (18.2), contains no epistolary postscript. Neither does the later addition of 2 Clement 19–203 contain any epistolary features but ends, instead, with a doxology (20.5). Thus, we can all agree that Second Clement is not a letter.4 One purpose of this paper is to explore what relevance the observation that Second 1  For constructive feedback on earlier drafts of this paper, I am indebted to R. Matthew ­ alhoun, Stephen C. Carlson, Rosemary Jermann, Andreas Lindemann and Clare K. RothC schild. 2  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene II (see note 49, below). 3  Second Clement comprises twenty chapters. In this essay, I subscribe to the view that chapters 19–20 are the work of a later author or editor. See, e. g., D. Völter, Die Apostolischen Väter, II/1: Die älteste Predigt aus Rom (Der sogenannte zweite Clemensbrief) (Leiden: Brill, 1908), 44–6; A. Lindemann, Die Clemensbriefe, HNT 17 / Die Apostolischen Väter 1 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), 255–6; W. Pratscher, Der zweite Clemensbrief, KAV 3 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 18–22, 220–1; P. Parvis, ‘2 Clement and the Meaning of the Christian Homily’, in P. Foster (ed.), The Writings of the Apostolic Fathers (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 32–41 at 34–5; W. Grünstäudl, ‘Epilog, Ouvertüre oder Intermezzo? Zur ursprünglichen Funktion von 2 Clem 19,1–20,4’, in Early Christianity 4/2 (2013), 242–60. 4  See further, for example, K. P. Donfried, The Setting of Second Clement in Early Christianity, NT.S 38 (Leiden: Brill, 1974), 24; Pratscher, Der zweite Clemensbrief, 25; C. Tuckett,

84

James A. Kelhoffer

Clement is not a letter has for an analysis of the non-epistolary writing’s genre and situation and, more generally, for its interpretation.

II. Construing Second Clement as a “Sermon” or “Homily” Subsequent to the seminal studies of Theodor Zahn, Adolf von Harnack, and J. B. Lightfoot,5 scholars have been largely content to distinguish Second Clement from both the author and genre of First Clement, designating the former writing as a “sermon” rather than a letter.6 Scholars have not, however, given adequate consideration to what it means to call Second Clement a “sermon,” or even to whether this category is apt, let alone helpful, for interpreting the writing. In 1885, Lightfoot confidently declared, “[T]he so-called Second Epistle [of Clement] is the first example of a Christian homily. The newly recovered ending7 has set this point at rest for ever. The work is plainly not a letter, but a homily, a sermon.”8 As recently as 1992, Andreas Lindemann made much the same point: “Daß 2Clem kein Brief, sondern eine Homilie ist, ist in der For­schung immer schon gesehen worden.”9 The typical reasoning in regard to Second Clement’s genre has been (1) Second Clement is not a letter; (2) therefore, it is a sermon. If one accepts the premise of the disjunctive syllogism10 that Second Clement is to be classified as either a letter or a sermon, the conclusion can be difficult to resist. An objection not considered in any of the secondary literature on Second Clement is that it would be simplistic to surmise that any non-epistolary writing ostensibly addressed to a congregation was de facto a “sermon.”11 2 Clement: Introduction, Text, and Commentary, Oxford Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 18–19. 5  T. Zahn, ‘Das älteste Kirchengebet und die älteste christliche Predigt’, in ZPK 72 (1876), 194–209; A. von Harnack, ‘Über den sogenannten zweiten Brief des Clemens an die Korinther’, in ZKG 1 (1877), 264–83, 329–64; Idem, ‘Zum Ursprung des sog. 2. Clemensbriefs’, in ZNW 6 (1905), 67–71; J. B. Lightfoot, The Apostolic Fathers (5 Vols.; London: Macmillan, 1885–1890; reprinted: Peabody: Hendrickson, 1989), esp. I/2:194–5. 6  In the first excursus below (after the discussion of Lightfoot), I address the confusion caused by widely varying definitions of “sermon” and “homily” in the secondary literature. 7 Lightfoot refers to the eleventh-century Greek ms published in 1875 by Philotheos ­Bryennios and, in particular, to 2 Clement 19–20, which are attested in that ms (but not in Codex Alexandrinus). 8  Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:194, emphasis original. 9  Lindemann, Clemensbriefe, 190. 10  A disjunctive syllogism is an argument postulating that ‘x’ is either (a) or (b); ‘x’ is not (a); therefore, it is (b). 11  Historiographically, scholars would want to establish criteria for judging whether a writing that claims to be a “sermon” was, in fact, delivered as a sermon to a Christian congregation and, moreover, if such criteria could be applied to additional writings, such as Second Clement, that do not even claim to be sermons. Establishment of such criteria remains a desideratum in studies of ancient Jewish and Christian sermons.



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

85

In this essay, I challenge several scholars’ rationale for presenting “sermon” (or “homily”) as an apt designation for Second Clement and question whether this designation helps to interpret the writing or to define its Sitz im Leben as a particular liturgical context (that is, as a sermon delivered in a worship service). I begin with brief observations about variety in early Christian epistolography and highlight similarities between the Sitze im Leben (plural), on the one hand, of a letter read to a congregation and, on the other hand, of a “sermon” read to a congregation. I then review the discussions by eight scholars of Second Clement’s genre and conclude that the status quaestionis needs to be revisited. Finally, I suggest that attention to certain similarities in micro-genre between Second Clement and certain types of ancient letters offers a promising way forward.

III.  The Remarkably Similar Sitze im Leben of Reading a “Letter” and Reading a “Sermon” Several considerations collectively provide a conceptual framework for my critique of “sermon” as an apt designation for Second Clement. 1.  Orality and Literacy Virtually all early Christian literature was composed to be read aloud. Paul, for example, places the Thessalonians under oath to read his letter to the whole assembly: “I place you under oath (ἐνορκίζω) in the Lord that this letter be read to all the brothers (πᾶσιν τοῖς ἀδελφοῖς)” (1 Thess 5:27). When an early Christian letter is read in an assembly, the author is, in effect, preaching to the congregation through the person who reads the letter. Positing a binary distinction, then, between a letter composed for a congregation and a sermon composed for a congregation is modern, questionable and, possibly, anachronistic. We have no information from the first, second, or third centuries that could corroborate (or contradict) such a distinction between the role and form of a letter or a “sermon” in early Christian literature. Both letters and “sermons” would have had equally oral functions in that they were composed to be read to one or more congregations.

86

James A. Kelhoffer

2.  Unusual Letters: The Authentic Letters of Paul With the exception of Philemon, Paul’s letters are exceptionally long relative to other Hellenistic Greek letters. Judith Lieu calls attention to this point when she refers to a writing entitled On Style12 to highlight what is not a real letter: By the standards of the time most of Paul’s letters would have been subject to the judgement of Demetrius On Style [§ 228] made about this time on Plato’s letters, that “they should not really be called letters but books with a greeting prefixed.”13

A Pauline letter is recognizable as a letter primarily in the opening and closing verses – that is, in rather small portions of the overall writing. Given the obvious differences between Paul’s overgrown letters and their stunted Hellenistic counterparts, Judith Lieu appropriately questions the wisdom of letting Paul’s letters provide “the starting point for the analysis of the New Testament letters as letters.”14 Especially in the body of his letters, Paul bends and expands the usual epistolary genre as he makes any number of context-specific appeals to his congregations. A Pauline letter, then, has the function of an admonition from Paul to the assembly – much like the function a sermon would have if read by someone other than the author. Paul is aware of this function when he announces to the Corinthians, “For though absent (ἄπειμι) in body, I am present (πάρειμι) in spirit” (1 Cor 5:3a; cf. 16:5–12). Udo Schnelle writes about the “apostolic parousia” (or “presence”) of Paul that is effected through the apostle’s letters: “Since Paul thinks of himself being present in the congregation either personally or by means of a messenger, or through his letter, the letter brings his apostolic authority to bear on the congregation ... .”15 One can ask, then, what the difference in genre would be between the appeals in a Hellenistic letter’s modified form (for example, in a Pauline letter), on the one hand, and a collection of appeals lacking an epistolary prescript and postscript, on the other hand. I would suggest that, in terms of the writings’ overall genre characteristics, the differences could be rather small. Without abrogating 12  Gk.:

περὶ ἑρμηνείας (ca. 1st c. b.c.e. to 2nd c. c.e.), attributed (incorrectly) to Demetrius Phalereus (3rd c. b.c.e.). Lieu’s point holds even more so for First Clement. 13  Lieu, The Second and Third Epistles of John: History and Background, Studies of the New Testament and Its World (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1986), 38, continues: “2 and 3 John alone in the New Testament conform to these standards of brevity; each would probably just fill a papyrus sheet.” 14  Lieu, Epistles, 49; the former emphasis (above) is added; the latter is Lieu’s. On a prevalent trend in scholarship since Adolf Deissmann, Lieu, Epistles, 49, surmises, “The results [of starting with Paul’s letters] have been misleading and it might be better to recognise that it is 2 and 3 John which can most fruitfully be compared with the papyri letters, and primarily 3 John.” 15 U. Schnelle, The History and Theology of the New Testament Writings (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998 [1994]), 40–1.



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

87

those differences, I contend that possible similarities also merit attention. This is not to question the importance of epistolary features for interpreting letters. Rather, I question the significance of a lack of epistolary features for interpreting non-epistolary writings. 3.  Pseudepigraphic Pauline Letters One can wonder if letters written pseudonymously in Paul’s (or another apostle’s) name were actually intended to be sent and read as letters. True, they have the form of a (modified Pauline) letter. But did they have the function of a letter? An assessment of the difference in form between a (modified Pauline) pseudonymous letter and an anonymous, non-epistolary appeal likewise merits attention. 4.  Hortatory Writings without Epistolary Features Some early Christian authors – most notably, the authors of Hebrews and First John – dispensed with the formal features of an epistolary prescript and/or postscript. The Sitze im Leben of a letter and of an appeal written to be read to a congregation are quite similar. Would the original hearers even have noticed much of a difference? As an example of the need for terminological precision, I mention briefly Georg Strecker’s remark on the genre of the Johannine epistles. On the one hand, I could concur with Strecker that, if one grants his inference that First John addresses “multiple congregations,” it would make sense to characterize the text as “a homiletic writing addressed to the whole [Johannine] church.”16 Strecker correctly recognizes that a non-epistolary writing read to one or more congregations, where the author is not present to deliver the message, would have a homiletic function. On the other hand, Strecker’s characterization of First John as “a homily in the form of a letter”17 exacerbates the confusion surrounding the category of “sermon” or “homily” in relation to ancient letters.

16  G. Strecker, The Johannine Letters: A Commentary on 1, 2, and 3 John, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 3, emphasis original: “In both form and content, 1 John must be categorized differently from 2 and 3 John… . [Unlike 2 and 3 John,] 1 John lacks the essential marks of a letter… . [Those addressed in 1 John] apparently belong to multiple congregations that make up the community as a whole, rather than to a particular local congregation. From this point of view it seems that one should regard the writing as a combination of letter and sermon, and designate it a homily in the form of a letter, a homiletic writing addressed to the whole church, but without thereby eradicating the immediate horizon of the Johannine community.” 17  Ibid. See the citation in the preceding footnote. See further Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 44–5.

88

James A. Kelhoffer

IV.  The Genre of Second Clement: A Selective Forschungsbericht The preceding section problematized common assumptions about differences between a letter and a “sermon.” It remains to bring these remarks into conversation with views on Second Clement’s genre. To show how common assumptions about differences between a letter and a “sermon” routinely contribute to misunderstandings of Second Clement’s genre, I review the work of J. B. Lightfoot (1885), Holt Graham (1965), Karl Paul Donfried (1974), Klaus Wengst (1984), Andreas Lindemann (1992), Wilhelm Pratscher (2007), Paul Parvis (2007), and Christopher Tuckett (2012). Each of these offers much to appreciate in his analysis of Second Clement, but with the exception of Donfried, who resists the designations “sermon” and “homily” for the writing, none offers a satisfactory rationale for why they construe Second Clement as a “sermon.” My interaction with their work gives rise to three excurses: I. Assumptions about the Role of a Single, Prepared “Sermon” in Early Christian Worship (Justin, First Apology 67) II.  Genre and Accountability: “Sermon” as an Excuse for Objectionable Theology? III.  2 Clem. 19.1 Points to an Acceptance of 2 Clement 1–18 among “the Scriptures”

These excurses critique in greater detail assertions that Second Clement is a “sermon” and consider possible implications of using “sermon” as an interpretive category. 1.  J. B. Lightfoot Lightfoot’s comprehensive five-volume commentary, The Apostolic Fathers, was a considerable achievement in its day and, in subsequent generations, has retained its status as a learned and influential work. Lightfoot refers to First Clement as “The Epistle of S. Clement”18 and to Second Clement as “An Ancient Homily.”19 The designations are helpful insofar as they highlight that First Clement and ­Second Clement stem from different authors and occasions. Above, I mentioned Lightfoot’s conviction that it has been set “at rest for ever” that Second Clement “is plainly not a letter, but a homily, a sermon.”20 Lightfoot supports this genre classification with two arguments. First, “The speaker addresses his hearers more than once towards the close as ‘brothers and sisters.’”21 Second, the admonitions “to remember the commandments of the Lord” 18  Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers (1885–1890), I/2:1–188; cf. Lightfoot’s designation “The Epistle of S. Clement to the Corinthians,” pp. 271–305. 19  Ibid., I/2:191–261. Presumably for clarity, on p. 189 Lightfoot refers to “The so-called Second Epistle of S. Clement to the Corinthians.” Cf. his designation of Second Clement as “an ancient homily by an unknown author” (pp. 306–16). 20  See above on Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:194. 21  Ibid., I/2:194–5 at 194, referring to 2 Clem. 19.1; 20.2.



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

89

(2  Clem. 17.3) and “to pay attention to what is written” (19.1) find a roughly contemporary analogy in Justin Martyr, who “describes the simple services of the Christians in his time.”22 Both of Lightfoot’s arguments are dubious. First, imploring one’s “brethren” (ἀδελφοί) is also a common feature of early Christian letters (!), including those of Paul, Ignatius, Polycarp, and First Clement.23 Further, the vocative ἀδελφοί occurs throughout Second Clement (1.1; 4.3; 5.1, 5; 7.1; 8.4; 9.11; 10.1; 11.5; 12.5; 13.1; 14.1, 3; 16.1), not just in the final chapters that were added later (ἀδελφοὶ καὶ ἀδελφαί, 19.1; 20.2). Further, the vocative ἀδελφοί occurs in other non-epistolary writings, such as the Martyrdom of Polycarp and the Shepherd of Hermas.24 Thus, the vocative ἀδελφοί [καὶ ἀδελφαί] does not distinguish Second Clement from early Christian epistolary literature. Nor does it suggest that Second Clement originated as a sermon. On the contrary, the writing’s many admonitions directed to ἀδελφοί could be taken as a similarity between Second Clement and certain early Christian letters. Second, appealing to Justin’s First Apology 67, Lightfoot argues for its similarities to the setting of a sermon posited for Second Clement. Justin describes Christian gatherings in which Scriptures are read and a leader gives instructions that the hearers are to carry out. Inasmuch as Justin’s descriptions are quite general and succinct, however, the recourse to Justin is unpersuasive.25 Nor do Justin’s admonitions support Lightfoot’s inference of “simple [worship] services,” to the exclusion of possibly more ritually or liturgically complex ones.26 Justin’s descriptions could, hypothetically, be applied to any number of Sitze im Leben – even to the reading of an early Christian letter within a congregation. The general descriptions of First Apology 67, then, do not support the inference that Second Clement was a “sermon.” I return to this conclusion below in the first excursus. Particularly curious is Lightfoot’s binary approach to the question of genre, with consideration given only to the options of letter and “sermon.” Simply put, we are not on terra firma with the assumption that any early Christian non-epistolary hortatory writing was composed as a “sermon.” The same assertion could, equally dubiously, be made for other non-epistolary writings. Would it make sense, or be helpful, to posit a sermonic context, for example, for the Martyrdom of Polycarp or the Shepherd of Hermas, both of which offer numerous admonitions to their 22 

Ibid., I/2:195. See immediately below on Justin, First Apology 67. the vocative ἀδελφοί in Rom 1:13; 1 Cor 1:10; 2 Cor 1:8; 13:11; Gal 3:15; Phil 1:12; 1 Thess 2:1; 2 Thess 2:1; Phlm 7 (ἀδελφέ); Jas 1:16; 2 Pet 1:10; Ign. Eph. 10.3; Ign. Rom. 6.2; Pol. Phil. 3.1; 1 Clem. 1.1; 14.1; 33.1; Barn. 2.10; 3.6. 24 See Mart. Pol. 1.1; 4.1; 22.1; Herm. Vis. 2.4.1 (8.1); 3.1.1, 4 (9.1, 4); 3.10.3 (18.3); 4.1.1, 5, 8 (22.1, 5, 8). See also Heb 3:1; 1 John 3:13. 25  See further Tuckett, 2 Clement, 21: “Whether 2 Clement can fit this model and/or pattern precisely is, however, probably doubtful.” 26  See above on Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:195. 23  E. g.,

90

James A. Kelhoffer

respective audiences and even address them as ἀδελφοί?27 Yet these writings present themselves neither as a letter nor as a sermon. Both the Martyrdom of Polycarp and the Shepherd of Hermas could (if hypothetically) have found use in admonishing gatherings of the faithful. The question would remain, however, What is gained from such a reading strategy, construing a sermonic use of a non-epistolary writing? In any case, the non-epistolary Second Clement could likewise have given many admonitions to ἀδελφοί without, in fact, having been composed as a sermon. Scholarship has not yet tested this possibility, let alone acknowledged it. In regard to the author of Second Clement, Lightfoot takes issue with Harnack’s proposal that a layperson delivered this sermon. In the early church, Lightfoot says, the sermon was usually given by “the chief ecclesiastical officer of the congregation,”28 and the vocative ἀδελφοί is only “a very common rhetorical figure, by which the speaker places himself on a level with the audience” in Second Clement.29 This assessment, too, may be viewed as inconclusive. Lightfoot successfully casts doubt on Harnack’s proposal, but his counterproposal is merely a generalization based on the premise that Second Clement was a sermon. Lightfoot fails to show that the author of Second Clement was indeed a recognized authority within his congregation, let alone in the church at large. In fact, Lightfoot’s positions about Second Clement’s genre and author raise as many questions as they attempt to answer. As we shall see, an uncritical acceptance of Lightfoot’s arguments by numerous subsequent scholars persists, to the detriment of scholarship on Second Clement. Excursus I: Assumptions about the Role of a Single, Prepared “Sermon” in Early Christian Worship (Justin, First Apology 67) The ways that scholars apply the terms “sermon” and “homily” to Second Clement vary considerably. For example, whereas Lightfoot uses the terms synonymously, Donfried and Pratscher differentiate between them.30 Because of this varied use, the present essay does not operate on the basis of a single definition of “sermon” or “homily” as a possible genre designation for Second Clement.31 However defined, to modern readers a “sermon” tends to connote a single mes27  See note 23 (above) and my counterargument to Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:194– 5, that the vocative ἀδελφοί does not indicate a sermonic function for Second Clement. 28  Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:196. 29  Ibid., I/2:195. 30  See above on Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:194 and below, on Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 26, and Pratscher, Der zweite Clemensbrief, 25. See further the discussion in Tuckett, 2 Clement, 20. 31  Since we do not have adequate information from the early church, it is particularly important to avoid presupposing false dichotomies – for example, Was a sermon short or long? Written or extemporaneous? Hortatory or exegetical? Theological or practical? Rhetorical or spontaneous? Polemical or pastoral?



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

91

sage written down in advance (or afterward), and delivered as a regular part of Christian worship. Unexamined in much scholarship, however, is whether this view of Christian worship was normative or even if it is fitting as a description of Second Clement’s Sitz im Leben. Indeed, the evidence is decidedly mixed. A strikingly different liturgical praxis appears in 1 Corinthians 14. At least among the congregation(s) in Corinth, Paul presents many believers as offering some kind of message for the congregation as a whole: “Whenever you come together, each one (ἕκαστος) has a hymn, a lesson, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation” (1 Cor 14:26). Even if Paul uses ἕκαστος hyperbolically, he describes virtually the opposite of a meeting organized around a single “sermon.” He also mandates that two or three prophets are to “speak” and that the other prophets (οἱ ἄλλοι) are to “evaluate” what is said (λαλείτωσαν καὶ … διακρινέτωσαν, 14:29). The Corinthian prophets apparently spoke spontane­ ously, since Paul orders that two prophets not speak simultaneously.32 Paul’s descriptions need not be taken as normative for all Pauline congregations, let alone for later second-century congregations. Nor should his description be dismissed as an aberration. Noteworthy is his mediating position that only two or three prophets are to “speak.” In Corinth, it was apparently acceptable to have a larger cohort of prophets participating, at times with competing, cacophonous and incomprehensible results. Neither Corinthian praxis nor Paul’s corrective stance attests to the role of a prepared “sermon” in Corinthian Christian worship. One might even wonder to what extent Paul’s lengthy œuvres to the Corinthians would have been featured among so many assorted messages from the Lord. The scene in 1 Corinthians 14 contrasts markedly with the one presented in First Apology 67. According to Justin, a reading from the apostles’ “memoirs” (ἀπομνημονεύματα) or the prophets’ “writings” (συγγράμματα, 67.3) precedes teaching and admonitions from the group’s “president” (ὁ προεστώς, 67.4). The president’s message is to be based on the writings of the apostles or prophets. Remarkably, though, Justin claims neither that the president’s message was prepared in advance nor that it was ever written down. First Apology 67 thus offers no evidence whatsoever for the role of a written “sermon” in the mid-second-century church. Moreover, Justin’s (apologetic) account shows obvious parallels to instruction in a philosophical school, where the reading of an esteemed philosopher’s writings customarily preceded an exposition of, and even admonitions based on, those writings. Such parallels in First Apology 67 are understandable, since, after his conversion to Christianity, Justin continued to identify as a “philosopher” and, as a sign of this vocation, retained his philosopher’s cloak (Dial. 1.7). There32  See 1 Cor 14:30. Also, a prophet apparently stands when speaking. Paul instructs that the speaking prophet is to sit before another prophet stands to commence with a different message (14:30), so that all can learn and be encouraged (14:31).

92

James A. Kelhoffer

fore, scholars should be cautious about generalizations drawn from First Apology 67 and applied to second-century liturgical practices.33 In this excursus, I dismiss neither 1 Corinthians 14 nor First Apology 67 as merely anecdotal. Rather, I reject the inference that First Apology 67 corroborates the claim for a liturgical function of Second Clement as a “sermon.” 2.  Holt H. Graham (and Robert M. Grant) In the interest of space, I skip ahead 80 years to Holt H. Graham’s 1965 commentary on Second Clement. In the very short introduction,34 Graham reflects some questionable presuppositions about the character of this purported sermon and its practical focus, and highlights its differences from Melito of Sardis’s homily. Referring to the author of Second Clement as “the preacher,” Graham writes, “The preacher is no theologian, as his efforts in chapters 9 and 14 make clear. He is, instead, intensely practical, and insists on repentance as expressed in self-control, abstinence and continence, and in good works.”35 Graham seems to presume that a “preacher” could not also be a competent “theologian.” To what extent an author could be both a “theologian” and a practical “preacher” ought not to be prejudiced by a presupposed and, possibly, anachronistic standard. Later, Graham distinguishes between a “sermon” like Second Clement and a “homily” like that of Melito of Sardis: “As a sermon, ... 2 Clement lacks the rhetorical and logical skill evidenced in Hebrews or in the paschal homily of Melito of Sardis. ... Repentance is a central theme in [2 Clement] 8–18, but there is no clear logical development.”36 That Graham highlights such differences between Second Clement and Melito’s homily actually weakens the usefulness of using “sermon” to describe what(ever) Second Clement may be. Moreover, the sermon genre itself remains a scholarly desideratum, as does the purported rhetorical skill of said genre. Graham asserts, then, that the author of Second Clement was a “preacher,” albeit not possessed of the theological or rhetorical acumen reflected in Melito’s paschal homily or in the book of Hebrews. One might also point out that, for the mid-second century, what we actually know about the (typical?) form, rhetoric, content, and context of Christian sermons is precious little. Thus, the contrasts that Graham draws between Second Clement, on the one hand, and Melito and Hebrews, on the other hand, are based on a sliver of anecdotal evidence. 33 

Contra Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:195. R. M. Grant and H. H. Graham, First and Second Clement, ApF(T) 2 (New York: ­Nelson, 1965), 109–10. Grant wrote the commentary on First Clement, and Graham the commentary on Second Clement. 35  Graham, Second Clement, 109, emphasis added. See above on Harnack’s characterization of the author of Second Clement as a layperson. 36  Graham, Second Clement, 110, emphases added. 34 



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

93

As a footnote to Graham’s position, I mention briefly Robert M. Grant’s 1992 Anchor Bible Dictionary article. Thirty years earlier, Grant had collaborated with Graham in a commentary series on the Apostolic Fathers. Largely repeating positions Graham had held at the time of that collaboration, Grant writes in the ABD article that Second Clement “is not a letter but a sermon on self-control, repentance, and judgment.”37 He adds that Second Clement “is simply one example of a ‘garden variety’ [second] century sermon, rhetorically inferior to the work of Melito of Sardis and Hippolytus.”38 One could ask what basis there is to designate Second Clement as typical (or “garden variety”) of anything in the second (or third) century. In any case, Grant accurately summarizes the communis opinio at the time the Anchor Bible Dictionary appeared. 3.  Karl Paul Donfried In his revised 1968 Heidelberg dissertation, Karl Donfried devotes an entire monograph to Second Clement – a rare allotment in scholarship. His attention to the question of genre39 is even more rare. Distinguishing a “sermon” and a “homily,” he dismisses rather quickly the term “sermon” as applicable to S­ econd Clement: “To define 2 Clement as a ‘sermon’ is not helpful since we know virtually nothing about the contours of such a genre in the first century A. D.”40 Donfried refers only to the first century because he assigns to the writing an extraordinarily early date ca. 98–100 c.e.41 Nonetheless, his point that “we know virtually nothing” about early Christian sermons would hold also for the second and even the third century. Donfried gives considerably more attention to dispensing with “homily” as an apt designation for Second Clement.42 I agree wholeheartedly with his forceful statement that “the term ‘homily’ is so vague and ambiguous that it should be withdrawn until its literarily generic legitimacy has been demonstrated.”43 ­Donfried criticizes Hartwig Thyen’s form-critical study on the (supposed) style of the Jewish-Hellenistic homily, a study that has been influential in NT scholarship that treats the (again, supposed) form of the early Christian homily.44 37 

R. M. Grant, ‘Clement, Second Epistle of’, in ABD 1 (1992), 1061.

38 Ibid. 39 

Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 25–34. Ibid., 26. 41  Ibid., 1; see further on this point below. 42  Ibid., 26–34. Among several valuable observations and critiques in this discussion is Donfried’s salient point (p. 27) that, in Xenophon, ὁμιλέω refers to “a teacher’s lectures” and ὁμιλία to “instruction.” 43  Ibid., 26. 44 Ibid., 27–8, on H. Thyen, Der Stil der jüdisch-hellenistischen Homilie, FRLANT 47 ­(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1955). 40 

94

James A. Kelhoffer

Donfried justifiably objects that Thyen “never defines homily in terms of literary form.”45 Even more devastating is Donfried’s criticism that “Thyen’s method is both arbitrary and circular: he selects writings which he thinks are of homiletic character, proceeds to analyze them, and then says, he has carefully analyzed the form of the homily!”46 Donfried concludes, In view of the fact that the generic legitimacy of the concept ‘homily’ has yet to be demonstrated and [that continued use of the term] is more likely to confuse than to illuminate, it will be a wise methodological procedure to define 2 Clement in light of its own self-description.47

Does Donfried offer a helpful counterproposal to the designations “sermon” and “homily”? Unfortunately, not. Building on a brief discussion of 2 Clem. 15.1, 17.3 and 19.1, he concludes, “2 Clement is a hortatory address.”48 Besides stating the obvious, that Second Clement is a “hortatory” writing, Donfried does not propose a real alternative to the problematic category of “sermon.” Nor does his designation “hortatory address” offer any more promise of “generic legitimacy”49 than does the equally problematic designation “homily.” If, for Shakespeare’s ­Juliet, “that which we call a rose / by any other name would smell as sweet,” what Donfried designates as “a hortatory address” would, in a Christian assembly, be equally homiletic or sermonic.50 It is somewhat surprising, perhaps also inconsistent, that Donfried refers to the author of Second Clement as “the preacher.”51 As discussed above, virtually all early Christian literature, whatever its genre, when read to a congregation, would function as an “address” or, however construed, a “sermon.” Donfried’s objections to categorizing Second Clement as a “sermon” or a “homily” have largely fallen on deaf ears. This might be due to the fact that few, if any, scholars have been persuaded by his constructive – and creative – proposal that Second Clement was a “hortatory discourse” composed by one of the recently reinstated Corinthian elders ca. 98–100 c.e. as a follow-up to First Clement and 45 

Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 27. Ibid., 28. Also problematic, according to Donfried (p. 28), is Thyen’s “uncritical dependence upon [Rudolf] Bultmann’s 1910 doctoral dissertation, Der Stil der paulinischen Predigt und die kynisch-stoische Diatribe [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht],” where Bultmann attempted to show that the Cynic-Stoic diatribe as a fixed genre [sic] and a genre that offers an analogy for Paul’s preaching. 47  Ibid., 34, referring to 2 Clem. 15.1, 17.3 and 19.1, which he discusses on pp. 34–6; I give attention to these passages later in this paper. 48  Ibid., 34–6 at 35. 49  See above on Ibid., 26, 34. 50  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene II, emphasis mine. See the note below on Donfried’s (Setting of Second Clement, 1) central thesis that a presbyter would read ­Second Clement to the Corinthian congregation, as well as Donfried’s remark (p. 19) that it “was composed and written prior to the worship service and which had just been read to the congregation.” 51  Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, e. g., 160. 46 



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

95

was read to the church in Corinth.52 Whatever the reason for scholarship’s ignoring of Donfried’s insights on the problem of Second Clement’s genre, the result is unfortunate and somewhat baffling. Donfried’s unpersuasive proposals do not annul his valid critique of what was four decades ago – and remains today – the scholarly consensus of construing Second Clement as a “sermon” or “homily.” 4. Klaus Wengst In his 1984 commentary, Klaus Wengst maintains that Second Clement is best characterized “als ‘Mahnrede’ (hortatory address),” a designation identical to Donfried’s “hortatory address.”53 Unlike Donfried, however, he does not reject the category of “sermon” for the writing. Wengst helpfully points out that any use of “homily” or “sermon” applied to Second Clement should not draw upon an anachronistic understanding of these terms.54 Accordingly, Wengst cautiously delineates a rather minimalist definition of an early Christian homily or sermon: Um überhaupt von Homilie oder Predigt sprechen zu können, reicht es aus, wenn es sich um eine in der Gemeindeversammlung vorgetragene Rede handelt, der die Verlesung eines Bibeltextes voranging, auf den sie in irgendeiner Weise bezogen ist. Beide Punkte treffen auf den 2. Klemensbrief zu.55

Wengst’s caution in regard to referring to Second Clement as a “sermon” or “homily” is laudable. Since we know so little about the actual setting and form of early Christian sermons, he finds it prudent to envision only certain basic details – a community gathering, in which someone speaks to the congregation with a message that follows, and is somehow based upon, a reading from Scripture. However appropriate, such a general understanding of a “sermon” does limit its explanatory power as a genre designation and therefore carries little weight for Wengst’s observation that “Beide Punkte treffen auf den 2. Klemensbrief zu.” 52  Ibid., 1: “It is our thesis that shortly after their reinstatement these presbyters wrote a hortatory discourse, known to us as 2 Clement, which one of them read to the Corinthian congregation assembled for worship.” Despite the discussion entitled ‘The Origin of  ­2 ­Clement’ (pp. 1–15), Donfried’s (central!) thesis is mostly stated rather than argued (pp. 1–2), as it is accompanied by several irrelevant, or only tangentially relevant, discussions (pp. 2–15). Moreover, Donfried’s often insightful commentary on significant portions of the writing (‘The Intention of Second Clement’, pp. 98–179) considers neither how the text supports the posited scenario of a Corinthian audience ca. 98–100 c.e. nor how a reading of the text is enriched by this scenario. Donfried ignores the particular setting for which he argues even when summarizing his analysis of 2 Clement 1–18 (pp. 179–81; cf. 98–179, 1–2). 53  K. Wengst, Didache (Apostellehre), Barnabasbrief, Zweiter Klemensbrief, Schrift an ­Diognet, SUC 2 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft / München: Kösel, 1984), 214– 16 at 214. See immediately above on Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 34–6. Apparently building on Donfried, Wengst, Zweiter Klemensbrief, 214, includes the English translation “hortatory address” in his designation “als ‘Mahnrede’ (hortatory address).” 54  Wengst, Zweiter Klemensbrief, 215. 55  Ibid., 215–16.

96

James A. Kelhoffer

This view poses a difficulty similar to that in the general similarities between Second Clement and Justin’s First Apology 67, to which Lightfoot calls attention.56 More helpful, then, is Wengst’s initial characterization of Second Clement “als ‘Mahnrede’ (hortatory address),” although, at least to me, the term “Mahnung” (appeal) is clearer than the “Rede” (speech). Wengst next considers which passage of Scripture (“Bibeltext”) was read prior to the message of Second Clement (cf. 2 Clem. 19.1). Again with caution, he favors the argument of Rudolf Knopf that the text was Isaiah 54–66.57 In a search for an esteemed “Bible text” within 2 Clement 1–18, Isaiah 54 would perhaps be one of the better candidates. At 2 Clem. 2.1, the author cites Isa 54:1 (cf. Gal 4:27), and then comments (allegorically) on the verse (2 Clem. 2.2–3). At best, however, Knopf and Wengst’s hypothesis is speculative, not a confirmation that Second Clement had a homiletic function following a reading of OT Scripture.58 Better advice is voiced by Daniel Völter: “Aber welcher Schrifttext das gewesen ist, darüber braucht man sich nicht den Kopf zu zerbrechen.”59 5. Andreas Lindemann Above I mentioned Andreas Lindemann’s observation in 1992 that scholars have “always” (“immer”) viewed Second Clement as a homily or sermon.60 In his discussion of genre (Gattung), Lindemann prefers the designation “Lesepredigt,” since 2 Clem. 19.1 (ἀναγινώσκω ὑμῖν ἔντευξιν) refers to the reading of an “appeal” to a Christian congregation.61 The scholarly consensus on Second Clement’s genre, as reflected in the work of Lindemann and others, does not stand up to several objections. First, a “sermon” or “homily” is not a fixed genre but a Sitz im Leben. By definition, a work can be identified as part of a particular genre when that work can be shown to 56 

See above on Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:195. Wengst, Zweiter Klemensbrief, 216–17, following R. Knopf, Die Lehre der zwölf Apostel, Die zwei Clemensbriefe, HNT Erg. Die Apostolischen Väter 1 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1920), 268–78. 58  Below I argue that, in the case of Second Clement, Wengst’s scenario is implausible. As an alternative explanation, I suggest that 2 Clement 1–18 could have been the “Scripture” to which the later addition of 2 Clement 19–20 refers. 59 D. Völter, Die älteste Predigt aus Rom, 24. Likewise Pratscher, Der Zweite Clemensbrief, 27 (“Doch sind diese Versuche zum Scheitern verurteilt”), as well as Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 14, and Tuckett, 2 Clement, 22. I return to this point below. 60  See above on Lindemann, Clemensbriefe, 190: “Homilie … ist in der Forschung immer schon gesehen worden.” The generalization “immer” is not entirely accurate, however, as even a casual reading of Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 25–34, would indicate. 61  Lindemann, Clemensbriefe, 190. As mentioned above, although it is certainly correct to state that Second Clement is not a letter, I question the reasoning that, since the work is not a letter, it is to be regarded as a “homily,” and, furthermore, that the alternate designation of “homily” somehow illustrates our understanding of Second Clement. 57 



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

97

embed literary features common to a particular body of literature (for example, wisdom literature, ancient letters, apocalypses). But one could not with confidence name any distinctive literary features that would be regularly included in a message or exhortation that was delivered orally to a Christian congregation and was preserved, either before or afterward, in writing. Indeed, our knowledge of the written sermo in this early period would seem to exclude any such generalizations.62 Second, if a later addition to Second Clement (chaps. 19–20) has as its Sitz im Leben an appeal (ἔντευξις) read to a congregation, that Sitz im Leben attests to the reception, not necessarily to the original purpose, of 2 Clement 1–18. To infer, without an accompanying argument, that the Sitz im Leben of an addition was also the occasion for the original text would be dubious. In fact, nothing in 2 Clement 1–18 suggests that the writing is a sermon. Third, use of the term ἔντευξις (19.1) does not imply that this, or any other, writing is a sermon. In his lexicon, Frederick W. Danker illustrates this point, highlighting occurrences of ἔντευξις toward the end of both First and Second Clement: “[T]he letter [from] the church at Rome to the church at Corinth calls itself a petition, appeal [1 Clem. 63:2]; so does the sermon known as [Second Clement] (19:1).”63 In First Clement’s antepenultimate verse, the author(s) refer to the ἔντευξις given in the letter: For you will give us great joy and gladness if you obey what we have written through the Holy Spirit and root out the unlawful anger of your jealousy, in accordance with the appeal (κατὰ τὴν ἔντευξιν) for peace and harmony that we have made in this letter (ἐν τῇδε τῇ ἐπιστολῇ).64

By itself, then, ἔντευξις in 2 Clem. 19.1 does not indicate the form or setting of a sermon, as distinguished, for example, from the form or setting of a letter. If anything, the term suggests that the (later) author of 2 Clem. 19.1 understood Second Clement as a writing whose genre or purpose was quite close to that of First Clement. Fourth, the Sitz im Leben suggested by the reading of an ἔντευξις (19.1) is not particularly different from that Sitz im Leben posited for the reading of early Christian letters. Earlier, I pointed out that, if a letter (for example, from Paul) is intended to be read to a congregation by someone other than the author (see above on 1 Thess 5:27), the difference between this Sitz im Leben and that of a non-epistolary “appeal” (19.1) which came to be read by someone else to a congregation would be rather small, if not negligible. Notably, nothing in 2 Clement 1–18 or 19–20 suggests that the author is reading his own appeal to a congregation. 62 With Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 26–34 (discussed above). 63 

64 

BDAG, 339, s. v. ἔντευξις. 1 Clem. 63.2 (ET M. Holmes).

98

James A. Kelhoffer

Excursus II: Genre and Accountability: “Sermon” as an Excuse for Objectionable Theology? A specification of genre, even if vague or questionable, can – indeed, at times, appropriately – serve as a basis for additional observations and insights. Lindemann’s designation of Second Clement as a “Lesepredigt” has implications for his evaluation of the work’s theology. He helpfully summarizes numerous sharp criticisms, especially as voiced by German, Protestant exegetes, of Second Clement’s ostensible “works-righteousness” theology.65 Although Lindemann does not defend that theology, he attempts to mitigate the criticism of it, urging that Second Clement is not to be taken too seriously, since, after all, it is not a letter but only a sermon: Jede inhaltliche Bewertung der Theologie des 2Clem muß berücksichtigen, daß es sich um eine auf ein Thema konzentrierte Predigt66 handelt und nicht um einen sorgfältig ausgearbeiteten Brief oder gar um einen im strengen Sinne literarischen theologischen Text.67

Naturally, we applaud Lindemann for urging a less dogmatically severe judgment of Second Clement’s theology. We can also, if hypothetically, grant the possibility that a more theologically accomplished author could have chosen to express himself or herself more simply in a sermon.68 But in the case of Second Clement, we have no information about how much more theologically astute this author may have been. Moreover, Lindemann’s supposition runs aground with the consideration of the similar Sitze im Leben of a letter and of a sermon read to a congregation. Both Lindemann’s purportedly simple sermon and a carefully crafted letter would have to be digested by a congregation partially comprised of simple-minded people. It would thus be questionable to assume that an early Christian letter was (always) “sorgfältig ausgearbeitet” and that one could not expect from a (mere) sermon a serious “theological” text. Additionally, at the beginning of Second Clement, the argumentation is both theological and well organized so that, with good reason, one could characterize 1.1–8 as “ein sorgfältig ausgearbeitetes Argument.”69 However practically 65  Lindemann, Clemensbriefe, 195–6. See also Donfried’s concluding judgment that Second Clement “leads … in the direction of a legalism characteristic of the third century Western church” (Setting of Second Clement, 181, emphasis added [the monograph’s final sentence]). 66  Earlier in his remarks, Lindemann, Clemensbriefe, 190, seems to use the terms “Homilie” and “Predigt” interchangeably, preferring for 2 Clement the designation “Lesepredigt.” 67  Ibid., 196. Above, we saw that Graham (Second Clement, p. 110) arrived at much the same conclusion. 68  In response to an earlier version of this paper, A. Lindemann (on 27. 09. 2012) kindly offered clarification of his meaning in his distinction between “einer auf ein Thema konzen­ trierten Predigt” and “einem sorgfältig ausgearbeiteten Brief.” 69  See J. A. Kelhoffer, ‘Reciprocity as Salvation: Christ as Salvific Patron and the Corresponding “Payback” Expected of Christ’s Earthly Clients according to the Second Letter of



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

99

orientated, the subsequent appeals in 2 Clement 2–18 need not be seen as less theological, rhetorical, or confrontational. For these reasons, I find Lindemann’s distinction between a sermon and a letter unhelpful as a basis for assessing ­Second Clement’s theology. 6. Wilhelm Pratscher In his learned and generally comprehensive contribution to the Kommentar zu den Apostolischen Vätern series, Wilhelm Pratscher devotes three pages to the question of genre (Gattung).70 Defining “Homilie” as “eine Vers für Vers vorgehende Predigt über einen Text,” Pratscher is on firm ground to discard the option for Second Clement.71 Pratscher also appropriately excludes from consideration “missionary sermon” (Missionspredigt) as an apt genre designation, since Second Clement clearly addresses insiders, not outsiders.72 After pointing out that Second Clement is not a verse-by-verse “homily,” ­Pratscher makes a case for the writing’s “Predigtcharakter.” The writing’s homiletic character is “clear,” he claims, due to the frequency with which the author addresses the hearers.73 As examples of addressing the audience, Pratscher calls attention, albeit only in passing, to verses where the author uses the vocative ἀδελφοί (1.1; 5.1, 5) – thus perpetuating Lightfoot’s misstep.74 As pointed out above, the vocative ἀδελφοί is also prominent in early Christian letters and thus, by itself, does not indicate the genre or setting of a sermon. On the basis of this dubious inference, Pratscher does not consider whether the writing is, in fact, a sermon but asks what kind of a sermon it is. Such a myopic and unexamined starting point for the question of Second Clement’s genre is pervasive in much scholarship. Because of the author’s congregational focus, Pratscher favors the term “Gemeindepredigt,” although he does not exclude the possibility that the work is addressed to catechumens preparing for baptism.75 Given Second Clement’s frequent appeals to proper conduct, Pratscher adds “Bußpredigt” and “Ermahnung” as possibilities.76 Clement’, in NTS 59/2 (2013), 433–56. See also Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 37–41 at 38 (on 2 Clement 2), who finds in 2 Clement 1, 2, 7, 9–10 and 18, numerous examples of a writing “very carefully and artfully constructed.” Donfried also holds that the author of Second Clement “does not appear to be using quotations and literary allusions in a random or haphazard manner. Rather, he inserts them into a well-defined and structured pattern” (p. 96). 70  Pratscher, Der zweite Clemensbrief, 25–7. 71  Ibid., 25. 72  Ibid., 26. 73  Ibid., 25, emphasis added: “Der Predigtcharakter ist aber schon auf Grund der häufigen Anreden (1,1; 5,1.5 u. ö.) deutlich ... .” 74  See above on Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:194–5. 75  Pratscher, Der zweite Clemensbrief, 26. Against the inference of an audience of catechumens, see Tuckett, 2 Clement, 23. 76  Pratscher, Der zweite Clemensbrief, 26.

100

James A. Kelhoffer

He also calls attention to a reference to the present time (ἄρτι), “while we are being admonished by the elders” (ἐν τῷ νουθετεῖσθαι ἡμᾶς ὑπὸ τῶν πρεσβυτέρων, 2 Clem. 17.3), and places the author among the elders who admonish (νουθετέω) the congregation. Significantly, 17.3 does not identify the author as an elder with the task of admonishing the faithful in a homily. Furthermore, one may ask what, specifically, about admonishment indicates the form or context of a sermon. Above, I questioned the assumption that any non-epistolary early Christian writing may be classified as a sermon. Like many other scholars, Pratscher seems to be unaware of that problematic assumption. 7. Paul Parvis In his contribution to a 2007 volume of essays introducing the Apostolic Fathers, Paul Parvis aptly summarizes what Second Clement is not: “Though known as the Second Letter of Clement to the Corinthians,” in two (of the three extant) manuscripts that list a title for this work, “the text is not a letter, does not claim to be by anyone named Clement, and has no clear connection with Corinth.”77 In the very next sentence, Parvis makes a leap in logic that is now familiar to us, construing this non-letter as a “homily”: “It is in fact a homily, and it is apparent from the full text [2 Clement 1–20] that it was valued enough in at least one church to be itself read out to the congregation after the reading of the scriptures.”78 Like Wilhelm Pratscher, although apparently independently of him, Parvis echoes the sentiment of Theodor Zahn that Second Clement is “the earliest surviving Christian homily,” except for, in Parvis’s view, the depictions of sermons in the Acts of the Apostles.79 On the basis of his characterization of Second Clement as a homily, Parvis goes on to explore what can be ascertained about the homily’s setting. Following Lindemann, he sees a literary seam before 2 Clem. 19.1 and views chapters 19–20 as the work of a later hand – conclusions with which I concur.80 Parvis calls attention to the unusual vocative, “brothers and sisters” (ἀδελφοὶ καὶ ἀδελφαί,

77  Parvis, ‘2 Clement’, 34. At p. 34 n. 5, Parvis adds that in Codex Alexandrinus, where the last pages of Second Clement are missing, a title would have appeared at the end of the work and that this codex’s list of contents gives the title “Second Epistle of Clement” without mention of the Corinthians. 78  Ibid., 34. For a critique of Parvis’s (and others’) suggested timing of the reading of ­ ­Second Clement after a reading of Scripture, see the discussion below. 79  Ibid., 34. Parvis’s essay and Pratscher’s commentary (Der zweite Clemensbrief, 2007) appeared in the same year. Cf. T. Zahn, ‘Das älteste Kirchengebet und die älteste christliche Predigt’ (1876). Parvis’s point in regard to the sermons in Acts is dubious: Luke’s (later and historicized) depictions of homilies do not amount to a genre. Nor can they be taken (without argument) as indicative of the form or content of actual early Christian sermons. 80  Parvis, ‘2 Clement’, 34; see further Lindemann, Clemensbriefe, 255–6.



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

101

19.1; 20.2); from those gender-inclusive vocatives, Parvis infers certain particularities of the liturgical setting that this sermon may reflect: The differentiation of ἀδελφοί from ἀδελφαί may suggest a setting in which men are seated or standing on one side of the assembly and women on the other – as became the norm in the ancient church and was perhaps already true of the synagogue; we can even imagine the speaker turning from one to the other as he proceeds. In other words, in [chapters] 19–20 we may be hearing an echo of a more fully developed, more carefully articulated liturgical context… . We then get quite a vivid snapshot of a Christian service in the middle of the second century.81

We note with suspicion that in this citation, Parvis’s initial caution (“… may suggest … we can even imagine … we may be hearing an echo …”) eventually gives way to more certainty (“We then get …”). A little later, Parvis proffers, “We can say more about the situation of the preacher and his audience” (p. 36, emphasis added), after which he elaborates at some length on this “situation” (pp. 36–7). No reason for the evolving increase in confidence is given other than the rhetorical reiteration of a hypothetical scenario. I would call attention to the assumption that Second Clement is a sermon. That assumption, widespread in scholarship, undergirds Parvis’s speculations. Without it, there would be no basis for his inferences, at least not without a tendentious interpretation of ἀδελφοὶ καὶ ἀδελφαί (2 Clem. 19.1; 20.2) in a secondary conclusion to the writing. Also unjustified is Parvis’s use of the later addition of chapters 19–20 as a basis to envision the liturgical setting for which 2 Clement 1–18 was composed. The approach introduces as much of an anachronism as would the use of Mark 16:9–20 (ca. 120 c.e.)82 as a basis for determining the original purpose of Mark’s Gospel (ca. 70 c.e.). Mark 16:9–20 and 2 Clement 19–20 certainly point to the reception of, and to a continued esteem for, the respective writings to which they were appended. Yet it remains that we do not know when, or by whom, 2 Clement 19–20 was composed.83 For Parvis’s proposal to be plausible, one would have to infer, as Parvis does, that the compositions of 2 Clement 1–18 and 19–20 belong to one and the same Sitz im Leben. I return to this point momentarily.

81  Parvis, ‘2 Clement’, 34–5 (emphases added). The editor of the volume in which Parvis’s essay appeared approves unreservedly of Parvis’s analysis. See P. Foster, ‘Preface’, in Idem, The Writings of the Apostolic Fathers (London: T&T Clark, 2007), vii–xiii at ix: “[W]ithout [Parvis’s] sympathetic and insightful introduction [to Second Clement] one could look upon this text … as dull and uninspiring. Yet the text is rescued by Parvis, who again and again produces perceptive pearls of wisdom about the nature and purpose of this earliest extant Christian homily.” 82  On the dating of Mark 16:9–20, see J. A. Kelhoffer, Miracle and Mission: The Authentication of Missionaries and Their Message in the Longer Ending of Mark, WUNT 2.112 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 169–77. 83  For a proposal that 2 Clement 19–20 was composed as an appendix to both First and Second Clement, see Grünstäudl, ‘Epilog, Ouvertüre oder Intermezzo?’.

102

James A. Kelhoffer

2 Clem. 19.1 exhorts the hearers “to pay attention to the Scriptures” (εἰς τὸ προσέχειν τοῖς γεγραμμένοις), an exhortation with soteriological implications (ἵνα καὶ ἑαυτοὺς σώσητε). Parvis is correct to state that the appendix to Second Clement clearly indicates a setting in which an esteemed text is read.84 But is this enough to confirm that 2 Clement 1–18 was composed as a sermon? Or, how does a sermon’s Sitz im Leben differ from that in which any other esteemed text (for example, a letter of Paul) is read to a congregation? The τοῖς γεγραμμένοις refers not to the reading of a recent or contemporary “sermon” but, rather, to the reading of “the Scriptures” (however those Scriptures are to be construed). Again following Lindemann, Parvis explains the referent of τοῖς γεγραμμένοις by surmising that chapters 19–20 and 1–18 when “recopied … were, in effect, put in the wrong order.”85 As Lindemann and Parvis would have it, the following sequence occurred: 1. A reading from “the Scriptures.” 2. The exhortation of 2 Clement 19–20 to “pay attention to the Scriptures” (19.1). 3. The reading of this “homily” (2 Clement 1–18) as a complement to a reading from Scripture.

This proposal is unnecessarily complicated, speculative, and un-confirmable. It also anachronistically assumes what would (not) have been construed as Scripture in 2 Clem. 19.1. Additionally, Parvis seems to be inconsistent in regard to the “canon” of Scriptures reflected in Second Clement. On the one hand, he observes, correctly, that Second Clement “belongs to a time when the idea of a normative collection of writings, including Christian, ‘apostolic’ ones, has emerged, but there is as yet no notion of a closed canonical list, even of Gospels.”86 On the other hand, Parvis does not consider the same principle of an “open” canon in 2 Clem. 19.1. It is noteworthy that Second Clement cites various esteemed writings as γραφή – namely, a saying of Jesus (2 Clem. 2.4);87 the prophet Ezekiel (6.8);88 an otherwise unknown writing that supposedly claimed the church’s preexistence (14.1);89 and the creation of man and woman in Genesis (14.2).90 Furthermore, in the work’s single use of εὐαγγέλιον (2 Clem. 8.5) a written Gospel other than 84 See Parvis, ‘2 Clement’, 35, that 2 Clem. 19.1 “followed the reading of scripture.”

85  Ibid., 36 n. 9, with Lindemann, Clemensbriefe, 152–3. See also above on Parvis, ‘2 Clement’, 34, that Second Clement was “to be itself read out to the congregation after the reading of the scriptures.” 86  Ibid., 37; see further, above, on Parvis, p. 34. 87  2 Clem. 2.4: καὶ ἑτέρα δὲ γραφὴ λέγει, ὅτι Οὐκ ἦλθον καλέσαι δικαίους, ἀλλὰ ἁμαρτωλούς. 88  2 Clem. 6.8: λέγει δὲ καὶ ἡ γραφὴ ἐν τῷ  Ἰεζεκιήλ, ὅτι  Ἐὰν ἀναστῇ Νῶε καὶ  Ἰὼβ καὶ Δανιήλ, οὐ ῥύσονται τὰ τέκνα αὐτῶν ἐν τῇ αἰχμαλωσίᾳ. 89  2 Clem. 14.1b: ἐσόμεθα ἐκ τῆς γραφῆς τῆς λεγούσης· Ἐγενήθη ὁ οἶκός μου σπήλαιον λῃστῶν. ὥστε οὖν αἱρετισώμεθα ἀπὸ τῆς ἐκκλησίας τῆς ζωῆς εἶναι, ἵνα σωθῶμεν. See further Herm. Vis. 2.4.1 (8.1) for an understanding of the church’s preexistence. 90  2 Clem. 14.2: λέγει γὰρ ἡ γραφή·  Ἐποίησεν ὁ Θεὸς τὸν ἄνθρωπον ἄρσεν καὶ θῆλυ·



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

103

the NT Gospels is cited with authority.91 In the following excursus, we show that, contra Parvis, there is no reason to apply an arbitrary limitation to the referent of τοῖς γεγραμμένοις in 2 Clem. 19.1 that would a priori exclude 2 Clement 1–18 from “the Scriptures” that are to be read to the congregation. Excursus III: 2 Clem. 19.1 Points to an Acceptance of 2 Clement 1–18 among “the Scriptures” The preceding discussion touched upon the problem of how to interpret 2 Clem. 19.1. Lindemann and Parvis maintain that 19.1 implies a liturgical setting in which a sermon follows a reading of Scripture.92 I will show that 19.1 offers no basis for this inference. The verse in fact refers to “writings,” or “Scriptures” (τοῖς γεγραμμένοις, plural) and does not hint, let alone claim, that some other writing of Scripture was read prior to 2 Clement 1–18. My alternate explanation for 19.1 makes no pretense to have solved the question of Second Clement’s genre, setting, or purpose,93 but I do hope to remove a common misunderstanding of 19.1. This addition to Second Clement claims merely that a reading exhorts the hearers “to follow the Scriptures” (ἀναγινώσκω ὑμῖν ἔντευξιν εἰς τὸ προσέχειν τοῖς γεγραμμένοις, 19.1). The ἔντευξις being read could be construed as referring to 2 Clement 1–18, 19–20, or 1–20. The purpose of the reading, indicated by the telic articular infinitive (governed by εἰς), is that the hearers will “pay attention to,” or “follow” (προσέχω), the Scriptures. 2 Clem. 19.1 makes no reference to the reading of any text other than Second Clement. My construal of τοῖς γεγραμμένοις as designating “the Scriptures” and as including Second Clement among those Scriptures requires an additional comment. A participial use of γράφω to refer to an immediately preceding writing finds a precedent in First Clement: 1 Clem. 63.2: τοῖς ὑφ᾿ ἡμῶν γεγραμμένοις, referring to First Clement as a whole Cf. 2 Clem. 19.1: ἀναγινώσκω ὑμῖν ἔντευξιν εἰς τὸ προσέχειν τοῖς γεγραμμένοις

Additionally, the Shepherd of Hermas uses τὰ γεγραμμένα in reference to the instructions on fasting that the author had just given.94 The apostle Paul and First Clement (the latter, twice) use the singular τὸ γεγραμμένον in reference to

91 On 2 Clem. 8.5, see J. A. Kelhoffer, ‘“How Soon a Book” Revisited: ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ as a Reference to “Gospel” Materials in the First Half of the Second Century’, in ZNW 95 (2004), 1–34 esp. 5–7, 13–16. 92  See above on Lindemann, Clemensbriefe, 152–3 and Parvis, ‘2 Clement’, 34, 36 n. 9. 93  As indicated at the outset, that is not the purpose of this essay, which offers several prolegomena to such an analysis of Second Clement’s genre. 94 Herm. Sim. 5.3.7 (56.7): συντελέσας τὰ γεγραμμένα, ἐν ἐκείνῃ τῇ ἡμέρᾳ ᾗ νηστεύεις, referring to the preceding instructions on fasting (Sim. 5.3.1–6 [56.1–6]).

104

James A. Kelhoffer

OT Scripture.95 Similar formulations are attested already in the LXX, as well as in Justin Martyr and the Epistle to Diognetus: Deut 28:58 (LXX):96 πάντα τὰ ῥήματα τοῦ νόμου τούτου τὰ γεγραμμένα ἐν τῷ βιβλίῳ τούτῳ Justin, Dial. 8.4: τὰ ἐν τῷ νόμῳ γεγραμμένα πάντα Justin, Dial. 114: οὐδὲ ἡμῖν προσάγουσιν ὑμᾶς τοῖς γεγραμμένοις πιστεύετε, preceding a citation of Jeremiah Diogn. 12.3: τὰ γεγραμμένα, about the trees God planted in Paradise (cf. Gen 2:15–16)

These observations are not decisive for our interpretation of 2 Clem. 19.1, but they do show that there is a sound philological basis for considering whether τοῖς γεγραμμένοις (2 Clem. 19.1) could refer to 2 Clement 1–18. Among the following English translations of 2 Clem. 19.1, only that of Holt H. Graham,97 retaining the plural of the substantive participle, translates τοῖς γεγραμμένοις as “the Scriptures”: “Give heed to the things which are written” (J. B. Lightfoot) “Pay attention to that which is written” (K. Lake, who in the margin supplies the section heading “Attention to the Scriptures”) “Give heed to what is written” (E. Goodspeed) “Heed the Scriptures” (H. H. Graham) “Pay attention to what has been written” (B. Ehrman) “Pay attention to what is written” (M. Holmes)

I find all of the above translations acceptable. For the present argument, the key factor is that, whatever its content, this esteemed collection of “writings,” to which one must “pay attention” in order to be “saved” (19.1), may be identified, and even translated, as “Scriptures.” I will now propose that the later author of 19.1 refers to 2 Clement 1–18 as Scripture. This hypothesis is not new, having first been proposed by Walther Schüssler in 1907, and taken up by Donfried in 1974.98 Schüssler and Donfried hold that 2 Clement 1–18 is what 19.1 refers to as “the Scriptures.” I regard that as possible but think it more likely that 19.1 includes 2 Clement 1–18 as among 95  See

2 Cor 4:13: κατὰ τὸ γεγραμμένον, introducing a citation of Ps 115:1 LXX (= Ps 116:10); see also 1 Clem. 3.1; 13.1. 96  Deut 28:58 is but one example. See also Deut 28:61; 29:19, 26; 30:10; 31:9; Josh 1:8; 8:34; 22:6; 1 Kgs 2:3; 14:29; 15:7, 23, 31, etc. 97  Graham, Second Clement, 131. 98  W. Schüssler, ‘Ist der zweite Klemensbrief ein einheitliches Ganzes?’, in ZKG 28 (1907), 1–13. One need not (and I do not) concur with Schüssler’s questioning of Second Clement’s compositional unity to see the merit of his suggestion in regard to the referent of τοῖς γεγραμμένοις in 2 Clem. 19.1. Likewise, albeit based on a different rationale, Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 14 concludes that 2 Clem. 19.1 “does not refer to a scripture lesson which preceded the preaching of 2 Clement.” Rather, it “refers to 2 Clement which was composed and written prior to the worship service and which had just been read to the congregation.” Here, we see another sound finding by Donfried ignored by subsequent scholarship.



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

105

“the Scriptures.” Scholars have hardly entertained this possibility.99 In support, I cite, first, that, as discussed above, the various referents for γραφή in 2 Clement 1–18 point to a somewhat “open” canon.100 I suggest that 19.1 reflects a similarly “open” canon. Second, formulations in the LXX and in other early Christian literature are consistent with a rendering of τοῖς γεγραμμένοις as a reference to “the Scriptures.”101 Additionally, the few extant ancient witnesses attest to the reception of Second Clement as Scripture. For example, that Eusebius of Caesarea does not “recognize” First or Second Clement as part of the canon strongly suggests that there were others in the late-third or early-fourth century who did include these writings in their “Bible.”102 The canonicity of Second Clement is likewise attested by two of the three extant mss – Codex Alexandrinus (5th c.) and a Syriac ms (12th c.). These two mss preserve First and Second Clement as part of the New Testament after Revelation (A) or between the Pauline and Catholic letters (S).103 Those believers to whom Eusebius objected in regard to the canonicity of First and Second Clement are thus represented in the hands behind Codex Alexandrinus and the Syriac ms. These points support the correlation I am drawing between the aforementioned ancient witnesses and the referent of τοῖς γεγραμμένοις in the later addition to Second Clement (19.1), namely that 2 Clement 1–18 was among “the Scriptures” read to a congregation, Scriptures to which the hearers must pay attention in order to be “saved” (ἵνα καὶ ἑαυτοὺς σώσητε, 19.1). Our interpretation of 2 Clem. 19.1 also avoids un-confirmable hypotheses about later scribal redaction – as Lindemann and Parvis would have it, switching the compositional order of chapters 1–18 and 19–20. If our interpretation is correct, it may be that 99  Writing in 1908, D. Völter, Die älteste Predigt aus Rom, 23, first summarizes Schüssler’s argument and then dismisses it out of hand: “Das alles ist sicher falsch.” Völter objects (pp. 23–4) that 2 Clement 19–20 fits awkwardly after 2 Clement 1–18 and therefore must not have been composed to follow it as a reading of Scripture. Völter’s objection to Schüssler is at best arbitrary and inconclusive, however. Posing what may be described as a “criterion of conformity” is dubious for additions to ancient (including early Christian) literature – including for the Gospel of Mark’s “Longer Ending” (16:9–20) and Mark’s “Shorter Shorting” (it k), which were composed to follow, however awkwardly, Mark 16:8. On this, see Kelhoffer, Miracle and Mission, 67–71, 158–69, 238–43. 100  See above on 2 Clem. 8.5; 14.1. Also interesting is the citation about “the double-minded (οἱ δίψυχοι)” that is cited with authority (and attested only) in 2 Clem. 11.2 and 1 Clem. 23.2. While 2 Clem. 11.2 presents the citation as ὁ προφητικὸς λόγος (cf. 2 Pet 1:19), 1 Clem. 23.2 introduces it as ἡ γραφὴ αὕτη. See further Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, 52–3, 150–1. 101  See above on 1 Clem. 63.2; Deut 28:58 (LXX); Justin, Dial. 8.4; etc. 102  Here, I follow Parvis’s (‘2 Clement’, 33) astute observation on Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.38.4. 103  The exception is the eleventh-century Greek ms published by Philotheos Bryennios in 1875, which includes First and Second Clement among other “Apostolic Fathers.” See further H.-J. Holtzmann, ‘Die Stellung des Clemensbriefes in der Geschichte des neutestamentlichen Kanons’, in ZWTh 20 (1877), 387–403.

106

James A. Kelhoffer

the later hand behind 2 Clem. 19.1 took a cue from 1 Clem. 63.2, where τοῖς ὑφ᾿ ἡμῶν γεγραμμένοις refers to First Clement as a whole. Therefore, we may abandon Lindemann and Parvis’s inference that 2 Clem. 19.1 presents 2 Clement 1–18 as a sermon that was read after the reading of some other Scripture in a worship service. That speculation is based on a misreading of 19.1. My proposal for 19.1 does not speak directly to the genre, purpose, or setting of 2 Clement 1–18 but offers a counterargument to those who take 19.1 as evidence of a sermon composed to follow a reading of the (OT) Scriptures. 8. Christopher Tuckett In his newly published commentary for the (also) new Oxford Apostolic Fathers series, Christopher Tuckett devotes a little over eight pages to the genre of Second Clement.104 At the outset, he aptly acknowledges that “[d]etermining the genre of 2 Clement is by no means an easy task.”105 To his credit, Tuckett moves beyond the letter-sermon dichotomy and weighs arguments for classification of the writing not only as a letter (pp. 18–19) or sermon (19–23) but also as deliberative rhetoric (συμβουλία, 23–4) and paraenesis (24–5). He concludes that “we can describe 2 Clement as some kind of ‘sermon’, addressed to those who are already Christians [and as] intended to be read in the context of a liturgical gathering for worship.”106 Tuckett is to be commended for his nuanced contribution and, even more so, for calling attention to the question of genre as a factor relevant for Second Clement’s interpretation. He therefore provides a welcome step forward. Yet inasmuch as his conclusion that Second Clement is broadly, if vaguely, “some kind of ‘sermon’” affirms the status quo, that conclusion is exposed to many of the same criticisms discussed in this essay.

V. A Proposal for Future Inquiry: From Macro-Genre to Micro-Genre and to an Analysis of Function A central aim of our study has been to show the extent to which scholarship has misconstrued the genre and setting of Second Clement. The essay’s title thus poses the provocative questions, “If Second Clement really were a ‘sermon,’ how would we know, and why would we care?” Naturally, we would care if any credible argument could be given that the writing had been composed as a “sermon.” 104  Tuckett, 2 Clement, 18–26. Most of the present paper was written in the summer and early autumn of 2012, prior to the appearance of Tuckett’s commentary in November 2012. 105  Ibid., 18. 106  Ibid., 25.



If Second Clement Really Were a “Sermon”

107

Although surviving early Christian literature does not allow us to corroborate (or to question) sermo as a genre, knowing something about the setting within which the writing was to function would be very valuable indeed. There are also historiographical challenges in verifying that the writing was composed to be delivered as a “sermon” and that it did, in fact, have such a liturgical function. Scholarship on Second Clement has yet to acknowledge, let alone address, these formidable problems. Further, a discussion of genre is not an end in itself. To be pertinent and persuasive, it must fulfill at least two requirements: it (1) must show that a particular writing belongs to an identifiable category of writings – that is, writings that share distinctive literary features and (2) must also show how an identification of genre aids in an interpretation of the writing. Judged by the criteria, the 125 years of scholarship identifying Second Clement as a “sermon” or “homily” have amounted to a colossal failure. The designations of “sermon” and “homily” as a genre for the writing should therefore be abandoned. A reappraisal of Second Clement’s genre, function and Sitz im Leben is therefore needed. Neither “homily” nor “sermon” (however defined) is a fixed genre; rather, the terms suggest only a vague Sitz im Leben about which, from the church of the first, second, and third centuries, we have precious little information. I have proposed that the later addition of 2 Clem. 19.1 attests to the reception at some point of Second Clement as part of “the Scriptures” to be read to a congregation. This observation does not, however, speak directly to the original Sitz im Leben of chapters 1–18, nor to questions about genre or purpose. Nearly forty years after Karl Donfried sharply questioned whether Second Clement was a “sermon” or a “homily,”107 scholarship has hardly advanced on the matter. We may return, in retrospect, to the categorical pronouncements of Lightfoot and Lindemann, with which our discussion of genre began: [T]he so-called Second Epistle [of Clement] is the first example of a Christian homily. The newly recovered ending has set this point at rest for ever. The work is plainly not a letter, but a homily, a sermon.108 Daß 2Clem kein Brief, sondern eine Homilie ist, ist in der Forschung immer schon gesehen worden.109

At present, the un-nuanced positions of Lightfoot, Lindemann and others remain the norm in scholarship. We may now be in a better position to ask, What is the significance of (correctly) recognizing that Second Clement is not a letter? I have maintained that, 107  Donfried, Setting of Second Clement, e. g., 26: “the term ‘homily’ is so vague and ambiguous that it should be withdrawn until its literarily generic legitimacy has been demonstrated.” 108  Lightfoot, Apostolic Fathers, I/2:194, emphasis original. 109  Lindemann, Clemensbriefe, 190.

108

James A. Kelhoffer

by itself, this uncontroversial tautology tells us rather little. If questions about Second Clement’s genre and Sitz im Leben receive a more satisfactory consideration, we can hope for a sounder basis for probing what can be ascertained about the community it addresses or about the ideal community its author envisions. A shift in approach is needed – an approach highlighting similarities in micro-genre and function. In particular, I propose that we give more attention to the context-specific exhortations and admonitions, for example, of a Pauline letter, on the one hand, and to those of Second Clement (along with those of Hebrews and First John), on the other hand. Such an exploration will have to be the subject of another study. The present essay will have served its purpose if it brings us to a new and more promising starting point for understanding the so-called Second Letter of Clement.

Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch Paul Foster I. Introduction As one of the earliest surviving collection of Christian literature outside the New Testament, the authentic writings of Ignatius of Antioch provide a fascinating and vital window into early developments in theology, ecclesiology, social structures, and tensions among earlier believers in Jesus.1 In wider early Christianity, clarifying Christological perspectives became a major, if not the major theological pre-occupation in the second to fourth centuries. Alongside this, and related to disputes over authority and legitimacy to make theological pronouncements, were the contested claims concerning which parties best preserved received forms of faith, and hence stood in continuity with the deposit of tradition handed on by the Apostles. While such claims of legitimacy and continuity may have been in part an artificial construct of subsequent generations, their semiotic importance makes this a fertile and formative area of academic enquiry. Admittedly, Ignatius pays less attention to the apostles than he does to his Christological reflections. However, it is helpful to see how the apostles function as a link, or perhaps better as a model for his contemporary ecclesial structures, prior to unpacking his rich and multifaceted Christological reflections. Yet, the significance of treating these aspects together has seldom been considered. In terms of ecclesial structures, the typological pattern of Christ surrounded by a band of apostles is deployed in Ignatius’ epistles as a legitimation of his own preferred form of church governance. Moreover, while not elucidated with the same clarity the link between apostles and Christ appears to reinforce certain of Ignatius’ core Christological convictions. In this way tracing his perspectives both concerning the apostles and about Christ thus assists in more deeply appreciating the central structural edifice of Ignatian theology. Therefore, much of his theological reflection can be understood as being firmly based upon the significance of the collective apostolic group and the reality of Christ’s humanity. 1  For a classic discussion of introductory issues see J. B. Lightfoot, The Apostolic Fathers, II: Ignatius and Polycarp, Vols. 1–3 (London: Macmillan, 1889). For a more recent discussion and commentary see W. R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985).

110

Paul Foster

II. The Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius Although there are some significant exceptions, when the apostles are mentioned in the writings of Ignatius reference to them is primarily as a collective group rather than as individual figures. The apostles are mentioned in each of Ignatius’ six letters to communities, but are not a topic of discourse in the letter addressed to an individual, Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna. It is worthwhile to present the statistics of the frequency of references to apostles, ‘apostolic character,’ or to named apostles, in order to gain a sense of the degree of significance Ignatius attributes to these figures. However, it must be noted that the significance of the apostles for Ignatius cannot simply be determined through an enumeration of occurrences. Rather, one needs to take into account the theological weight the author gives to each of these individual references. Here, the order in which the letters are discussed reflects the arrangement given by Eusebius,2 which in turn “reflects a geographical arrangement based upon the order of cities from which and to which they were sent.”3 1. Ephesians In the letter to the Ephesians there is a single reference to the group of the apostles, and one to a named apostle, without explicitly calling that figure as an apostle. The first reference occurs when Ignatius speaks of the physical chains that bind him as “my spiritual pearls.” In that context, Ignatius declares with martyrological fervour: May I always share in them, in order that I may be found in the company of the Christians of Ephesus, who have always been in agreement with the apostles by the power of Jesus Christ (Ign. Eph. 11.2).

Self-evidently “agreement with the apostles” is presented as a positive virtue. This quality is the basis for Ignatius offering a compliment to the Ephesians. It would appear that this solidarity with the teachings of the apostles is the cause of the laudation that is directed to the community. Schoedel goes further, by also suggesting that this reference recalls historical connections with apostolic figures. He states that the Ephesians, “still participate in the ideal unity and order that their glorious past represents.”4 This may be true in this present context. However, it is difficult to establish whether Ignatius’ fleeting reference drew upon a shared perspective concerning a known history of apostolic foundation and connection, or whether the idea was a typological metaphor that was based 2 

Hist. eccl. 3.36.1–11. M. W. Holmes, The Apostolic Fathers: Greek Texts and English Translations (Grand Rapids: Baker, 20073), 177. 4  Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 72. 3 



Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch

111

upon the notion of participating in the now heavenly union between Christ and his apostles. The second passage in this letter to make an apostolic reference continues the train of thought found in the first reference. However, instead of using the term ‘apostle’ it refers specifically to Paul. The author again describes the Ephesians’ solidarity with this apostle: “You are fellow initiates of Paul, who was sanctified, who was approved, who is deservedly blessed.” Ignatius then continues by describing both his imitation of Paul, and the epistolary link that the Ephesians have with this apostle. Thus Ignatius writes, “– may I be found in his footsteps when I reach God! – who in every letter remembers you in Christ Jesus” (Ign. Eph. 12.2).5 While Ignatius does not expand his thoughts at this point, the exemplary and foundational aspect of the figure of Paul appears to be the primary reason for the reference to him at this juncture in the letter. Furthermore, Ignatius may be developing, albeit in embryonic form, some concept of a chain of guaranteed tradition, as well as drawing upon knowledge of Paul’s martyrdom in Rome to exploit an emergent theology of martyrdom. 2. Magnesians In the letter to the Magnesians there are four references to the apostles. The first case exemplifies the most prominent way in which Ignatius makes use of the apostles as a collective group in his writings. This occurs in a description of the threefold structure of ministry as comprising a bishop, presbyters, and the deacons. Between the description of the bishop as presiding in the place of God, and deacons being entrusted with the ministry of Jesus Christ, Ignatius employs the metaphor of “presbyters in the place of the council of apostles” (Ign. Magn. 6.1). Maier notes that this is an example of a common feature in Ignatius’ thought. In certain places the metaphorical ranks do not seem to reflect the same hierarchical ecclesial structure, since although “deacons are lower than presbyters they are sometimes linked with a higher metaphysical rank” (cf. Ign. Trall. 3.1).6 In a later section of the epistle, Christ’s unity with the apostles is presented as the pattern for the behaviour of believers at Magnesia, since they are not to do anything that divides them from the bishop or the presbyters (Ign. Magn. 7.1). Here it is stated that “the Lord did nothing without the Father, either by himself 5  For the suggestion that Ignatius’ declaration that Paul makes mention of the Ephesians in every letter is not exaggeration, but reflects the fact that the writings of Ignatius only demonstrate knowledge of the four Pauline letters where the apostle refers to the Ephesians, see P. Foster, ‘The Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch and the Writings that Later Formed the New Testament’, in A. F. Gregory and C. M. Tuckett (eds.), The New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers, I: The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 159–86. 6 See H. O. Maier, The Social Setting of the Ministry as Reflected in the Writings of Hermas, Clement and Ignatius (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier, 2002), 184.

112

Paul Foster

or through his apostles” (Ign. Magn. 7.1). In this context, after describing what the Lord ‘did’ during his earthly ministry in union with the Father, the description shifts to the ongoing work of the ascended Christ that continued to take place in unity with the Father through the earthly ministry of the Twelve. This may be the most obviously historicizing perspective on the role of the apostles in Ignatius’ letters. In the next reference, the community is also to be “grounded in the precepts of the Lord and the apostles” (Ign. Magn. 13.1). While the content of these precepts remains undefined, the purpose is again the production of unity with the bishop, council of presbyters, and the deacons. In the following verse this theme of unity is explicitly articulated, as is the notion of believers being subject to the bishop based on the pattern of Christ’s being subject to the Father, in order “as the apostles were to Christ and to the Father, that there may be unity, both physical and spiritual” (Ign. Magn. 13.2). This step-parallelism is replete with calls for unity, linked with Ignatius’ understanding of the prominence and authority of the bishop and the presbyters. However, the basis of the parallels is not explained; it is simply assumed. Perhaps it is possible to speculate that it is used precisely because the comparison instils both unity and authority that is necessary for the pattern of ministry being advocated by Ignatius. 3. Trallians Apostolic references appear with the greatest frequency in the letter to the Trallians, with five occurrences. However, this is not statistically significant, and this observation should not be used to infer that issues of unity and authority were more pressing at Tralles than in any other of the five communities to which Ignatius wrote. In the letter opening, the first reference to the apostolic theme occurs, albeit in a somewhat oblique fashion. Ignatius informs the Trallians that he greets them “in the fullness of God in the apostolic manner” (Ign. Trall. inscr.). Presumably, the phrase ἐν ἀποστολικῷ χαρακτῆρι is a reference to the literary style being adopted (or perhaps a shorthand reference to it), rather than any selfclaim that Ignatius himself ontologically bears the apostolic character.7 In fact, elsewhere in this letter he appears to explicitly rule out such a supposition. In a slightly ironic or contrived passage, Ignatius states he could have written more sharply on behalf of Polybius, the bishop in the Trallian community. However, with what sounds like feigned humility he declares, “but I did not think myself qualified for this, that I, a convict, should give you orders as though I were an apostle” (Ign. Trall. 3.3). Thus Ignatius, who was not overly shy when it came to asserting his own status, nevertheless does not apply the title apostle to himself. Instead he sees the term as designating a self-contained group, which holds prominence and authority among communities of followers of Jesus. 7  Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 137.



Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch

113

The other three references align with Ignatius’ wider idea that the apostles model correct ecclesial structures. Twice he deploys his standard analogy that the council of presbyters mirrors the band of apostles (Ign. Trall. 2.2; 3.1). On the third occasion he issues a plea for presbyters to encourage the bishop, stating that such an action is “to the honour of the Father and to the honour of Jesus Christ and of the apostles” (Ign. Trall. 12.2). This triad of honorands is noteworthy precisely because of the placement of the reference to the apostles alongside the Father and Jesus. However given the content of this section of the letter, the appeal to apostles as key authority figures to be honoured, functions by lending support to Ignatius’ perspective that bishops are worthy of encouragement and are figures of authority. In this context he adopts slightly bullying tactics. By alluding to his impending martyrdom he warns the Trallians, “listen to me in love that I may not be a witness against you by having written” (Ign. Trall. 12.3). Thus, while Ignatius may not claim to be an apostle, he appeals to their status as the band around Christ, which is to be honoured along with Jesus and the Father. His overall purpose appears to be to force assent from the Trallians in regard to his own episcopal agenda. In fact Ignatius raises the stakes to such an extent that after describing the typological basis for deacons, presbyters, and bishops, he states “without these no group can be called a church” (Ign. Trall. 3.1). In this way Ignatius employs rhetoric designed to exclude those with whom he disagrees, and thus he characterizes such potential (or real) dissenters as being beyond the boundaries of the church. 4. Romans The concerns expressed in Ignatius’ Epistle to the Romans are different from those expressed in the other letters. The lavish praise, especially in the salutation has at times been misread as a mandate for the primacy of the church in Rome.8 Without minimizing the genuineness of the praise, such language is also strategic – being used to ensure Ignatius would receive a good reception from the Christian community when he arrived in Rome. No episcopal arguments are deployed in this letter. This may suggests one of two possible scenarios. Either there was no bishop in Rome at that stage (especially in the form that Ignatius promoted the episcopal office, but cf. 1 Clem. 42, which speaks of a plurality of bishops), or alternatively Ignatius was ignorant of the name of such a figure in Rome. In contrast to the language used in Magnesians, where Ignatius states that “the bishop [is] presiding in the place of God” (Ign. Magn. 6.1), when writing to the Romans he comments that “the church … presides in the place of the district 8  In relation to the word προκάθηται, while Lightfoot comments that it “is used of preeminence or superiority generally in writers of about this time.” However he suggests the phrase “in the place” “probably describes the limits over which the supremacy or jurisdiction extends.” Lightfoot, The Apostolic Fathers, II/2:190.

114

Paul Foster

of the Romans” (Ign. Rom. inscr.). This may lend weight to the suggestion that the episcopal office may have been an innovation that originated in the Eastern Mediterranean in the late-first or early-second century. If this were the case, then perhaps at the time Ignatius wrote his letter to the Roman community the structure of an episcopal office entrusted to an individual might not have been adopted as part of the group’s ecclesial hierarchy. The tradition of dual apostolic foundation of the church in Rome was, however, familiar to Ignatius, or at least that is likely to be the implication of his comment: I do not give you orders like Peter and Paul: they were apostles, I am a convict; they were free, but I am even now still a slave (Ign. Rom. 4.3).

As in Ign. Trall. 3.3, Ignatius again eschews the label of apostle being applied to himself. However, his choice of Peter and Paul as named apostles when writing to the Romans is unlikely to be coincidental. It is probable that Ignatius was aware of the claim of the Roman church to have a twin apostolic foundation.9 5. Philadelphians The first of the two references to the apostles in this letter uses what at first glance appears to be the standard idea of “the apostles as the council of presbyters of the church” (Ign. Phld. 5.1). However, on closer inspection the metaphor appears to have been reversed. One would expect Ignatius to write that he had taken refuge in the council of presbyter who represent the band of apostles. In this way the present reality would be metaphorically linked to the historical or typological band of apostles. That the proposed form should be expected, rather than the one given, is further bolstered, since in the immediately preceding parallel clause Ignatius writes that, “I have taken refuge in the gospel as the flesh of Jesus” (Ign. Phld. 5.1). Here, as would be logically required, the present tangible item represents that which is now part of historical and transcendent past.10 Others have tried to interpret the argument in a more convoluted manner, in order to wring some logic from this baffling sequence. Schoedel takes the “flesh of Jesus” as the present Eucharistic reality, and thus understands the gospel as a signifier of the past: Just as Ignatius points to his (present) commitment to martyrdom as presupposing the (past) reality of the passion (see on Tr. 10), so he points to other contemporary elements of Christian life – the reality of Jesus’ flesh (in the eucharist apparently) and the solidarity of

9  On the likely burial places of Peter and Paul, and the veneration of their tombs see, P. Lampe, From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries (London: T&T Clark, 2003), on Peter’s burial place, 104–16; for Paul 34, 44. 10  Even if the reference to the apostles is typological rather the historical, the metaphor appears out of sink.



Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch

115

the presbytery – as presupposing the overwhelming significance of the gospel (the death and resurrection) as proclaimed by the apostles.11

This interpretation requires too many exegetical glosses in the attempt to make the argument flow. Furthermore, it also seems to reverse what Ignatius is actually saying. Perhaps it is more likely that here Ignatius intended to place the council of presbyters as the present reality that is modelled on the pattern of the apostolic band as he does elsewhere. However, perhaps due to some authorial lapse or fatigue he failed to present his metaphor with total consistency. The second reference to the apostles in Philadelphians is a sequence of named groups who gain access to the hidden things of the Father through Jesus. Although Christ is not explicitly named, the “high priest” who is better than the “priests” is the same figure who is described as the “door of the Father,” and given the wider context as well as the broader Christian understandings of such labels this figure can be none other than Christ. In this passage Christ is declared to be “the door of the Father, through which Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and the prophets and the apostles and the church enter in” (Ign. Phld. 9.1). Thus, in the salvific plan of God, the patriarchs, prophets, apostles, and the church join “in the unity of God,” and are saved through the gospel, which is Christ’s “imperishable finished work” (Ign. Phld. 9.2). Here the apostles are mentioned because they are one of the key cohorts in Ignatius’ depiction of the completeness of divine salvation, which is portrayed through the language of union with God. 6. Smyrnaeans The single reference to the apostles in the letter addressed to the church in Smyrna follows Ignatius’ most frequent way of employing this group in his writings. Ignatius commands his readers to “follow the council of presbyters as you would the apostles” (Ign. Smyrn. 8.1). Hence, the apostles are again used as part of a larger ecclesial metaphor that advocated a threefold structure of ministry involving a bishop, a council of presbyters, and the group of deacons. As Schoedel notes, “in what follows occurs some of the most striking of Ignatius’ comparisons between local and universal authority in the church.”12 Here a virtual typology is presented that creates comparisons between the earthly authority and ordering of the church in unity, and the heavenly community that with the Father, Jesus Christ. Hence, for Ignatius, it is natural that the apostles should be viewed as the pattern for unity in the church on earth, since they become the model of the confraternity of presbyters around the authority figure of the bishop in a way that is supportive, and yet subservient to that role. 11 

12 

Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 201. Ibid., 243.

116

Paul Foster

7.  The Primary Usages of the Apostles in Ignatius’ Writings In the seven authentic epistles of Ignatius there are fifteen references to apostolic figures or traditions. Of these five occur in contexts where they are presented as a metaphor for understanding the significance and authority of the council of presbyters. This presbyterial group is viewed as being modelled upon the role of the apostles as a band of companions around Jesus (Ign. Magn. 6.1; Ign. Trall. 2.2; 3.1; Ign. Phld. 5.1; Ign. Smyrn. 9.1). However, another important aspect of the apostles that is presented by Ignatius is their unity around Christ, and this is to be the pattern for the loyalty of church members to the bishop, or as a model of unity for contemporary believers more generally (Ign. Eph. 11.2; Ign. Magn. 7.1; 13.2). The verbless formulation, be subject “as the apostles to Christ” (Ign. Magn. 13.2) may likely suggest the ongoing heavenly submission of the apostles to Christ, that results in the “unity, both physical and spiritual” in which the Magnesians are being called to participate.13 Twice specific apostles are named, either Paul alone (Ign. Eph. 12.2), or Paul together with Peter (Ign. Rom. 4.3). Once Ignatius explicitly states that he is not an apostle (Ign. Trall. 3.3), although this also appears to be the implication in another passage where apostles are named (Ign. Rom. 4.3). Thus Ignatius’ chief understanding of the apostles is as a template for the role of the council of presbyters, and as an example of ecclesial unity between a community of believers and the figurehead or leader.

III. The Christological Perspectives of Ignatius The sheer volume of references to Christ in the letters of Ignatius means that (unlike the treatment of apostolic references) an exhaustive list of each occurrence is not possible here, nor is it desirable. This is due to the fact that some of the ways in which Ignatius refers to Christ are closely related, if not virtually repetitive. For this reason the most helpful way to tackle this topic is via a thematic approach, which groups common perspectives and literary formulations together, rather than a sequential survey of the individual letters.14

13  For a further discussion on this section see Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 243; and Lightfoot, The Apostolic Fathers, II/2:138; but scholars suspect that some textual disturbance has occurred, but that is not material to the issue being discussed here. 14  In order to give a broad indication of the number of references to Christ in Ignatius’ writings, the following enumeration gives a baseline quantification. It does not take into account passages that continue to discuss Christ, or aspects of his work, without explicitly naming him or using a fairly standard Christological title. In total there are at least 143 references to Christ, with each letter containing at least the following number of references: Ephesians 33; Magnesians 25; Trallians 18; Romans 17; Philadelphians 22; Smyrnaeans 22; Polycarp 6.



Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch

117

1.  Christ as a Divine Figure Perhaps in terms of doctrinal development one of the most startling features of the writings of Ignatius is the way they unabashedly speak of Jesus Christ as being God.15 This is most prominent in his letter to the Ephesians, but also surfaces elsewhere. In the salutation of that letter Ignatius informs the recipient that they have been chosen through “genuine suffering by the will of the Father and of Jesus Christ our God” (Ign. Eph. inscr.). Given the way Ignatius co-ordinates the Father and Jesus both in action and purpose, if this were the sole reference to Christ as divine figure one might perhaps be justified as seeing this as grammatical inexactness, rather than an intentional theological affirmation (cf. Tit 2:13). Although one would perhaps be justified in arguing the term ‘God’ would naturally attract to its nearest grammatical referent, “Jesus Christ.” However, other descriptions of aspects such as “the blood of God” (Ign. Eph. 1.1), or “the passion of God” (Ign. Rom. 6.3) are not crude anthropomorphism, but are ways of expressing Christ’s suffering while being divine.16 Perhaps the most incontrovertible expression of Ignatius’ understanding of Jesus as God is to be found in a passage that may have served as a primitive credal affirmation. This may have functioned in a baptismal liturgy. For our God, Jesus the Christ, was conceived by Mary according to God’s plan, both from the seed of David and of the Holy Spirit. He was born and baptised in order that by his suffering he might cleanse the water (Ign. Eph. 18.2).

This statement, in nuce, presents a number of the core Christological affirmations of the theological perspective of Ignatius. The reality of Jesus’ humanity is presented through the description of his conception. There is an understanding of some kind of dual paternity, both through the Spirit and through the line of David. While this this may perhaps indirectly reflect the statement of Rom 1:3–4, its pithy formulation is more striking, and it simultaneously affirms a theology of double origin. Christ’s salvific work is encapsulated in the triadic formula, “born … baptized … suffered,” which with those actions, taken together, result in the waters of baptism receiving purifying efficacy. However, what precedes all of these theological statements is Ignatius’ simple naming of “our God” as “Jesus the Christ.” In terms of titular appellatives Ignatius’ preferred formulation is “Jesus Christ” (112 times); much less common is “Christ Jesus” (13 times), with singular forms being extremely uncommon: “Christ” (4 times), “Jesus” (3 times). This is the only instance where the form “Jesus the Christ” occurs. Schoedel makes the plausible suggestion that this formulation “derives from an older … tradition, that still reflects sensitivity to the name “Christ” as 15 See P. Foster, ‘The Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch’, in Idem (ed.), The Writings of the Apostolic Fathers (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 99. 16  Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 39.

118

Paul Foster

a title.”17 While the affirmation may be pre-Ignatian, he accepts the perspective that God is “Jesus the Christ” and reformulates this in various ways to emphasize that Jesus is divine, and hence describes him as God without any embarrassment of need to justify this appellation. Such sentiments occur elsewhere in Ignatius’ writings. Therefore, in a similar vein to the introductory statements in Ignatius’ letter to the Ephesians, in the opening of his letter to the Romans he declares that the church in that city has found mercy through “faith in and love for Jesus Christ our God” (Ign. Rom. inscr.). Later in the same epistle Ignatius makes the somewhat apparently paradoxical statement that “our God Jesus Christ is more visible now that he is in the Father” (Ign. Rom. 3.3).18 Here it appears that Ignatius is suggesting that in his exalted state, believers are now able to perceive Jesus as truly divine. In the corporate ‘farewell’ that concludes the epistle to Polycarp, Ignatius wishes that the Smyrnaeans might “fare well in our God Jesus Christ” (Ign. Pol. 8.3). The way Ignatius can describe Jesus as “our God” without gloss or explanation reveals that not only did he accept this designation as self-evident, but that he assumed that the recipients of his letters would find it uncontroversial. However, it would probably be a mistake to understand such affirmations of the divinity of Jesus as arising from dialogical or philosophical forms of theological reflection. Consequently, Hurtado observes of such statements, Of course these all directly reflect Ignatius’s deeply felt piety, but they are not simply emotionally tinged rhetoric. In the context of all that Ignatius attributes to Jesus, his application of the epithet theos to him surely signals that Jesus is genuinely divine.19

Therefore, it appears that such perspectives emerged and were valued not as theological abstractions, but as pious reflections on lived-out faith, as nascent communities attempted to grapple with the significance of the now absent Christ, whom they believed to be exalted in the presence of the Father. 2.  The Fully Human Jesus It appears that the divinity of Jesus could be simply assumed and taken by Ignatius as uncontroversial for the recipients of his letters. However, the humanity of Christ posed greater challenges at least for some factions within a number of the communities to which Ignatius wrote. The doctrinal tendency in the early church to downplay the humanity of Christ, or to deny that Jesus was human 17 

Ibid., 85. Lightfoot notes the paradoxical form of this statement. He suggests that the sentence is thrown into the form of a paradox: “Christ Himself is more clearly seen, now that he is no more seen.” Lightfoot, The Apostolic Fathers, II/2:205. 19  L. W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 639. 18 



Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch

119

in any meaningful way is usually labelled as ‘docetic.’ Despite this being an umbrella term covering a broad range of beliefs in the early church, the form of this idea that Ignatius criticizes is perhaps the primary and classic docetic tenet that maintained that Christ’s humanity was a mere semblance or an illusory form, and moreover that the divine logos could not co-mingle with human flesh.20 As a consequence it was claimed that divinity could not suffer in any meaningful manner. In response to this perspective Ignatius responds with a primitive yet powerful defence of the incarnation, affirming both the reality of Christ’s humanity and his genuine endurance of suffering and death not in human appearance alone. It is unnecessary to re-open the debate concerning whether Ignatius in his seven genuine epistles is responding to two sets of opponents.21 The two positions being either that there were indeed two groups – the docetists as well as those who promote Jewish practices, or alternatively there existed one more or less unified group, which advocate both a docetic Christology while promoting adherence to Jewish practices. – Proponents of this position view it as plausible since Jewish monotheism would, it is claimed, struggle to accept Jesus as divine. However, what is perhaps notable and stands in favour of the theory of two sets of opponents is the observation that the concentration of anti-docetic sentiments in Ignatius’ writings are found in the letters to the Ephesians, the Trallians, and, to a lesser extent, the Smyrnaeans. After describing opponents in stereotypical terms as “wild beasts” and “mad dogs” (Ign. Eph. 7.1), Ignatius proleptically corrects their views with what may be another credal statement. There is only one physician, who is both flesh and spirit, born and unborn, God in man, true life in death, both from Mary and from God, first suffering and then without suffering, Jesus Christ our Lord (Ign. Eph. 7.2).

This outlook is echoed later in a briefer form that affirms both the incarnation and the salvific purpose of that action: “God appeared in human form to bring the newness of life” (Ign. Eph. 19.3). Structurally, the warning against those cast as guilty of erroneous teaching in the letter to the Trallians follows the same pattern as that found in Ephesians. First, there is a stereotypical characterization of such people as purveyors of poison: “those who administer a deadly drug with honeyed wine” (Ign. Trall. 6.2). Next comes an advance warning against error, coupled with a charge to hold fast to the faith. Ignatius’ description of the faith is striking, since he reduces 20  It is likely that the term ‘docetic’ was an ‘outsider’ label, and not a self-designation of those whom their opponents conveniently grouped together and described as such for polemical purposes. However, it may have derived from terminology employed by those who maintained that Christ’s humanity was only a semblance or mere appearance. 21  On this debate see M. Myllykowski, ‘Wild Beasts and Rapid Dogs’, in J. Ådna (ed.), The Formation of the Early Church, WUNT 2.183 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 341–77.

120

Paul Foster

it to acceptance of a single theological claim. He equates faith with “the flesh of the Lord” and charges the Trallians to remain in love, which is “the blood of Jesus Christ” (Ign. Trall. 8.1). Here anti-docetic incarnational theology, that acknowledges the reality of the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ, is not only the test of faith, it is said to be the totality of faith and communal love.22 Third, prior to describing the teaching of those holding different opinions, Ignatius presents his own Christological perspectives. Jesus Christ, who was of the family of David, who was the son of Mary, who was really born, who both ate and drank; who really was persecuted under Pontius Pilate, who really was crucified and died while those in heaven and earth looked on; who, moreover, really was raised from the dead when his Father raised him up (Ign. Trall. 9.1–2a).

These affirmations contrast with the negative description and assessment of the teachings of those labelled as ‘atheists,’ or ‘unbelievers.’ They are not given a significant voice. Ignatius presents their perspective in the following terms. They say “he suffered in appearance only (while they exist in appearance only!)” (Ign. Trall. 10.1). This same criticism is also found in Smyrnaeans, and is presented in even more rebarbative tones. Ignatius declares that, “[f]or how does anyone benefit me if he praises me but blasphemes my Lord, not confessing that he bore flesh? The one who refuses to say this denies him completely, as one who bears a corpse” (Ign. Smyrn. 5.2). Therefore, for Ignatius, the fundamental Christologi­ cal affirmation that is required of believers is to confess the reality of Christ’s incarnation. Lightfoot proposes that the accusation that those who deny the incarnation is not simply a doctrinal judgment, but reflects Ignatius’ ontological assessment of his opponents, since in carrying a corpse their immortality was destroyed.23 Affirmations of Jesus Christ both as “our God” (Ign. Eph. inscr.; Ign. Pol. 8.3), while simultaneously being “God in man” (Ign. Eph. 7.2) and unshielded from suffering (Ign. Eph. 7.2; Ign. Trall. 9.1), together create the two inseparable strands of Ignatius’ Christology. Whereas the former affirmation of Jesus as divine appears to emerge from a doxological mingling of worship and doctrine, the latter is formulated in response to what Ignatius represents as the false teachings of those who do not deserve to be considered as fellow believers, and who have put themselves beyond the scope of partaking in Christ’s resurrection.

22  Schoedel notes that “[t]he basic concern seems to be the affirmation of the reality of the flesh (and hence of the suffering) of the historical Jesus. And this, in turn, is linked by Ignatius with the maintenance of true obedience and love (Sm. 6.2; cf. Tr. 2.1). For in Ignatius’ mind “faith and love” (cf. Sm. 6.1) can be maintained only when docetism is rejected.” Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 150. 23  Lightfoot, The Apostolic Fathers, II/2:302–3.



Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch

121

3.  The Eucharistic Significance of Christ The most explicit association between the Eucharist and Christ occurs in the statement that “the Eucharist is the flesh of our saviour Jesus Christ” (Ign. Smyrn. 6.2). Yet even here the tendency to read into this formulation later doctrinal perspectives must be resisted. The reference to the flesh of Jesus Christ is directed against docetic opponents. In addition to the perceived theological problem of denying the reality of Christ’s humanity Ignatius also declares concerning those holding different opinions that, “they abstain from the Eucharist” (Ign. Smyrn. 6.2). Hence, it is stated that their doctrinal difference has led to withdrawal or separation from those with whom they differ. Obviously Ignatius’ view that the docetic party separated is perspectival, and it is likely that Ignatius’ opponents would have adopted a different view. However, the result was, at least as Ignatius chose to characterize the situation,24 the apparent institution of an alternative Eucharistic celebration: “only the Eucharist which is under the authority of the bishop (or whomever he designates) is to be considered valid” (Ign. Smyrn. 8.1).25 It is within the context of this situation in Smyrna that Ignatius parcels together the withdrawal from the episcopal Eucharist with the doctrinal problem of denying the incarnation. While not wishing to negate the force of Ignatius’ statement that the Eucharist is the flesh of Christ, and perhaps seeing this as an embryonic basis for later doctrinal developments, one should resist the temptation to equate the statement with a full blown theology of ‘real presence,’ or even a more developed Eucharistic theology. What does come to the fore in the following paragraph, and elsewhere in his writings, are Ignatius’ more developed reflections on the universal nature of the church under episcopal leadership. Thus the equation of Eucharist and the presence of Christ enables this argument since he affirms “wherever Jesus Christ is, there is the catholic church. It is not permissible either to baptize or hold a love feast without the bishop” (Ign. Smyrn. 8.2). Consequently, Ignatius’ ideas develop as a concatenation of related understandings that stem from his core Christological and ecclesiological commitments. 24  It may have been the case that these two Eucharistic celebrations had co-existed in Smyrna without competition or tension. Yet, from Ignatius’ perspective he felt the need to characterize the one that took place free of the hierarchical oversight he supported as being deviant and in opposition to the episcopally sanctioned Eucharist. Schoedel notes how Ignatius’ charge is exaggerated. In relation to the celebration of multiple Eucharistic meals, Schoedel states “[i]t is not even fair to say that that in itself necessarily represented a divisive act. For the group seems to have been led by an elder (see on Sm. 6.1), and there can be little doubt that separate meetings in different houses were usual in the early period.” Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 240. 25 Sullivan reconstructs the situation of conflict in the following plausible manner. “It seems that at Smyrna a faction led by a person with a “high position” (Smr. 6), (i. e., of leadership) may have celebrated separate celebrations of the agape and the Eucharist.” F. A. Sullivan, From Apostles to Bishops: The Development of the Episcopacy in the Early Church (Mahwah: Newman, 2001), 120.

122

Paul Foster

Moreover, the unity that Ignatius strives to promote, at least from his perspective, is produced through sharing in a common Eucharist. While the ecclesial reason for a united Eucharistic celebration centres upon the authority of a single bishop, the Christological reason is a recognition that the flesh of Christ is indivisible: “participate in one Eucharist, for there is one flesh of our Lord Jesus Christ and one cup that leads to unity through his blood” (Ign. Phld. 4). Again, Ignatius’ response to the perceived error of docetic teaching leads to the way in which he formulates his understanding of Christ in relation to the Eucharist. Observing this link, Schoedel states, “emphasis on Christ’s “flesh” is probably linked in Ignatius’ mind with the need to stress the historical reality of the incarnation and passion of the divine Lord.”26 In this way Ignatius’ reflections on Christ are often interrelated, and function to reinforce the various Christological sub-themes in his thinking. 4.  Christ as the Means of Divine Salvation Soteriology for Ignatius is achieved through Christ, and is brought about in line with the will of the Father. Ignatius affirms that Christ “suffered all these things for our sakes, in order that we might be saved” (Ign. Smyrn. 2.1a). The sufferings that are being described here refer to Christ’s passion with particular reference to the crucifixion. This is made explicit in the previous paragraph. There it is stated that Christ was “truly nailed in the flesh for us under Pontius Pilate and Herod the tetrarch” (Ign. Smyrn. 1.2). Ignatius puts this exposition of salvific theology to another purpose apart from that of explaining the means of salvation for its own sake. Whereas those who accept the reality of Christ’s sufferings are saved, Ignatius declares that the fate of those who deny the reality of salvation is that “they will become disembodied and demonic” (Ign. Smyrn. 2.1b). Ignatius can, however, on other occasions speak of redemption for its own sake. Employing an extended metaphor, he refers to believers as stones of a temple that is the building of God. This image is not an innovation with Ignatius, but can be traced back in early Christian usage at least as far as certain passages in the New Testament. In various passages Paul can describe the Corinthians as a “temple of God” (1 Cor 3:16), the author of Ephesians speaks of believers as being “built upon the foundation of the apostles” with the result that they are “built together into a dwelling of God” (Eph 3:20–22). However, Ignatius takes this image to a different level, and complicates the imagery almost transforming it into a multifaceted allegory. Having described believers as stones of the temple he continues by stating that these stones were “prepared beforehand for the building of God the Father, hoisted up to the heights by the crane of Jesus Christ, which is the cross, using as a rope the Holy Spirit; your faith lifts you 26 

Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 199.



Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch

123

up and love is the way that leads up to God” (Ign. Eph. 9.1). The cross, which is seen as a crane, transforms stones into the building, which is the temple of God. Lightfoot judges that “[t]he metaphor is extravagant, but not otherwise ill-conceived.”27 Apart from the fascinating triadic reference to the Father, Christ, and the Spirit, in close connection, the lifting imagery of the mechanical crane and the rope suggests a transformative assent by which believers are raised heavenward. As Schoedel correctly notes, the “language of assent is not exclusively Gnostic,” but in fact permeates most strands of Christian thought,28 for example, “if you have been raised with Christ, seek the things above” (Col 3:1). Therefore, Ignatius appears to understand part of the salvific process achieved through the cross as being the upward transformation that draws believers into contact with the divine. Themes relating to salvation are found scattered in statements throughout Ignatius’ writings. He describes the Lord’s Day as the day “on which our life also arose through him” (Ign. Magn. 9.1). This reflection on the salvation achieved through the resurrection is in some way incidental to the larger issue that Ignatius is tackling in addressing the Magnesians. Unlike those groups who are seen as beset with docetic teachings, here the issue is to resist pressure from those who would press the Magnesians in a more Jewish direction. Hence, Ignatius reflects theologically on why Christians no longer observe the Sabbath, and in the process of this reflection he sees the soteriological significance of the Lord’s Day as the reason for this deviation from Jewish practice.29 In a pithy phrase at that beginning of this epistle Ignatius informs the Magnesians that “in him we will reach the Father” (Ign. Magn. 1.2). The “in him” formulation is not a repeated element in Ignatius’ writings, and hence it is not possible to determine whether it had the same significance for Ignatius as it held for Paul.30 Nonetheless, for Ignatius it still appears to speak of incorporation into Christ. For Ignatius this participation in Christ has transformative significance since it allows access to the Father. 5.  Union with Christ This leads to the discussion of another theme that may find its ultimate origin in Pauline theology, although Ignatius does not cite any texts directly to support such dependence. That theme is the understanding of believers as becoming the body of Christ and being united with him. This is perhaps most clearly illustrated in the writing to the Trallians, whom Ignatius, in a Christ-centred formulation, 27 

Lightfoot, The Apostolic Fathers, II/2:54. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 67. 29  Ibid., 123–4. 30  For the importance of this participatory category in the Pauline writings see J. D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 396–401. 28 

124

Paul Foster

describes as “his members.” He continues by stating of Christ that “the head, therefore, cannot be born without members, since God promises unity, which he himself is” (Ign. Trall. 11.2). While Ignatius does not repeatedly deploy the body image, he employs a range of other ways to speak of union with Christ.31 Apart from the “in him” language described above, when addressing the Ephesians the Lord is described in the following manner: “Jesus Christ, our inseparable life, is in the mind of the Father” (Ign. Eph. 3.2). In both these foregoing descriptions it is interesting to note how closely Ignatius links the incorporation of believers into Christ with the divine purpose or will. Being united in the body of Christ, exemplifies not only God’s promise of unity, but also the very essence of the being of God, since Ignatius describes God himself as a unity. Moreover, the life of believers which is inseparably united to Christ, who himself is said to be “in the mind of the Father.” This is of course not denoting mere thoughts, but describing the existential realm where the being of Christ resides, and it is within that sphere that the life of believers is incorporated into Christ, according to Ignatius’ understanding. This unity with Christ is also expressed through a musical metaphor. While the focus is upon group cohesion and solidarity, towards the end of this image Ignatius asserts that believers are members of Christ. Therefore in your unanimity and harmonious love Jesus Christ is sung. You must join this chorus, every one of you, so that by being harmonious in unanimity and taking your pitch from God you may sing in unison with one voice through Jesus Christ to the Father, in order that he may both hear you and, on the basis of what you do well, acknowledge that you are members of his Son. It is, therefore, advantageous for you to be in perfect unity, in order that you may always have a share in God (Ign. Eph. 4.1b–2).

Hence Ignatius sees the outward display of true ecclesial unity, as an expression of the unseen spiritual unity that believers experience by being members of Christ. This in turn leads to participating in the divine. Therefore, Ignatius’ theology of the church is one that transcends regional affiliations, and is linked with a conception of the trans-local church that is based upon “the ecclesiologi­ cal metaphorical language, which includes the images of building and temple (IgnEph 9.1), as well as drawing upon the image of the body of Christ and its incorporated members (IgnEph 4.2; IgnTrall 11.2; IgnSmyrn 1.2).”32 Thus participation in Christ as members of his body permits incorporation into that more perfect unity that exists between the Son and the Father, and this in turn is the basis of the ecclesial unity that Ignatius wishes to see developed in and between the churches to which he writes. 31  Schoedel refutes the notion suggested by others that here Ignatius’ concept of unity with Christ is indebted to Gnostic conception, or that it presupposes consubstantiality between Christ and his people. See Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, 157. 32  H. Löhr, ‘The Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch’, in W. Pratscher (ed.), The Apostolic Fathers: An Introduction (Waco: Baylor, 2010), 105.



Christ and the Apostles in the Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch

125

IV. Conclusions The reflections that Ignatius offers in relation to the apostles and the figure of Christ are both focused and yet infused with a richness that ensured that his embryonic ideas became building blocks for further theological development. Whilst some of Ignatius’ ideas did not achieve permanence, or enter into the flow of mainstream Christian theology, one can identify a vast range of ideas that became resilient and established formulations in the development of Christian thought. Two central areas where his ideas made a fundamental contribution were in relation to Christology and ecclesiology. In relation to ecclesiology, the analogy that Ignatius drew between the band of apostles and the council of presbyters allowed him to find a basis for that element in his threefold pattern of ministry which could be based upon a connection with the foundational community established by Jesus. Ignatius’ ecclesiology was, however, not isolated from his Christological thought. Seeing Christ as united with the Father and being in his very mind in an ontological sense (Ign. Eph. 3.2), provided the theological mandate by which Ignatius could promote church unity as a reflection of the relationship that existed between the Father and Christ, as well as between the exalted Christ and the band of apostles around him both on earth and now in heaven. Tradition presents itself on occasion in ­Ignatius’ letters as an important warrant for legitimating the contemporary beliefs and practices of the church. The connection between the Ephesians and Paul is deployed as a source of praise, but also as a control against deviance from the form of teaching that Ignatius promotes (Ign. Eph. 12.2). The Christological affirmations that Ignatius offers in his letters are diverse, and contain a number of insights that were of foundational value for later Christian thinkers. What needs to be remembered is that such perspectives were not the result of some rarefied scholastic environment, but were formulated either in response to perceived errors in the teachings of those whom Ignatius regarded as opponents, or appear to reflect the doxological context of worship. Many of his most fulsome formulations appear to originate in statements that are in some sense credal, and perhaps originated in baptismal liturgies, or other contexts of church life.33 In relation to the latter, the ease with which Ignatius repeatedly affirms the divinity of Christ, with little sense of a need to justify this claim suggests that it had become a widely accepted commonplace. Most likely it had become established and accepted through the worship of gathered communities of believers.34 By contrast, the need to stridently assert the humanity of Christ and the reality of his suffering points in the opposite direction. Docetic teaching was 33  On this point, see C. N. Jefford, Reading the Apostolic Fathers: An Introduction (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1996), 63. 34  Hurtado, Devotion, 639–40.

126

Paul Foster

widespread, affecting at least three of the communities to whom Ignatius wrote. Moreover it was extensive within those communities, and had resulted in the formation of competitor Christian groups in the same location (Ign. Smyrn. 8.1). Ignatius tackles such competing views in an uncompromising way, and without seeking to bring about reconciliation with those who stood on the opposite side of the debate.35 In this way Ignatius also models the polemical approach that Christological debates took over the subsequent centuries. While much in Ignatius’ theology, especially in his treatment of the apostles and Christ, remains enduring, there are also elements that are idiosyncratic and, moreover, the methods of debate that he employs reflect their own context. One of Ignatius’ major contributions is in reflecting the beginnings of a development of an overarching synthetic theology, which attempts to ground contemporary praxis on Christological reflection, on conceptions of the apostles as modelling Christian community and ecclesial structures, and draws upon the tradition of connection with apostolic figures such as Peter and Paul (Ign. Rom. 4.3). While it may be unlikely that all these theological developments originated with Ignatius, he does provide the earliest extant insights into many of these perspectives. Within his own context, and considering the fate that awaited him in the imperial capital, the clarity of thought exemplified in his letters and the enduring value of his theological ideas testify to the fact that Ignatius was one of the most important figures in the history of the early church, and he has enriched Christian thought by bequeathing such a rich theological legacy.

35  Löhr highlights the confrontational approach of Ignatius’ theology when he observes that “Ignatius clearly fights in at least a few of his letters against teachers who advance a docetic Christology.” Löhr, ‘The Epistles of Ignatius of Antioch’, 111.

Baptism and Μετάνοια in the Shepherd of Hermas Mark Grundeken Introduction In the Shepherd of Hermas baptism and μετάνοια are closely related. The relation between the two is most clearly expressed in Man. 4.3.1 Baptism signifies forgiveness (ἄφεσις) of one’s previous sins (v. 1). One who has received forgiveness should sin no more (v. 2). But baptized believers who have sinned have one chance to change (μίαν μετάνοιαν, v. 6). After that, one should sin no more (μηκέτι προσθήσω ταῖς ἁμαρτίαις, v. 7). It is explicitly stated that this second chance should not be “an excuse (ἀφορμή) for those who will believe or just have come to believe in the Lord. For those who have just come to believe or will believe do not have μετάνοια of sins (μετάνοιαν ἁμαρτιῶν), but they have forgiveness of their previous sins (ἄφεσιν … τῶν προτέρων ἁμαρτιῶν αὐτῶν)” (v. 3). For Hermas, baptism is the sign of a believer’s initial conversion and μετάνοια one other chance to change for a believer who has sinned. Hermas warns the non-baptized that they have only one opportunity to convert and at the same time reassures baptized believers who have sinned that they do have one other chance.2 The aim of this essay is twofold. It will analyze Hermas’ views on baptism and μετάνοια. Moreover, it will investigate what these views reveal about Hermas’ community. “Hermas’ community” is used here in the sense of the author’s direct addressees as a body of believers. Most likely, the author Hermas3 belonged to a house church community: the way in which Hermas’ “house” (οἶκος) and “the house of God” (ὁ οἶκος τοῦ θεοῦ) are presented, indicates that Hermas’ house 1  The critical edition of Hermas which has been used for this essay is that of M. Leutzsch, Hirt des Hermas, part two of U. H. J. Körtner and M. Leutzsch (eds.), Papiasfragmente. Hirt des Hermas, SUC 3 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1998), 105–497. Translations and paraphrases of Hermas in this article are based on C. Osiek, Shepherd of Hermas: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), with adaptations. 2  See, e. g., P. Henne, L’unité du Pasteur d’Hermas. Tradition et rédaction, CRB 31 (Paris: Gabalda, 1992), 91–139, esp. 138–9. 3  There is no reason to assume that “Hermas” is a pseudonym. It was a common name (­ Osiek, Shepherd, 44 with n. 21) and the name is only mentioned in passing (and not emphasized by stating, for instance, at the beginning of the work, “Hermas, to the Christians of Rome,” or something similar). For the idea that “Hermas” was the real name of the author, see also, e. g., N. Brox, Der Hirt des Hermas, KAV 7 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 43.

128

Mark Grundeken

church and the whole church are meant.4 In all three parts of the work (the Visions, Mandates and Similitudes), the Christian audience is regularly addressed in the second person plural.5 It is difficult (or perhaps even impossible) to determine whether the author addresses his own house church, a group of communities, or the church at large. Nevertheless, the author apparently addresses a group of Christian believers.6 It is important to note four key assumptions that underlie this paper. First, it is presumed that Hermas was written somewhere between the end of the first and the middle of the second century.7 Second, the writing is situated in or near Rome.8 Third, the work is considered to be written by one author, whether or not in different stages9: it will be studied as a whole in its final redactional stage. Fi4  For Hermas’ “house” (οἶκος) in relation to “all” (Christians), see esp. Vis. 1.1.9; Man. 5.1.7; Sim. 5.3.9; 7.7. For ὁ οἶκος τοῦ θεοῦ, Sim. 9.13.9; 9.14.1. For the church as a whole, Sim. 9.18.2 (ἡ ἐκκλησία τοῦ θεοῦ). 5  See, e. g., Vis. 3.9.1; Man. 12.6.1; Sim. 1.1; 9.33.1. For the address ἀδελφοί, Vis. 2.4.1; 3.1.1, 4; 3.10.3; 4.1.1, 5, 8. 6  According to Leutzsch, Hirt, 129 and 367 nn. 92–3, Hermas addresses the community (“die Gesamtgemeinde“) and the church as a whole (“die Gesamtheit der Christen”), but not non-Christians (367 n. 86). 7 Cf. Osiek, Shepherd, 20: “The best assignment of date is an expanded duration of time beginning perhaps from the very last years of the first century, but stretching through most of the first half of the second century”; and B. D. Ehrman, The Shepherd of Hermas, in Idem, The Apostolic Fathers, II: Epistle of Barnabas, Papias and Quadratus, Epistle to Diognetus, The Shepherd of Hermas, LCL 25 (Cambridge, Mass. / London: Harvard University Press, 2003), 161–473, at 167: “possibly over a stretch of time, during the early part of the second century, perhaps 110–40 CE.” But cf., e. g., H. O. Maier, The Social Setting of the Ministry as Reflected in the Writings of Hermas, Clement and Ignatius, Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion, Dissertations Series 1 (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier, 1991), 57, who argues that it is more likely that “one author was writing over a shorter period of time”; and J. Muddiman, ‘The Church in Ephesians, 2 Clement, and the Shepherd of Hermas’, in A. F. Gregory and C. M. Tuckett (eds.), Trajectories through the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 107–21, at 117, who objects to Osiek’s position: “this compromise solution does not seem to do justice to the urgency that the author feels (see Vis. 2. 4. 3) to send his message abroad.” 8 See, e. g., M. Dibelius, Der Hirt des Hermas, HNT Erg. Die Apostolischen Väter 4 (Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck, 1923), 423; Brox, Hirt, 22; Leutzsch, Hirt, 135; Osiek, Shepherd, 18; and J. Verheyden, ‘The Shepherd of Hermas’, in ET 117 no. 10 (2006), 397–401, 398; rev. in P. Foster (ed.), The Writings of the Apostolic Fathers (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 63–71, 64. Pace esp. E. Peterson, ‘Kritische Analyse der fünften Vision des Hermas’, in HJ 77 (1958), 362–9; rev. in Idem, Frühkirche, Judentum und Gnosis. Studien und Untersuchungen (Freiburg: Herder, 1959), 271–84, esp. 275, 282, who thought Hermas to have an Eastern origin (Palestine). 9  See, e. g., Dibelius, Hirt, 420–1; R. Joly, Hermas. Le Pasteur. Introduction, texte critique, traduction et notes, SC 53 bis (Paris: Cerf, 1958), 15–16; Brox, Hirt, 25–33; Henne, L’unité; Osiek, Shepherd, 10 with n. 90 (but cf. her earlier Rich and Poor in the Shepherd of Hermas: An Exegetical-Social Investigation, CBQMS 15 [Washington: Catholic Biblical Association, 1983], 6–7, where she took Giet’s position as point of departure); and D. Hellholm, ‘Der Hirt des Hermas’, in W. Pratscher (ed.), Die Apostolischen Väter. Eine Einleitung, UTB 3272 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 226–53, esp. 228, 230 and 249–50, followed



Baptism and Μετάνοια in the Shepherd of Hermas

129

nally, it will be assumed that there must be some measure of agreement between a(n early Christian) work, its author(s) and its audience.10

I. Baptism “The time of the Apostolic Fathers” (end of the first and first half of the second century) has been designated as a period of Christian mission and expansion.11 Historically it may be true and correct that already in this early period Christianity spread steadily.12 The question remains, however, how this development was perceived by contemporary Christians. It will be argued that Hermas was well aware of the steady growth of the church, but that his focus is not on the baptism of outsiders, but on the change of insiders.13 In Hermas baptism is described in the usual way of going down into the water and (fortunately!) coming up again (ἐλθεῖν εἰς τὸ ὕδωρ, Vis. 3.2.9; εἰς ὕδωρ κατέβημεν, Man. 4.3.1; δι’ ὕδατος ἀναβῆναι, Sim. 9.16.2; εἰς τὸ ὕδωρ … καταβαίνουσι … καὶ ἀναβαίνουσι, v. 4; κατέβησαν … εἰς τὸ ὕδωρ καὶ πάλιν ἀνέβησαν, v. 6). There are about a dozen baptismal allusions. A first one is found by V. Blomkvist, ‘The Teaching on Baptism in the Shepherd of Hermas’, in D. Hellholm, ­ .  ­Vegge, Ø.  Norderval and C. Hellholm (eds.), Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism. Late T Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity / Waschungen, Initiation und Taufe. Spätantike, Frühes Judentum und Frühes Christentum, II, BZNW 176 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 849–70, esp. 850–3. Pace, e. g., L. W. Barnard, ‘The Shepherd of Hermas in Recent Study’, in HeyJ 9 (1968), 29–36, at 32 (two authors); S. Giet, Hermas et les pasteurs. Les trois auteurs du Pasteur d’Hermas (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1963); and W. Coleborne, ‘The Shepherd of Hermas: A Case for Multiple Authorship and Some Implications’, in StPatr 10 = TU 107 (1970), 65–70 (six authors). 10  For a similar position (though not concerning Hermas, but the Gospel of Matthew), see C. M. Tuckett, ‘Matthew: The Social and Historical Context – Jewish Christian and/or Gentile?’, in D. Senior (ed.), The Gospel of Matthew at the Crossroads of Early Christianity, BETL 243 (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 99–129, at 101–2: “... although one should be wary of making too neat an equation between an author and his/her community, as if the author always reflects the views of the community and never challenges them, it seems reasonable to presume a significant element of continuity between the author and the community to which s/he belonged. Hence, for some purposes, what applies to the evangelist may also apply to the community for which he wrote his Gospel, and vice versa.” 11 W. Sommer and D. Klahr, Kirchengeschichtliches Repetitorium. Zwanzig Grundkapitel der Kirchen-, Dogmen- und Theologiegeschichte, UTB 1796 (Göttingen, Vandenhoeck & Ru­ precht, 20023), 9–11 (on “Das Zeitalter der Apostolischen Väter”). 12 For the geographical expansion of Christian communities until ca. 325 C. E., see R. L. Mullen, The Expansion of Christianity: A Gazetteer of Its First Three Centuries, SVigChr 69 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 197–200 (on Rome). 13  See also L. Pernveden, The Concept of the Church in the Shepherd of Hermas, STL 27 (Lund: Gleerup, 1966), 164: Hermas’ focus is not on how people “were going to become Christians, but how they were to remain such”; and Blomkvist, ‘Teaching on Baptism’, 854: “In the Shepherd, the theme of baptism is overshadowed by the second metanoia.”

130

Mark Grundeken

in Vis. 3.2.9.14 It is part of Hermas’ first vision of the tower (which started in Vis. 3.2.4). Hermas narrates that he saw stones that were thrown away from the tower. Some of these stones “fell near the waters, but were unable to roll into the water, though they wanted to roll and go into the water.”15 In Vis. 3.7.3 these stones are explained as “those who heard the word and wanted to be baptized (βαπτισθῆναι) in the name of the Lord: (but) then, when the holiness of the truth comes into their mind, they change their mind (μετανοοῦσιν) and follow again their evil desires.” Presumably, the stones represent neophytes or catechumens preparing for baptism.16 The focus is not on baptism, but on μετάνοια: the newcomers are as “stones” useless for the tower (the church), because they “changed” (μετανοοῦσιν) in the wrong direction. In Vis. 3.3.5 the woman church explains to Hermas that the tower / church was built on water (Vis. 3.2.4), “because your [pl.] life was saved and will be saved through water.” Baptism is the foundation of the church.17 The focus, however, is not on baptism, but on μετάνοια. It is those who have already been baptized who are addressed: the “you” are the baptized. Moreover, it is stated in the same verse that “the tower was founded on the word of the Almighty and his honourable name.” “The word” probably alludes to the hearing of the word that led to conversion (see Vis. 3.7.3: οἱ τὸν λόγον ἀκούσαντες καὶ θέλοντες βαπτισθῆναι).18 Baptism signifies a believer’s (initial) conversion. In Man. 4.3.1 Hermas asks the Shepherd whether it is true that “there is no other μετάνοια except the one when we went down into the water and received forgiveness (ἄφεσιν) of our previous sins.” As already seen, the answer is that newcomers have forgiveness (ἄφεσις) of their previous sins (v. 3), but that those who believe already (“those who were called [κληθεῖσι] before these days”19) have one (chance of) μετάνοια (v. 4). Again, not baptism, but μετάνοια is at the centre of interest. Baptized believers are referred to as “we” (κατέβημεν … ἐλάβομεν, v. 1); the others are referred to as “they” (οἱ … νῦν πιστεύσαντες [presumably non-baptized believers] and [οἱ] μέλλοντες πιστεύειν [presumably people interested in the Christian faith], v. 3). The issue is that there are baptized believers who sin. The point being made is that these sinners can restore their 14  Giet, Hermas, 299–300, has suggested that the bathing scene in Vis. 1.1 refers to Rhoda’s baptism. But baptism is not explicitly mentioned and does not seem to be implied. 15  The phrase ἑτέρους … πίπτοντας (Vis. 3.2.9; see also 3.7.3) indicates that these stones belong to those that were “thrown away” (ῥιπτομένους) from the tower (Vis. 3.2.9). According to Blomkvist, ‘Teaching on Baptism’, 860, Vis. 3.2.9 refers to baptism. 16 With Osiek, Shepherd, 74. 17 With Blomkvist, ‘Teaching on Baptism’, 859: “the water is evidently referred to as the baptismal water.” 18  For neophytes, baptism and conversion are two sides of the same coin. For “neophytes,” see also Vis. 3.5.4: “they are new in the faith, but believers” (νέοι εἰσὶν ἐν τῇ πίστει καὶ πιστοί). 19  κλῆσις most likely refers to the initial conversion, confirmed by baptism. With Osiek, Shepherd, 115.



Baptism and Μετάνοια in the Shepherd of Hermas

131

“baptismal blessedness ... with conversion,”20 but that this does not imply that those who have not yet been baptized will after baptism always have a second chance. In the Similitudes two phrases refer to baptism.21 First there is the phrase “receiving the seal (σφραγίς).”22 In Sim. 8.6.3 Hermas asks the Shepherd to explain to him the vision of the willow tree and its sticks, “so that, when they hear it, those who have come to believe (οἱ πιστεύσαντες) and have received the seal (τὴν σφραγῖδα), but have broken it and have not kept it undamaged ... change (μετανοήσωσιν).” The focus is on believers who sinned since baptism and need to change. Sim. 9.16 describes a two-stage process of conversion and baptism of (deceased) pre-Christian righteous by (deceased) Christian preachers (a version of the traditional motif of the descensus ad inferos).23 The image that is used is that of “stones” which ascend from the depth (the underworld) through water and are placed in the building of the tower (vv. 1–2). Stones that are lacking the seal (μόνον δὲ τὴν σφραγῖδα ταύτην οὐκ εἶχον, v. 7) are the pre-Christian righteous; stones that already have the seal (ἤδη ἐσχηκότες τὴν σφραγῖδα, v. 5) are deceased apostles and teachers: they preached the name of the Son of God to those who had fallen asleep and gave them “the seal (σφραγῖδα) of the Son of God” (v. 3), or “the seal of preaching” (τὴν σφραγῖδα τοῦ κηρύγματος, v. 5; cf. v. 4, κἀκείνοις … ἐκηρύχθη ἡ σφραγὶς αὕτη) and the seal of baptism (“the seal ... is the water,” ἡ σφραγὶς … τὸ ὕδωρ ἐστίν, v. 4). Baptism symbolizes a change from deadliness into life (vv. 2, 4, 6–7). The focus is on the incorporation of the pre-Christian righteous into the church. Baptism plays a central role, but missionary overtones are out of the question. In Sim. 9.17 twelve multicolour mountains represent twelve tribes (φυλαί, v. 1) or people (ἔθνη, v. 2) that inhabit 20 

Osiek, Shepherd, 104 (on Man. 1.2 et al.). Sim. 8 the watering of the sticks of the willow tree (8.2.7–8; 8.3.8) is not a baptismal allusion, because the sticks represent people who are already Christians and the water is just meant to revitalize (8.2.7–8), or purify the sticks (8.7.5). In Sim. 9.1.8 and 9.25.1–2 the “springs” (πηγαί) of the eighth mountain are not a baptismal allusion either, because the ninth mountain “has no water at all” (ὅλως ὕδωρ οὐκ εἶχεν, Sim. 9.1.9), yet does represent (baptized) believers (9.26). In Sim. 9.10.3 the sprinkling of water is just meant to cleanse the (area of the) tower / church. In Sim. 9.13.5 the white colour of the garments of the believers may, according to Osiek, Shepherd, 236, be a baptismal allusion, but this cannot be proven. 22 In Sim. 8.2.2–3 and the second reference in 8.6.3, σφραγίς cannot refer to baptism, because the seal is given to a group of baptized believers. See further F. J. Dölger, Sphragis. Eine altchristliche Taufbezeichnung in ihren Beziehungen zur profanen und religiösen Kultur des Altertums, SGKA 5 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1911), 70; Dibelius, Hirt, 591, 596; Brox, Hirt, 357, 369 ; Leutzsch, Hirt, 480 n. 201, 483 n. 239; Osiek, Shepherd, 202, 206; Blomkvist, ‘Teaching on Baptism’, 865; and esp. K. O. Sandnes, ‘Seal and Baptism in Early Christianity’, in ­Hellholm, Vegge, Norderval and Hellholm, Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism, 1441–81, esp. 1455, who argues that in Hermas, σφραγίς can refer to water (most likely the water of baptism), faith, repentance and proclamation (of the name of God’s Son). 23  Osiek, Shepherd, 238. 21 In

132

Mark Grundeken

the world.24 “To these the Son of God was preached (ἐκηρύχθη) by the apostles” (v. 1). When the multicolour stones of the mountains are placed in the tower, the building gets one colour (v. 3), because “all the people (ἔθνη) that live under the heaven, having heard and believed, were called (ἐκλήθησαν) by the name of the Son of God. Having received the seal (σφραγῖδα), they had one insight and one spirit and their faith and love became one ... That is why the building of the tower became one colour” (v. 4). A worldwide mission, aiming at the conversion and baptism of all people, is envisioned. It is difficult to decide, however, whether the past tense (especially ἐκηρύχθη and ἐκλήθησαν) refers from a future perspective to the present (that is, Hermas’ time), or from a present perspective to the past (that is, before Hermas’ time). As a matter of fact, the vision involves the future church: the tower is not yet a monolith, but will eventually be like that. In other words, it remains uncertain whether Hermas saw the present or the past as a period of mission.25 In any case, the emphasis is on the unity of the church as “one body” (ἓν σῶμα, v. 5).26 Hermas’ focus is on the improvement of the church: the multicolour stones need to form a tower of a single colour. In the process that is described, of people hearing the preaching, coming to belief, being baptized and living a renewed life, it is the renewed life that matters most. Finally, in Sim. 9.31.1 stones that have not yet received the seal (sigillum) cannot be used for the structure of the tower. Most likely, the seal refers to baptism. Again, however, μετάνοια is at the centre of interest: the “stones” are to be changed before they can enter God’s kingdom (v. 2) and the “angel of penitence” (nuntius poenitentiae, v. 3) addresses himself to the baptized (dico vobis qui hoc sigillum accepistis, v. 4): the baptized have to be “cured” while the tower is still being built (v. 1). The focus is on the improvement of the church by the change of its members. A second phrase for referring to baptism is “receiving the name.”27 In Sim. 9.16.3, “carrying the name of [the Son of] God” (φορέσαι … τὸ ὄνομα [τοῦ υἱοῦ] τοῦ θεοῦ)28 stands on one line with “receiving the seal of God’s Son” (ἔλαβον … τὴν σφραγῖδα τοῦ υἱοῦ τοῦ θεοῦ ... λάβῃ τὴν σφραγῖδα). Baptism is meant, because in v. 4 it is stated that “the seal is the water.” The importance of the tower 24  The terminology may have Jewish overtones (φυλαί), but the perspective is universal (ἔθνη). 25  See also, e. g., Sim. 8.3.2. 26  The unity (becoming ἓν σῶμα, ἓν πνεῦμα, etc., Sim. 9.13.5, 7; 9.17.3) is in Hermas not a baptismal allusion (pace Osiek, Shepherd, 236), or Eucharistic allusion (with Osiek, Shepherd, 244 n. 6), but a reference to the unity of the church. It is true that in Eph 4:4, ἓν σῶμα and ἓν πνεῦμα are mentioned in the context of baptism (ἓν βάπτισμα, v. 5), but cf. Sim. 9.17.5: “after they [i. e., the baptized] had come together and became one body ... .” 27  See also Osiek, Shepherd, 234; and Blomkvist, ‘Teaching on Baptism’, who have interpreted this phrase as a reference to baptism. 28  τοῦ υἱοῦ is attested in L1 (Vulgate), L2 (Palatine), E[thiopic version], but not in A (Codex Athous). The reading of A is probably more original, because “of the Son” appears to be a further clarification.



Baptism and Μετάνοια in the Shepherd of Hermas

133

image as well as the emphasis on μετάνοια has already been discussed. In Sim. 9.12 it is stated that “the Son of God” (9.12.1) or “the name of the Son of God” (9.12.429) is the only entrance into the tower / church (see also 9.13.1) and God’s kingdom (9.12.4–5) and the only access to the Lord (9.12.6). In the next pericope (9.13) it is stressed that baptism alone is in vain: only carrying the name is of no use (ἐὰν γὰρ τὸ ὄνομα μόνον λάβῃς, οὐδὲν ὠφελήσῃ, v. 2); one should also wear the garment of the virgins (vv. 2–5, 7), that is, live a virtuous life (9.15). Stones that carry the name, but not the garment are thrown away from the tower (9.13.3). The meaning of baptism is relativized. What matters is that one belongs to the tower (9.13.1, 3–6, 9), to God’s servants (v. 7) and God’s house (v. 9). All believers need to change, so that they form a perfectly harmonious community (vv. 5, 7). On the basis of the baptismal allusions, we may conclude that Hermas’ main interest is not the baptism of new members, but the change of present members of the church. All references to baptism are related to μετάνοια. Moreover, all baptismal allusions, except one, are related to the image of the tower, which represents the church in the ongoing process of change and improvement. The one exception is Man. 4.3.1, but there the focus is, again, not on baptism, but on μετάνοια. Finally, the fact that there are only about a dozen allusions to baptism, whereas there are dozens of references to μετάνοια (more than 150),30 is a further indication that Hermas’ focus is not on the expansion, but on the improvement of the church. It appears that Hermas’ perspective differs from the perspective of scholars study­ing this period. There are three possible reasons for this discrepancy. First, this can be due to the fact that the author was not familiar with contemporary developments. In other words, Hermas was not aware of the growth of the church. This would mean that there is a conflict between “idea” and “reality.” Second, it may be that the author was trying to change contemporary developments for the better, or to ignore them. In other words, Hermas was well aware of the expansion of the church, but tried to change this development, or was not really interested in it. This would involve a conflict between “ideal” and “reality.” Finally, maybe Hermas and other writings of this period are not so much witnesses of 29 C[optic]a and E read τοῦ υἱοῦ αὐτοῦ; L1 and L2 filii dei; C[optic]s τοῦ υἱοῦ; and A τὸ ἅγιον αὐτοῦ. Most likely, the original reading was τὸ ὄνομα αὐτοῦ, which was later ‘glorified’ (his holy name, A) or ‘clarified’ (the name of the Son, Cs; of his Son, Ca E; of the Son of God, L1 L2). On the basis of Sim. 9.12.1, it can reasonably be assumed that the name of God’s Son was implied anyway. 30  According to I. Goldhahn-Müller, Die Grenze der Gemeinde. Studien zum Problem der Zweiten Buße im Neuen Testament unter Berücksichtigung der Entwicklung im 2. Jh. bis Tertullian, GTA 39 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 245, the terms μετάνοια (Visions, 7 times; Mandates, 15 times; Similitudes, 33 times), μετανοεῖν (Vis., 15; Man., 16; Sim., 62) and paenitentia (Sim., 8) occur 156 times in Hermas.

134

Mark Grundeken

developments that go in one and the same direction (the expansion of the church as a whole) as of currents that were running in various directions. In other words, the author had nothing to be aware of: Christianity in his time and place did not grow steadily. This would involve a conflict between the reconstructed reality by scholars and reality as such. The first and third position are to be rejected: Hermas was well aware of the growth of the church. The church is portrayed as a huge progressive building project (esp. Vis. 3 and Sim. 9). Moreover, mission is envisioned among all the people of the world (esp. Sim. 9.17.1–4). Most likely, the second option is best: the author was aware of the changes that were taking place, but had other ideals. He was probably not the only one. The steady expansion required the church to find a balance between continuing its work of converting non-believers (by proclaiming the gospel) and focusing on initiatives to improve the existing community. For Hermas, the church is not so much to be extended as to be consolidated. There may be two reasons for this. First, the author thought that the end of times was near. At the end of the book, it is stated that the building of the tower will soon come to an end, but that it has been interrupted, so that believers who have sinned have a chance to change their life. But they need to change quickly, because there is not much time left (Sim. 10.4.4). Second, it appears that the author believed that the church had to be changed, which made him less a missionary than a preacher of μετάνοια. It can be concluded that the initiation rite of baptism as sign of a believer’s (initial) conversion was in the author’s circles a well-established practice.

II. Μετάνοια It has been argued that the moralistic tendencies in the Apostolic Fathers were meant to counterbalance “the pagan morality that dominated the environment in which the people addressed in these writings lived.”31 Hermas’ moralism could be regarded as such a reaction to pagan morality, or a lack of morality. Again, the issue will be addressed whether there are possible tensions between Hermas’ ideals and reality, now focusing on the theme of μετάνοια. All refer­en­ ces to μετάνοια in Hermas have been studied, but they will not all be presented in detail. The material will be discussed on the basis of two key questions. First, it will be discussed what μετάνοια actually means. Second, it will be investigated whether Hermas’ moralism is a reaction to actual problems or not.

31 B. Hägglund, History of Theology (trans. G. J. Lund; Saint Louis / London: Concordia, 1968), 19.



Baptism and Μετάνοια in the Shepherd of Hermas

135

1.  Establishing the Meaning of Μετάνοια In the literature on Hermas the origin and meaning of μετάνοια has been one of the most debated themes. Some scholars have argued that Hermas’ views on μετάνοια were innovative32 and that the author reacted to the “rigorist” idea of no second chance.33 But others have argued that the idea of second repentance or penitence already existed before Hermas34 and that the author was a rigorist himself who stressed that a baptized believer had not more than one other chance.35 In Hermas μετάνοια has multiple aspects.36 What follows will investigate these aspects (in arbitrary order). For each aspect only a few passages in Hermas will shortly be discussed. (a) Acts of Penitence. It has been debated whether μετάνοια involves peni­ tence. The two key passages are Man. 4.2.2 and Sim. 7.4. In the former, μετανοεῖ is further elaborated as humbling and torturing one’s soul (ταπεινοῖ τὴν ἑαυτοῦ ψυχὴν καὶ βασανίζει). In the latter, it is stated that “the one who changes needs to torture his soul and to humble himself severely in everything he does” (δεῖ τὸν μετανοοῦντα βασανίσαι τὴν ἑαυτοῦ ψυχὴν καὶ ταπεινοφρονῆσαι ἐν ἁπάσῃ τῇ 32 

See, e. g., R. Joly, ‘La doctrine pénitentielle du Pasteur d’Hermas et l’exégèse récente’, in RHR 147 (1955), 32–49; and A. Schneider, “Propter sanctam ecclesiam suam”. Die Kirche als Geschöpf, Frau und Bau im Bußunterricht des Pastor Hermae, SEAug 67 (Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 1999), 73: Hermas “[kann] als der erste ernste Versuch betrachtet werden ... die frage der postbaptismalen Sünden in ihrer Ganzheit und im Sinne der Kirche zu behandeln.” 33  See, e. g., Blomkvist, ‘Teaching on Baptism’, 867: Hermas’ “opponents apparently esteemed baptism so highly that they could not accept any post-baptismal sin. The strongest possible argument, namely that of divine revelation was needed in order to propagate a less rigorous view on this subject.” Cf. Heb 6:4–6; 10:26; 12:17 (see esp. H. Löhr, Umkehr und Sünde im Hebräerbrief, BZNW 73 [Berlin: de Gruyter, 1994]). It has been suggested that Hermas polemicizes against the more rigorous teachings of Hebrews. See, e. g., Goldhahn-Müller, Grenze der Gemeinde, 286. It should, however, be noted that the idea in Hebrews that there is no other chance after baptism may not be too different from Hermas’ views: both authors seem to use a similar pedagogical tool. 34  See, e. g., B. Poschmann, Paenitentia secunda. Die kirchliche Buße im ältesten Christentum bis Cyprian und Origenes, Theoph. 1 (Bonn: Hanstein, 1940), 203: Hermas “[setzt] eine bestehende Bußpraxis voraus [...] ... Was Hermas als neue Offenbarung predigt, ist nicht die grundsätzliche Bußmöglichkeit, sondern die Befristung der Buße, indem die Buße nur noch für die bis zu ‘diesem Tag’ begangenen Sünden gelten soll, nicht mehr dagegen für künftige Sünden.” 35  See, e. g., Poschmann, Paenitentia secunda, 203; and Brox, Hirt, 479. 36  One of the best definitions of the term μετάνοια in Hermas (though with hardly any references to relevant passages in Hermas) is that of J. Paramelle and P. Adnès, ‘Hermas’, in DSp 7 (1969), 316–34, 328: “La metanoia, que prêche le Pasteur, est un sentiment, une attitude, une activité complexe qui renferme en soi, avec le regret du passé et le ferme propos pour l’avenir, un changement d’âme, un renouvellement moral, une transformation de toute la vie. En un mot, c’est une vraie conversion.” The phrase “un changement d’âme” is somewhat confusing, because it can mean “a change of soul,” but also “a change of mind.” Both a change of soul (or heart) and a change of mind are important aspects of μετάνοια in Hermas. In the French definition this is not so clearly stated.

136

Mark Grundeken

πράξει αὐτοῦ ἰσχυρῶς). In both passages, μετάνοια is connected with humbling (ταπεινόω) and torturing (βασανίζω) oneself. The vast majority of scholars has interpreted μετάνοια as some kind of penitence. Some have argued that μετάνοια involves institutionalized forms of penitence.37 But there is no evidence for this. Even if in the image of the building of the tower the removal and reintegration of stones implies some kind of exclusion and reacceptance of community members, it does not follow that μετάνοια involves institutional discipline. Other commentators have argued that penitential acts like fasting are implied.38 An argument in favour of this interpretation is found in Vis. 3.10.6, where humbling (ταπεινοφροσύνη) is associated with fasting (νηστεύειν). A small but not insignificant minority of commentators has argued that μετάνοια refers to changing one’s inner attitude.39 Man. 4.2.3–4 does not speak of any acts of penitence. Hermas presents himself as a sinner (ἁμαρτωλός εἰμί), who, in reaction to his sinfulness, acknowledges that he is to do things in order to live (ἵνα γνῶ ποῖα ἔργα ἐργαζόμενος ζήσομαι). There is no evidence of any penitential act. Moreover, several parallels indicate that humbling (ταπεινόω) and torturing (βασανίζω) one’s ψύχη may well refer to one’s inner self.40 It cannot be proven that μετάνοια would mean penitence. (b) Social Aspect. It has been argued that a social element is involved: Hermas’ call to μετάνοια would aim at the reintegration of the better-off into the commu37  Poschmann, Paenitentia secunda, 134–205, esp. 189–202; J. Grotz, Die Entwicklung des Busstufenwesens in der vornicänischen Kirche (Freiburg: Herder, 1955), 11–70, esp. 64–70 (but cf. 64: “Dementsprechend durfte unter ‘Metanoia’ nicht einfach die kirchliche Buße verstanden werden” [italics mine]); and K. Rahner, ‘The Penitential Teaching of the Shepherd of Hermas’, in Theological Investigations 15 (1982), 57–113, esp. 108 (“intervention by the Church in the penance of a sinner”). 38  See, e. g., Dibelius, Hirt, 510–13 (“Christenbusse”); Joly, Hermas, 22–30 (“la pénitence”); Brox, Hirt, 209 and esp. 476–85 (“Buße”); and Schneider, “Propter sanctam ecclesiam suam”, passim (Buße). The position of Osiek, Shepherd, 192, is somewhat ambivalent. On the one hand, she interprets μετάνοια “not [as] a ritual or repetitive action, but a fundamental personal change” (29). On the other hand, she comments on Man. 4.2.2 that if some kind of discipline is intended, “fasting, prayer, and almsgiving are probabilities” (114); and on Sim. 7.4 that it means “doing penitence,” of which “one component is fasting” (192). 39  See esp. W. C. van Unnik, ‘Zur Bedeutung von ταπεινοῦν τὴν ψυχήν bei den Apostolischen Vätern’, in ZNW 44 (1952–1953), 250–5, repr. in Idem, Sparsa Collecta, III: Patristica – Gnostica – Liturgica, NT.S 31 (Leiden: Brill, 1983), 71–6. Van Unnik only discussed the issue of ταπεινοῦν τὴν ψυχήν (so, not βασανίζω). H. A. Frei, ‘Metanoia im ‘Hirten’ des Hermas’, in IKZ 65 (1975), 120–38 and 176–204, at 183, has argued that μετάνοια in Hermas is “noch nicht bußtechnisch erstarrt” and that the German rendering “Buße” is anachronistic. 40  See, e. g., 2 Pet 2:8: Lot, ψυχὴν … ἐβασάνιζεν; and Diodorus Siculus (ed. and trans. R. M. Geer [ed.], Diodorus of Sicily, X, LCL 390 [London: Heinemann / Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1954]) 20.53.3: Ptolemy “[was] not at all humbled in spirit by his defeat” (οὐδὲν τῇ ψυχῇ ταπεινωθείς); and 20.77.3: Agathocles “was so cast down in spirit” (ἐταπεινώθη τὴν ψυχήν).



Baptism and Μετάνοια in the Shepherd of Hermas

137

nity in order to support the needy.41 But for Hermas, supporting the needy is not a social act (out of altruism, compassion or sympathy for other humans), but an act of piety (for God) in the self-interest of the giver.42 The idea that μετάνοια has a social function is unfounded. (c) Attitude. In Man. 5.1.7 μετάνοια (μετανοήσωσιν) involves doing away with “short temper” (ὀξυχολία). Μετάνοια is a change of one’s disposition. (d) Mind. According to Man. 4.2.2, “μετάνοια is understanding (σύνεσις)” (ἡ μετάνοια σύνεσις ἐστιν; τὸ μετανοῆσαι σύνεσιν εἶναι; τὸ μετανοῆσαι … σύνεσις ἐστιν). The Shepherd, who is in charge of change (ἐπὶ τῆς μετανοίας), gives understanding (σύνεσιν) to all who change (πᾶσιν τοῖς μετανοοῦσιν). The sinner faces up to (συνίει) his sin before the Lord, changes (μετανοεῖ) and refrains from doing what is bad. A change of mind is another aspect of μετάνοια in Hermas.43 (e) Soul and Heart. In Vis. 2.2.4 a change of soul (ψύχη) and heart (καρδία) are interrelated: “sins will be forgiven” (ἀφίενται … ἁμαρτίαι) “when they change (μετανοήσουσιν) with all their heart (καρδία) and do away with doubt (διψυχία) from their hearts (καρδίαι).”44 (f) Sentiment  and (g) Regret (of the Past). In Man. 10.2.3–4 μετάνοια (μετανοεῖ) means that one “feels sad” (λυπεῖται) about what one has done 41 P. Lampe, Die stadtrömischen Christen in den ersten beiden Jahrhunderten, WUNT 2.18 (Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck, 19892), 75: “Hermas’ Prophetie von der zweiten Busse hat die soziale Funktion, die Armenversorgung in der Gemeinde zu sichern. Oder anders: Die Prophetie der zweiten Busse zielt u. a. darauf, verweltlichte Reiche ins aktive Gemeindeleben zu reintegrieren, so dass wider Geldmittel für die Armenpflege verfügbar werden.” Cf. Brox, Hirt, 485 n. 13: “die Reduktion des Hauptthemas Buße auf diese soziale Funktion ist falsch,” because, first, the call to μετάνοια addresses all (early) Christians (so, not only the rich) and, second, is not only related to social problems, but also, for instance, to (re)marriage and divorce (as in Man. 4). Brox misunderstood Lampe’s position, because Lampe clearly states “u. a.,” that is, among other things. 42  A similar perspective is found in Dibelius, Hirt, 500; and Joly, Hermas, 45. Pace Brox, Hirt, 195–6; and Osiek, Shepherd, passim (but cf. Rich and Poor, 133, where she refers to the pious duty of the rich toward the poor; and Shepherd, 261, where she notes that in Sim. 10.4.4 self-interest is a motive for doing well). See esp. Sim. 1.9: “for therefore the Master has made you rich, so that you would fulfil these services [i. e., supporting the needy] for Him” (εἰς τοῦτο γὰρ ἐπλούτισεν ὑμᾶς ὁ δεσπότης, ἵνα ταύτας τὰς διακονίας τελέσητε αὐτῷ), focussing on the giver’s salvation (σωθήσῃ, v. 11); and Sim. 10.4.2: good deeds are useful for oneself (qui ... bonam operam exercere. utile est illis). 43 P. Cox Miller interprets μετάνοια as a “change of consciousness” (P. Cox Miller, Dreams in Late Antiquity: Studies in the Imagination of a Culture [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994], 134), that is, a change of one’s (Hermas’) understanding of the world and of oneself (138), or “a change from single to multiple understanding” (P. Cox Miller, ‘“All the Words Were Frightful”: Salvation by Dreams in the Shepherd of Hermas’, in VigChr 42 [1988], 327–38, at 333). She takes the “angel of μετάνοια” as a “messenger of a change of mind” (Dreams, 134). She regards Hermas as an “autobiographical therapy of consciousness” (Dreams, 131). A change of consciousness is, however, just one aspect of μετάνοια in Hermas. 44  For a recent study on the meaning of διψυχία in Hermas, see D. C. Robinson, ‘The Problem of Διψυχία in the Shepherd of Hermas’, in StPatr 45 (2010), 303–8, who argues that the term has a broader meaning than “doubt”: “To be doubleminded is to lack faith” (306).

138

Mark Grundeken

wrong (πονηρὸν εἰργάσατο, v. 3). Μετάνοια involves a sentiment, namely feelings of regret. (h) Good Intentions (for the Future). In Man. 4.2.2 μετάνοια (μετανοεῖ) means that “one does not anymore (οὐκέτι) do what is wrong, but what is right.” It has been argued that μετάνοια means the opportunity, given by God, to improve one’s future life.45 There are at least two difficulties with this position. First, there is the idea of God’s gift. It is true that μετάνοια is a God-given opportunity. In Sim. 8.11.1 it is stated that the Lord in his mercy has sent the Shepherd to give (a chance of) μετάνοια to all, even though some are not worthy to be saved because of their deeds. Yet, it should be noted that there is an element of personal responsibility as well. In v. 3 it is stated that “all ... who change (μετανοήσωσιν) with whole their hearts, purify themselves of their previous bad deeds and do not add any more to their sins, will receive healing by the Lord of their previous sins” (v. 3).46 Moreover, in Sim. 9.32.1 the Shepherd (the angel of μετάνοια, 9.31.3) exhorts the addressees: “heal yourselves (remediate ... vos) while the tower is still being built.” Second, there is the orientation on the future. In Sim. 6.2.4 “hope of change” (ἐλπίς … μετανοίας) stands on one line with “hope of renewal” (ἐλπίδα … ἀνανεώσεως, v. 4). Yet, μετάνοια means in Hermas both to regret one’s former sinful life (orientation on the past) and to start a new life (orientation on the future).47 (i) Moral Renewal. In Sim. 8.6.6 the change of sinners (ἡ μετάνοια τῶν ἁμαρτωλῶν) means that those who “changed” (μετενοήσαν) “became good” (ἀγαθοὶ ἐγένοντο). And in Sim. 9.14.1–2 it means that believers (ἐὰν … μετανοήσωσι) distance themselves from “vices” (9.15.3) and turn themselves to “virtues” (9.15.1–2). (j) Transformation. In Vis. 3.13.3 it is stated that οἱ μετανοήσαντες “will be completely new” (ὁλοτελῶς νέοι ἔσονται). And in Sim. 9.14.3 Hermas thanks the Lord that “he has sent the angel of μετάνοια to us who have sinned against him, has renewed our spirit (ἀνεκαίνισεν ἡμῶν τὸ πνεῦμα) ... and renewed our life” (ἀνενέωσε τὴν ζωὴν ἡμῶν). (k) Action. In Sim. 9.20.4 μετάνοια means to make up for (ἀναδράμωσιν) what one failed to do (οὐκ εἰργάσαντο) earlier and to do something good (ἀγαθόν τι ποιήσωσιν, bis). It is contrasted with staying in one’s practices (ἐπιμείνωσι ταῖς πράξεσιν αὐτῶν). Μετάνοια means here a change of conduct.48 45  H. A. Frei, ‘Metanoia im ‚Hirten‘ des Hermas’, in IKZ 64 (1974), 118–39 and 189–201, at 190 and 193–4 n. 40. 46  Sim. 8.11.3: μετανοήσωσιν ἐξ … καὶ καθαρίσωσιν is attested in M (Papyrus Michigan) L1 L2 E and Cs, but A reads: ἐξ ὅλης καρδίας αὐτῶν καθαρίσουσιν. The reading of A makes the sentence smoother and is therefore probably secondary. 47 With Brox, Hirt, 484. 48 A. Carlini, ‘Μετανοεῖν e μεταμέλεσθαι nelle visioni di Erma’, in S. Janeras (ed.), Miscellània papirologica Ramon Roca-Puig (Barcelona: Fundació Salvador Vives Casajuana, 1987), 97–102, argues that μετάνοια involves concrete action. But this is just one aspect. Moreover,



Baptism and Μετάνοια in the Shepherd of Hermas

139

We may conclude that μετάνοια in Hermas means a believer’s personal transformation: it is a change of attitude, behaviour, feeling, heart, soul and mind, aiming at moral renewal by regretting one’s old self and starting a new life. A social (communal) or ritual (penitential) aspect is not involved. Changing one’s life by means of μετάνοια does not seem to involve any ritual. 2.  Real, General and Imaginary Issues Hermas’ call to μετάνοια raises the question whether the author is pragmatically reacting to local problems, generally aiming at moral perfection, or idealistically aspiring to the impossible. In other words, the issue is whether the author deals with real issues, addresses general problems, or speaks from his imagination. How do we know that Hermas expresses real concerns about real issues in a real community? This question has been investigated by categorizing the material on μετάνοια in four groups, on the basis of the question whether or not a concrete sin is mentioned, and whether or not a concrete solution is suggested. There are four options: Hermas mentions (1) a particular sin and a solution; (2) a sin, but not a (concrete) solution; (3) neither a particular sin nor a solution; or (4) not a sin, yet a solution. The fourth category does not occur in Hermas, so there are three categories left. What follows will attempt to show that examples of the first category correspond to some local issues; examples of the second category to some general moral issues; and examples of the third category to the author’s imagination. This does not mean that there is a direct connection (for instance, that all examples of the first category involve local issues), but there is some correlation. (a)  Real Issues There are three issues in Hermas that may well refer to actual problems in the Christian community(-ies) to which the author reacts. It does not mean that the stories in Hermas refer to historical facts, but that behind the narrative there may be some real concerns about real problems. A possible local problem relates to the issue of wealth and poverty.49 There are several indications for assuming that poverty and wealth may be such a local problem. The theme occurs throughout the work.50 Hermas presents himself as an example of a well-to-do man who somehow lost his wealth (Vis. 3.6.7). Sim. 2 is fully dedicated to the issue.51 In several passages well-to-do believers are diin some passages on μετάνοια, no action is mentioned. See, e. g., Sim. 8.6.6, where those who “have changed” (μετενόησαν) are said to “have become good” (ἀγαθοὶ ἐγένοντο). 49 With Osiek, Rich and Poor, 127. 50  See esp. Vis. 3.6.5–6; Sim. 1.9; 2.7; 9.30.5; 9.31.2. 51  Brox, Hirt, 293, took Sim. 2 as evidence for a conflict between poor and rich Christians in Rome, but this conclusion may be drawn too easily.

140

Mark Grundeken

rectly addressed and exhorted to share with the less-fortunate (e. g., Vis. 3.9.1–2, 4–5; Sim. 1.8–9). Hermas is concerned about the unwillingness of the better-off to help the less-fortunate. A second theme that may involve some local issue has to do with problems relating to marriage and sexuality. This recurring theme is directly linked to the figure Hermas, who evolves from a man with sexual feelings for another woman than his own wife (Rhoda, Vis. 1.1.2) first to a husband who abstains from sex with his wife (Vis. 2.2.3) and then to a man who has overcome his sexuality and does not have any sexual feelings even when he spends the night with virgins who, among other things, kiss and embrace him (Sim. 9.10.6–9.11.8). Man. 4 deals with the issues of marriage, divorce and adultery in detail (in Man. 4.1, 4, concrete sins and concrete solutions are elaborated). Finally, the contemporary social context, namely the urban setting of a large city full of temptations in combination with the phenomenon of arranged marriages, makes it plausible that adulterous thoughts and adultery were real issues in Christian circles. Within this context it is not unimaginable that people had now and then feelings for others than their own partner.52 A third and final example involves having (or not having) a steadfast faith in the face of oppression and persecution. It is a recurring theme throughout the work. For instance, in Vis. 2.3.4 one Maximus is referred to as someone who has “denied.”53 In Man. 11.4 “doubters” (δίψυχοι) are contrasted with “those who are strong in faith” (ἰσχυροί εἰσιν ἐν τῇ πίστει, v. 4).54 Sim. 9.21.1 refers to “doubters (δίψυχοι) and those who have the Lord on their lips, but not in their heart”: when doubters hear of tribulation (θλῖψιν), their cowardice makes that they worship idols and are ashamed of the name of their God (v. 3). Those who do not have a steadfast faith are in hard times vulnerable for denial. This problem is dealt with in several other passages.55 The issue of denial is related to another recurring theme: the oppression or persecution of Christians.56 In Sim. 9.28.4–8 denial (ἄρνησις) of the Lord is a major theme. In v. 4 “all who, brought before the authority, have been interrogated, yet have not denied, but suffered willingly” 52  Brox, Hirt, 273, noted that adulterous thoughts seem to have been a personal problem of Hermas himself. See further J. S. Jeffers, ‘Jewish and Christian Families in First-Century Rome’, in K. P. Donfried and P. Richardson (eds.), Judaism and Christianity in First-Century Rome (Grand Rapids / Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1998), 128–50, at 140: “We do not know how well Roman Christians in general lived up to a strict sexual ethic.” 53  Vis. 2.3.4: “Say to Maximus: ‘See, tribulation (θλῖψις) comes: if it seems (good) for you, deny again (πάλιν ἄρνησαι)!’” 54 In Man. 11, it is stated that those who “are doubters (δίψυχοι) and who often change (their mind) (πυκνῶς μετανοοῦσι)” are inclined to go to a soothsayer or pseudo-prophet (vv. 2, 4). Δίψυχοι and πυκνῶς μετανοοῦσι are closely related, meaning lacking a steady mind (see the use of the term διάνοια in v. 1). A lack of steady mind is to be overcome by μετάνοια, which means here to strengthen one’s faith. 55  See, e. g., Vis. 2.2.2, 7–8. 56  See, e. g., Vis. 2.2.7–8; 2.3.4; 3.1.9; 3.2.1; 3.6.5; Sim. 8.3.7; 9.21.3.



Baptism and Μετάνοια in the Shepherd of Hermas

141

(ὅσοι … ἐπ’ ἐξουσίαν ἀχθέντες ἐξητάσθησαν καὶ οὐκ ἠρνήσαντο, ἀλλ’ ἔπαθον προθύμως) are presented as exemplary Christians. For Hermas, doubt and denial among Christians facing oppression or persecution seem to be real concerns. (b)  General Moral Issues In many cases where Hermas mentions a sin without any (concrete) solution, some general moral issues seem to be involved. An example is Sim. 6.5.7, where the sin involves revelry (τρυφή). It is explained as “every deed one does with pleasure” (πᾶσα … πρᾶξις τρυφή ἐστι τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ ὃ ἐὰν ἡδέως ποιῇ, v. 5). As examples Hermas mentions, for instance, the adulterer, the drunkard, the liar, the greedy and the robber. Μετάνοια means to stop doing these things (μὴ μετανοήσωσιν relates to ἐπιμείνωσι, v. 7). When such concrete sins are specified, but merely general solutions are given (that one should stop sinning), it seems that Hermas addresses some general moral issues without a direct link with the community(-ies). (c)  Imaginary Issues Finally, some issues that are addressed seem to stem from the author’s imagination. In these instances Hermas’ views are vague, abstract, or outright imaginary. For each of these three categories one example will be given. Sim. 8.10 is about believers who committed some minor sins (ἐλάχιστον … ἥμαρτον): when they heard the Shepherd’s message, most of them changed (μετενόησαν) quickly (v. 1). For those of them who doubted, there is still hope of change (ἐλπὶς μετανοίας, v. 2). V. 3 is about believers who have done works of lawlessness (τὰ δὲ ἔργα τῆς ἀνομίας ἐργασάμενοι): when they heard about this change (ταύτην τὴν μετάνοιαν), they changed (μετενόησαν) without hesitation and “did every virtue of righteousness” (ἐργάζονται πᾶσαν ἀρετὴν δικαιοσύνης). It remains unspecified what the people involved have done wrong and what they are supposed to do. In Sim. 9.14–15 it is stated that those who change (ἐὰν … μετανοήσωσι) distance themselves from the women (that is, change their vicious life, 9.15.3) and turn themselves to the virgins (that is, live a virtuous life, 9.15.1–2). Long catalogues of virtues and vices follow (Sim. 9.15.2–3). Sim. 9.17.5 envisions the possibility that the tower (the church) will eventually be a monolith when all the stones (the believers) fit perfectly well into the structure (that is, when all believers are changed and all non-converts are removed): all believers will have one insight, one spirit, one faith and one love. This is all quite imaginary. The vagueness, abstractionism (or idealism) and imaginativeness say more about the author’s ideas than about the reality of the church. We may conclude that the topics of wealth and poverty, problems relating to marriage and sexuality and belief in the face of oppression or persecution, may

142

Mark Grundeken

reflect real issues, but that other concerns rather seem to involve either general moral issues or issues that do not so much reflect reality as the author’s imagination. A possible reason for the many general and imaginary sins in Hermas is that the work was written from the perspective that the church and its members are in need of change. For rhetorical reasons, the author illustrates the urgency by summing up more or less every sin he could think of.

Concluding Remarks In Hermas baptism of new believers by immersion as a sign of their conversion is assumed to be the usual initiation rite (Vis. 3.2.9; Man. 4.3.1; Sim. 9.16.2, 4, 6). Hermas’ focus is not on baptizing non-believers (expansion of the church), but on changing the present community (consolidation). In Hermas’ time Christianity was expanding. Hermas’ image of the church as a grand and progressive building project (esp. Vis. 3 and Sim. 9) illustrates this historical development and at the same time expresses something of the optimism and self-confidence in Christian circles of that time. The expansion required the church to find a balance between continuing its work of converting non-believers and focusing on initiatives to improve the existing community. The former is taken as a well-established practice, but Hermas aims at the latter. Μετάνοια does in Hermas not involve any ritual, but means personal change. It is necessary for improving the church. The church is portrayed as a corpus mixtum full of sinful believers. The author illustrates this by summing up more or less every sin one could possibly think of. Generally speaking, Hermas does not seem to deal with real issues, but to address some general problems and to speak from his imagination. But there are three topics that do seem to reflect some real issues: unwillingness of the better-off to help the less-fortunate, problems relating to marriage and sexuality, and belief in the face of oppression or persecution. Behind Hermas’ rhetoric, meant to build up a community of renewed Christians, there seem to have been lying some real concerns about real problems.

From Material Place to Imagined Space Emergent Christian Community as Thirdspace in the Shepherd of Hermas

Harry O. Maier “You know that you, as the slaves of God, are sojourners in a foreign land (κατοικεῖτε ξένης), for your City is a long way from this city. If then you know your own City, where you are about to live, why do you here prepare lands, expensive furnishings, buildings and pointless dwellings (οἰκήματα μάταια)? Anyone who prepares these things for this city, therefore, cannot return to his own City. ... For the ruler of this city will say, ‘I do not wish you living in my city, leave it, because you are not living by my laws.’ And so, you have fields and houses and many other possessions – when he casts you out, what will you do with your field and house, and whatever else you have prepared for yourself? For the ruler of this country rightly says to you, ‘Either live by my laws or leave my country.’ And so what will you do, you who have a law from your own City? …. Take care, because renouncing your law may be against your own interests. For if you want to return to your own city, you will not be welcomed, because you have renounced its law; and you will be shut out of it. And so take care. Since you are a stranger living as an alien resident (ξένης κατοικῶν), fix nothing up for yourself except what is absolutely necessary; and be ready, so that when the master of this city wants to banish you for not adhering to his law, you can leave this city and go to your own, and live according to your own law gladly, suffering no mistreatment. ... Instead of fields, then purchase souls that have been afflicted, insofar as you can, and take care of widows and orphans and do not neglect them; spend your wealth and all your furnishings for such fields and houses as you have received from God.” (Shepherd of Hermas, Sim. 1.1–2, 3–6, 8; trans. Ehrman [LCL], slightly revised.)

This passage from the Shepherd of Hermas has as its backdrop the Greco-Roman city and presents before its listeners’ eyes a picture of an urban utopia, a city built not of stones, but of virtues and communal solidarity between rich and poor. It is this connection between city and emergent Christian imagination that this essay seeks to explore. More specifically, it considers the relation between civic space and ethical imagination in the formulation of the image of ideal community as found in the Shepherd. It attends to the urban socio-geography of space and the role of space in shaping Christian gathering and self-reflection. As such it seeks to build on existing explorations of spatiality and meaning making in the formative period of early Christian origins. To promote such an interactionist account it uses the work of the social geographer Edward Soja, which offers a fruitful avenue of investigation for a socio-geographical study of ways in which imagination and the spaces of an emergent Christianity combined together to help form communal self-understanding and ideals of a shared religious life and practice.

144

Harry O. Maier

I. Toward a Spatial Turn in the Study of the Shepherd of Hermas Recent years have witnessed a steady ‘spatial turn’ in New Testament studies, a move that has been taken up for some time in socio-historical studies of the Hebrew Bible. The use of spatial study in texts of emergent Christianity outside the New Testament, while inaugurated in several studies, awaits a full and systematic development.1 The field is wide open for this approach in consideration of extra-canonical texts of the second century. With reference to representations of ideal communities, consideration of spatiality steps back from ideas of community to consider the spaces in which communal ideals are formulated and lived. The notion of spatiality this essay explores considers space and ideals not as separate but as intimately bound up with each other.2 It assumes that the for1 

E. Stewart furnishes a reader’s guide in ‘New Testament Space/Spatiality’, in BTB 42 (2012), 139–50. Recent applications in New Testament studies include S. Freyne, ‘The Geography of Restoration: Galilee-Jerusalem Relations in Early Jewish and Christian Experience’, in NTS 47 (2001), 289–311; C. Hendrik, ‘What is a Gospel: Geography, Time, and Narrative Structure’, in PRSt 10 (1983), 255–68; E. S. Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark, BiSe 3 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1986); H. Moxness, ‘Landscape and Spatiality: Placing Jesus’, in D. Neufeld and R. E. DeMaris (eds.), Understanding the Social World of the New Testament (London: Routledge, 2010), 90–106; Idem, Putting Jesus in His Place: A Radical Vision of Household and Kingdom (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2003); J. Neyrey, ‘Spaces and Places, Whence and Whither, Homes, and Rooms: ‘Territoriality’ and the Fourth Gospel’, in BTB 32 (2004), 60–75; J. Økland, Women in Their Place: Paul and the Corinthian Discourse of Gender and Sanctuary Space, JSNTS 269 (London: T&T Clark, 2004); M. Sleeman, Geography and Ascension in Acts, MSSNTS 146 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); E.  Stewart, Gathered Around Jesus: An Alternative Spatial Practice in the Gospel of Mark, Matrix 6 (Eugene: Cascade Books, 2009); C. Bernabé Ubieta, ‘‘Neither Xenoi nor paroikoi, sympolitai and oikeioi tou theou’ (Eph 2.19). Pauline Christian Communities: Defining a New Territoriality’, in J. J. Pilch (ed.), Social Scientific Models for Interpreting the Bible: Essays by the Context Group in Honor of Bruce J. Malina, BiInS 53 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 260–80. For notable spatial studies of the Hebrew Bible, see J. Berquist and C. V. Camp, Constructions of Space, I: Theory, Geography, and Narrative, JSOTS 481 (New York: T&T Clark, 2007); Constructions of Space, II: The Biblical City and Other Imagined Spaces, JSOTS 490 (New York: T&T Clark, 2008); D. M. Gunn and P. M. McNutt, ‘Imagining’ Biblical Worlds: Studies in Spatial, Social and Historical Constructs in Honor of James W. Flanagan, JSOTS 359 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002). 2  For an orientation to this interactionist account, see R. D. Sack, Homo Geographicus: A Framework for Action, Awareness, and Moral Concern (Baltimore / London: The John Hopkins Press, 1997), 27–49; E. S. Casey, Getting Back into Place: Toward a Renewed Understanding of the Place-World (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993), 22–40. Literature relating to the socio-geographical study of spatiality is vast. The second edition of Key Thinkers on Space and Place, edited by P. Hubbard and O. Kitchen (Los Angeles: Sage Publications, 2009), lists 66 important figures and thousands of works dedicated to the study of spatiality or its inter-disciplinary applications. Alongside the accounts of Lefebvre and Soja, and the works of Sack and Casey, for the purposes of this essay, see also M. de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (trans. S. Rendall; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984); D. E. Cosgrove, Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape (Madison: Wisconsin University Press, 19982); A. Giddens, The Constitutions of Society: Outline of the Theory of Structuration (Berkeley: University of ­California Press, 1984); D. Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Ori-



From Material Place to Imagined Space in Hermas

145

mulation of ideals takes place in space and time even as the places and times where they are conceived help to shape them. Such an interactionist account sees space not as a passive container for ideas, but a critical factor in the formulation of ideas. Further, space itself takes place – that is ideas shape space so that they become imagined places that are more than the physical dimensions of any given location. Such an interactionist account of space and ideas has an obvious importance to considerations of ancient Christian ideals of community since those ideals arose within the, usually urban, physical places of early assemblies and were transformed into more than physical categories. If with Judith Lieu one seeks a “grammar of Christian practice” of an emerging religious movement, spatial considerations furnish such a grammar of practice with the walls, floors, and roofs for its syntax and semantics.3 Indeed, key to her grammar are her observations of the ways in which imagination transforms spaces into places for practice and the idiosyncratic production of religious community and identity.4 In the quotation just cited from the Shepherd, Hermas begins with the civic world of his contemporaries, but reshapes that cityscape into another imagined politeia of Christian gathering and behavior. We might say that the city has shaped his ideals and the ideals he outlines ‘re/place’ the old polis with the new one of an emerging Christian imagination in which notions of purchase and ownership take on new meanings. This results in the formulation of a religious identity that is at the same time placed as well as outside of normalizing understandings of place. The passage describes a politeia that is paradoxically also a “foreign city,” constituted by economic practices that are no longer economic but communitarian. The result is a revision of polis with the help of the language of the polis itself and thus a counter-polis that is everywhere and nowhere at the same time other than in the time and space of the seer’s visionary imagination. To date, study of the material features of early Christian communities has focused most closely on two forms of physical space, the household and the association. Both of these have occasioned analysis that has continued from the ­ ilkin, 1970s onward in its present iteration, especially in the work of Robert W Edwin Judge, Gerd Theissen, Wayne Meeks, Abraham Malherbe, Graydon ­Snyder, ­Carolyn Osiek, David Balch, Hans-Joseph Klauck, Ernst Dassmann, and Michael White.5 These studies take socio-historical approaches inaugurated in gins of Cultural Change (Oxford: Blackwell, 1990); R. J. Johnson, A Question of Place: Exploring the Practice of Human Geography (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991); R. D. Sack, Human Territoriality: Its Theory and History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); J. Z. Smith, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual, SJLA 23 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992). 3  J. Lieu, ‘The Grammar of Practice’, in Eadem, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 147–77. 4 Thus Lieu, Christian Identity, 211–38. 5  E. Judge, ‘The Early Christians as a Scholastic Community’, in JRH 1 (1960), 4–15 and 125–37; R. L. Wilkin, ‘Collegia, Philosophical Schools, and Theology’, in S. Benko and

146

Harry O. Maier

the first half of the twentieth century. As early as 1866 Ernst Renan hypothesized that the early church patterned itself after the organization of trades and religious associations.6 In 1939, Floyd Filson, in a groundbreaking article, considered the role of household space in shaping early Christian ideals as well as its contribution to furnishing spaces for dissent and competition amongst conflicted Christian followers and practitioners.7 More recently, the household has in turn been considered under two further aspects – that of the peristyle household and its analogues and the tenement building or insula.8 Thus three spaces become a point of departure for engaging in a spatial consideration of idealized community in early Christian studies: the household, the tenement, and that of the association, whether in households or in rented accommodation. Thus, for example, Hal Taussig and David Balch have given the relation of meal practices to spatiality enormous attention in their explorations of the triclinium J. J.  O’Rourke (eds.), Early Church History: The Roman Empire as the Setting of Primitive Christianity (London: Oliphants, 1971), 268–91; G. Theissen, The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity (trans. J. A. Schütz; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1982); W. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983); A. Malherbe, Social Aspects of Early Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983); G. Snyder, Ante-Pacem: Archaeological Evidence of Church Life Before Constantine (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1983); C. Osiek, Rich and Poor in the Shepherd of Hermas: An Exegetical-Social Examination, CBQMS 15 (Washington: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1983); D. L. Balch and C. Osiek (eds.), Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue (Grand Rapids / Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2003); H.-J. Klauck, Hausgemeinde und Hauskirche im frühen Christentum (Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1981); E. Dassmann, ‘Hausgemeinde und Bischofsamt’, in Idem and K. Thraede (eds.), Vivarium. Festschrift Theodor Klauser zum 90. Geburtstag, JbAC.E 11 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1984), 82–97; L. M. White, The Social Origins of Christian Architecture, 2 Vols. (Valley Forge: Trinity Press, 1996–1997). 6  E. Renan, Les Apôtres. Histoire des origines du christianisme (Paris: Lévy, 1866). This was further advanced by a succession of nineteenth century scholars including A. von Harnack, Lehre der Zwölf Apostel nebst Untersuchungen zur ältesten Geschichte der Kirchenverfassung und des Kirchenrechts, TU 2.1–2 (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1884), and E. Hatch, The Organization of the Early Christian Churches (London: Longmans and Green, 1881). 7  F. Filson, ‘The Significance of the Early House Churches’, in JBL 58 (1939), 105–12. 8 For the peristyle household, see especially Klauck, Hausgemeinde und Hauskirche; D. Balch, Roman Domestic Art and Early House Churches, WUNT 2.228 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008); H. Taussig, In the Beginning Was the Meal: Social Experimentation and Early Christian Identity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009); for the tenement, R. Jewett, ‘Tenement House Churches and Communal Meals in the Early Church: The Implications of a Form-Critical Analysis of 2 Thess. 3:10’, in BR 38 (1993), 23–43; Idem, Romans: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 59–74; P. Lampe, Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries: From Paul to Valentinus (trans. M. D. Johnson; London: Continuum, 2003), 50–4; C. Kunst, ‘Wohnen in der antiken Großstadt. Zur sozialen Topographie Roms in der frühen Kaiserzeit’, in J. Zangenberg and M. Labahn (eds.), Christians as a Religious Minority in a Multicultural City: Modes of Interaction and Identity Formation in Early Imperial Rome (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 2–17; B. S. Billings, ‘From House Church to Tenement Church: Domestic Space and the Development of Early Urban Christianity – the Example of Ephesus’, in JThS 62 (2011), 541–69; R. W. Gehring, House Church and Mission: The Importance of Household Structures in Early Christianity (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2004), esp. 144–51.



From Material Place to Imagined Space in Hermas

147

and atrium as gathering spaces for meals shared by early Pauline Christ followers. Robert Jewett has similarly located these early meals, but unlike Taussig who relates meals to the peristyle household, he rather focuses on the crowded tenement or insula as the place that shaped ideals of communal living and early Christian ethics.9 Finally, John Kloppenborg, Philip Harland, and Richard ­Ascough have taken up the administrative, honorific, and ethical language of Greek and Roman associations, together with models of organization in rented and donated spaces, in their considerations of the spatial dynamics of early Christian assemblies.10 A socio-geographic spatial treatment of the community ideals of emergent Christianity builds on this solid foundation of socio-historical investigation in order to explore the relation between the material spatial setting of early Christian meetings and the kinds of imagination such spaces prompted and then invited believers to reconceptualise.

II. Material Place and Imagined Space in the Roman Insula: The Shepherd of Hermas The late first to mid-second century Shepherd of Hermas offers excellent material for the kind of study undertaken here.11 As Hermas receives and seeks clarification for his visions and similitudes, and records the divine prescriptions of his 9  For Taussig, Balch and Jewett, see above. Jewett’s configuration of Roman Christianity situated in insulae depends largely on Lampe’s sifting of archaeological and literary evidence to portray a fractionated Roman church meeting in apartments in the poorer districts of the city. Gehring, House Church and Mission, 151, contests this construction and argues instead for meetings not in cramped one room apartments, which would have made meetings of several Jesus followers impossible, but in house churches or tabernae. Since an insula can be rendered οἴκος in Greek, given Lampe’s treatment, it is most probable that Hermas’ listeners were residents of Roman tenements. Most likely, as I hope to show, patrons were not owners of cramped one-room dwellings, but larger apartments, or shops big enough to accommodate a larger group of Jesus followers for worship. For tabernae as the Sitz im Leben of urban Jesus worship in Corinth, see J. Murphy O’Connor, ‘Prisca and Aquila’, in BR (1992), 40–51; for the taberna as recurring life setting for Christ followers in Rome, see Lampe, Christians at Rome, 161. 10  Representative studies include R. Ascough, Paul’s Macedonian Associations: The Social Context of Philippians and 1 Thessalonians, WUNT 2.161 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003); P. Harland, Associations, Synagogues, and Congregations: Claiming a Place in Ancient Mediterranean Society (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003); J. S. Kloppenborg, ‘Collegia and Thiasoi: ­Issues in Function, Taxonomy and Membership’, in J. S. Kloppenborg and S. G. Wilson (eds.), Voluntary Associations in the Graeco Roman World (London: Routledge, 1996), 16–30. 11  I assume here a work undertaken over a period of time, perhaps not completed until the middle of the second century. For excellent social studies of the Shepherd of Hermas, see ­Osiek, Rich and Poor; C. Osiek, Shepherd of Hermas: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999); M. Leutzsch, Die Wahrnehmung sozialer Wirklichkeit im „Hirten des Hermas“, FRLANT 150 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989); Lampe, Christians at Rome, 90–9; J. Rüpke, ‘Der Hirte des Hermas: Plausibilisierungs- und Legitimierungsstrategien im Übergang von Antike und Christentum’, in ZAC 8 (2005), 176–98. See also H. O. Maier, The Social

148

Harry O. Maier

mandates, he furnishes the modern social historian with extensive data concerning the settings of late first to mid-second-century gatherings of an emergent Roman Christianity. The physical remains of Ostia Antica and first and second century Rome, as well as reliefs of daily life in the capital’s suburb offer excellent resources for a consideration of the interaction of space and ethics in the mixed and diverse socio-economic world of the Roman insula. The Shepherd of Hermas asks us to imagine a religious community of mixed socio-economic means. It is important to be clear about what this means. If we can assume that Hermas’ audience was like the one Paul names in Rom 16, this community would have contained a few members who lived above subsistence and a larger number at or below it.12 Hermas is a freedperson and although he does not name his master Rhoda as a Christian it is implied in the visions of her both as his sister, heavenly messenger, and challenger of his morality (Vis. 1.1.1–9). Hermas owns or rents a plot of land. Jörg Rüpke has argued that Hermas’ telling description of the land he farms with the use of the hapax legomenon χονδρίζειν in Vis. 3.1.2 strongly suggests that Hermas was a salt farmer. This matches etymologically with the term for coarse salt (χόνδρος) as well as Hermas’ autobiographical reference to himself along the Via Campana (Vis. 4.2), which was the road to the salt fields north of the Tiber.13 Further, the descriptions and origins of blocks used to build the tower of Vision 3 and Similitude 9 match well with the practices of Roman sea-salt farming and salt-mining, respectively. In Vision 3, the blocks brought for the construction of the tower are brought from the sea and from land (Vis. 3.2.5–6) and are “built on water” (3.2.4). In Sim. 9, when Hermas is taken to Arcadia to witness the tower’s construction, he sees a perfectly white tower made of perfectly fitting, unhewn square stone (Sim. 9.3.3) or trimmed and cleaned stones (9.7.2, 6) and those with cracks and black thrown away (9.4.5–7; 9.6.4; 9.7.2; 9.8.2–3, 5) or needing trimming so they can fit into the tower. Here the descriptions probably have as a point of empirical departure the practice of salt mining as reworking or discarding cracked blocks as well as those that are black or otherwise colored due to the presence of impurities.14 The allegorical representations of the stones in Vision 3 and Similitude 9 offer pictures Setting of the Ministry as Reflected in the Writings of Hermas, Clement, and Ignatius (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier, 2002), 55–86, where earlier studies are also discussed, as well as issues of dating and authorship. 12  The case for this follows below. 13  J. Rüpke, ‘Apokalyptische Salzberge. Zum sozialen Ort und zur literarischen Strategie des ‘Hirten des Hermas’’, in ArRelG 1 (1999), 148–60, at 156–8. Rüpke rightly contests the frequent translation of the verb as “to raise grain”; see, for example, the translations by M. ­Dibelius, Der Hirt des Hermas, HNT Erg. Die Apostolischen Väter 4 (Tübingen: Mohr ­Siebeck, 1923); R. Joly, Hermas. Le Pasteur. Introduction, texte critique, traduction et notes, SC 53 bis (Paris: Cerf, 19972); G. F. Snyder, The Shepherd of Hermas, ApF(T) 6 (Camden: Nelson, 1969); and N. Brox, Der Hirt des Hermas, KAV 7 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991). 14  For Hermas’ confession of lack of technical ability in Sim. 9.9.1, see Rüpke’s discussion of the differences between sea-salt farming and mining at 157.



From Material Place to Imagined Space in Hermas

149

of those Hermas describes as business owners whose economic interests trump their religious devotion, specifically their dedication to the poorer members of Hermas’ community. Hermas himself, it emerges, was once such a person; now chastened through visions and dreams he delivers his divinely given messages to the wealthier members of the community, members who also together represent the church’s leadership. Hermas instructs his audience that members can own one business but no more (Sim. 4.5–7), and that with their economic means they are to live in a mutually beneficial relationship with the poor of the community. He outlines this relationship in his parable of the elm tree and the vine (Sim. 2.1–10), where the tree represents the poor and the vine, the rich. Even as the vine depends upon the elm to stay off the ground and thus bear fruit, so the rich depend upon the poor to pray for them that they may use their wealth in a way that will be of benefit for their salvation. What emerges then is a demographically and economically diverse set of relationships with some members owning businesses and a resulting set of exhortations to mutuality and material and spiritual support.

III.  The Roman Insula as the Material Place of the Shepherd of Hermas How does attention to space and urban geography help to place these ideas and enable us to trace an interactionist account of physical geography and ideas outlined above? Of course, any statements about the physical environment of Hermas and his audience range from probable to pure speculation. What Hermas describes through biographical details, and what we know of the physical structures of housing, demography, and social organization in Rome and Ostia allows us to place Hermas’ messages in a spatial setting and invites us to make some educated hypotheses about the social and spatial relationships between his ethical teachings. The warrant for the hypotheses and analysis that follows rests to a large degree on Peter Lampe’s careful reconstruction of the social geography of the first Christ followers in Rome. The majority of the population of Rome and Ostia lived in insulae or apartment buildings. Some of these were luxurious single-family dwellings of the elites, and others were comprised of a series of larger units carved out of the interior walls of tenements for those who were not elites but nevertheless wellto-do. It is the next levels of apartments, where the majority of Rome’s residents lived, that may be most instructive for conceiving the lived spaces Hermas presumes in his writing.15 The so-called medianum apartments of Ostia – named after legal sources that describe liability for throwing things from shared spaces 15  For the idea that Hermas may reflect aspects of the life in ancient Roman insulae, see also Osiek, Shepherd of Hermas, 119.

150

Harry O. Maier

of multiple occupancy upper stories of apartment buildings onto the streets below – and the ones just below them – one or two-roomed tabernae – furnish tantalizing archaeological evidence for placing Hermas in a spatial setting. Some of the spaces in the medianum apartments were single rooms obviously designed for short-term rent by the kinds of transient people one would expect to find in a port city like Ostia. Others however were larger two to four room rental apartments that were for long-term occupancy. Janet DeLaine describes these as “long-term rentals to an economically comfortable clientele. Specific evidence is lacking, but we might see these as the more prosperous members of the many collegia which serviced the city and its commerce … .”16 The tabernae formed the basic retail or productive unit of the city of Ostia. Often these were both the business places of small-owners as well as their residences. Some Ostia tabernae were arranged back to back and form the ground floor of insulae. Others fronted varieties of other buildings – baths, multiple-storey apartments, and even luxury apartments. In other instances, external stairways indicate access to small upper room apartments of two to four rooms with shared cooking spaces. What is most surprising from a modern perspective is the co-existence of all this housing – elite, luxury, small business, transient, poor – alongside one another. The picture of the city of Rome that emerges from this archaeological data is that there is no evidence, as is often assumed, that the rich and poor were divided into neighborhoods, but rather that they lived alongside if not on top of one another. Further, in Ostia there is no evidence of commercial and residential zoning – the city was a collection of multiple use residential and commercial buildings. The archaeological evidence in Rome – though of course much more fragmentary – offers a similar picture of variegated insulae housing. Andrew ­Wallace-Hadrill asks us to conceive of Roman housing as cellular in composition. That is, again, instead of imagining zoned and economically stratified residential districts, the evidence rather requires us to think of vertically stratified buildings, with shops of those of modest means, as well as rented housing of the abject poor, co-existing alongside households of those of more means and functioning together as cellular units. He describes Rome not made up of households so much as “housefuls” – that is mixtures of residential areas composed of shop units, buildings (like baths) for communal life, together with residences of those of more resources arising alongside one another and mutually enjoying the presence of the other. “Such clusters” Wallace-Hadrill argues, “can reproduce and multiply like cells until they reach the level of the formal neighbourhood organization imposed by the state.” Often such clusters were bound by a common enterprise or trade. Groups united by ethnic or economic pursuits could grad16  J. DeLaine, ‘Housing Roman Ostia’, in D. L. Balch and A. Weissenrieder (eds.), Contested Spaces: Houses and Temples in Roman Antiquity and the New Testament, WUNT 1.285 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 327–51.



From Material Place to Imagined Space in Hermas

151

ually establish a presence within an insula and over time establish a dominant presence there, and even renovate space to meet communal needs, such as the construction of halls for the meals of collegia. Entire floors, blocks of apartments, or even blocks of buildings could in time be dominated by a single industry. These remained nevertheless vertically graded spaces. Absence of any internal cooking and sanitation facilities indicates that the poor who lived in modest apartments used the public baths, tabernae and bars for their daily needs.17 The picture Wallace-Hadrill sees in the archaeological evidence is one in which those of more means – from the very well-to-do and merchants living above subsistence – and the poor lived right next to one another, where people pursuing simi­ lar occupations clustered together and where wealthier patrons who occupied a more luxurious dwelling were surrounded by dependents who provided necessary services and thus who formed complex socio-economic relationships with both their patron and with each other. There is no possibility to determine the precise form and pattern of the gatherings of emergent Christian groups in Rome, but as Lampe has shown, epigraphic evidence as well as the location of Roman tituli suggests that the earliest groups gathered in the insulae of poorer mercantile neighborhoods, which also contained a diversity of work and apartment spaces for people of differing economic means.18 This finds a degree of confirmation in the archaeological history of SS. Giovanni e Paolo in Rome, which indicates that as early as the start of the third century the church was built into a housing or business complex on the western slope of the Caelian hill.19 The history of the church shares the archaeological history other religious groups and collegia in the Roman Empire who adapted, often taking over, rooms in insulae for their meetings.20 Lampe argues that Roman Christians of the type Hermas represents and addresses lived in tenements of small-business people and merchants benefiting from their location in the port-area of the Trastevere, a location that fits well with Hermas’ representation of himself in Vis. 4.2 on his way to his land on the Via Campana. Following a model of tenement dwellers clustered together around shared occupation it is tempting to consider Hermas’ salt-related visions as a form of vivid ekphrastic rhetoric targeted specifically for those who were in a line of business similar to his own. In any case, the archeological evidence of Roman and Ostian tenement

17  A. Wallace-Hadrill, ‘Domus and Insulae in Rome: Families and Housefuls’, in Balch and Osiek, Early Christian Families, 3–18, at 13. 18  Lampe, Christians at Rome, 50–4. 19  Snyder, Ante-Pacem, 144–8 with literature; R. Krautheimer, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 19864), 29. 20 For discussion of a Hellenistic period cult of Serapis in an insula at Delos, as well as a second century cult of Mithras in Ostia, see White, Origins, 1:33–5; 2:364–8; also, ­Wallace-Hadrill, ‘Domus’, 13.

152

Harry O. Maier

housing is of enormous heuristic value in developing hypotheses concerning the origins, social function, and meaning of early Christian ethical ideals.

IV. From Reality to Idea(l)s What can such residential arrangements teach us about the religious ideals of shared life Hermas holds up before his audience? In the first place, we can readily imagine how the small-business person could live literally beside the disenfranchised and how the ideal of Christians caring for poorer ones would have been a strong means of cementing social bonds in such an urban mosaic of residents of greater and lesser means. As Justin Meggitt has shown and now Steven Friesen’s analysis of subsistence levels in the Roman Empire supports, modern exegetes have tended to exaggerate the presence of the well-to-do patron in this social world and ignore the harsh realities of poverty in the ancient world.21 Hermas’ teachings are rightly urgent: the poor of Rome fortunate enough to rent a cramped apartment on the upper floor of a tenement often did so on a daily basis, where there was no access to water, toilets, cooking facilities, or even light. They were vulnerable to robbery and violence, and were continually at threat of having no roof at all. Others less fortunate than they lived under apartment stairwells, under bridges, built shacks and lean-tos, or in the open air.22 Hermas’ visions of rich and poor find their Sitz im Leben in these face-to-face urban socio-economic relationships. Elsewhere, Hermas describes relations between freedperson and patron. Hermas’ account of Rhoda presumes the ongoing relationship not only of freedperson to matron, but also of co-religionists. This is strongly implied in his visions of her as his sister, heavenly messenger, and challenger of his morality (Vis. 1.1.1–9). This describes one kind of relationship and along with the archaeological picture advanced by Wallace-Hadrill it might also suggest that Hermas and his master not only continued the traditional Roman familial relationship of freedperson to patron, but that they lived in proximity to one another, perhaps in the same residential block. Thus we can imagine multiple social relationships co-existing in a complex social network of the Roman insula.

21  J. Meggitt, Paul, Poverty and Survival (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998); S. Friesen, ‘Poverty in Pauline Studies: Beyond the So-called New Consensus’, in JSNT 26 (2004), 323–61; S. Friesen and W. Scheidel, ‘The Size of the Economy and the Distribution of Income in the Roman Empire’, in JRS 99 (2009), 61–91. For a critical review of the model, see P. Oakes, ‘Constructing Poverty Scales for Graeco-Roman Society: A Response to Steven Friesen’s “Poverty in Pauline Studies”’, in JSNT 26 (2004), 367–71. 22  For descriptions with further empirical studies, see Meggitt, Paul, Poverty and Survival, 62–78.



From Material Place to Imagined Space in Hermas

153

Less hypothetical is the social setting we should imagine that forms the backdrop of Hermas’ exhortations of the more prosperous small-business owners of his community to care for poorer members. In a recent study dedicated to a discussion of Paul’s letter to the Romans, Peter Oakes has used demographic evidence from Pompeii and Herculaneum to construct a model of the size and demography of Roman apartments and shops. His results are instructive for complementing Meggitt’s and Friesen’s socio-economic discussion of urban poverty, cited above, and for gaining a better understanding of the ethical ideals Hermas promotes amongst his Roman listeners. Oakes’ model assumes that the demographic realities of first-century Christ followers were represented by typical demographic realities one can reconstruct from Pompeii and existing Roman evidence, evidence that is also instructive for Roman social realities from the later first to the mid-second century, when I date Hermas’ composition(s). Applying the evidence from Campania, we should assume that the “apartment churches” Paul addresses in Romans 16 would have contained a very low number of householders, probably artisans and shop owners who possessed both artisan and domestic slaves and who rented an apartment and workshop ca. 300 sq. meters in size. Next to these would have been a slightly larger group whose membership ranged from a tiny group of slave owners living in slightly smaller dwellings (up to 300 sq. meters). Beneath them were a significantly higher number of non-slave-owning migrant workers and artisans living in crowded oneroom apartments, 20–99 sq. meters. The largest group would have been comprised of slaves either from Jesus followers’ homes or from other households, as well as the homeless. Typical first and second century households, even of the poorest artisans, were hierarchically organized and we should expect this social organization to have been the case both within the homes of Jesus followers, and between those of higher and lower socio-demography strata.23 Hermas’ vision of the elm tree and the vine presumes the co-existence and symbiotic relationship of the rich and poor as both lived either in the same housing cell, or benefited from analogous relationships with clients and patrons in other cells. Further, we can see how larger accommodations could serve as the meeting places of small communities and how the owners of such accommodations would have been responsible for organizing material resources for the benefit of the greater whole. It is most probable that these rich people were also the community’s wealthier members. Hermas commends “hospitable bishops who at all times welcome the servants of God into their houses (οἴκους) without hypocrisy; and bishops who always and without ceasing sheltered the needy and the widows by their service (διακονίᾳ)” (Sim. 9.27.2) and he identifies elders as also patrons or perhaps managers (πρεσβύτεροι προιστάμενοι; Vis. 2.4.3; cf. 23  P. Oakes, Reading Romans in Pompeii: Paul’s Letter at Ground Level (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009), 80–97.

154

Harry O. Maier

Rom 16:2). Finally, we can imagine a strong degree of inter-communication between varying economic groups in such a situation is divided not so much along household lines as houseful ones.

V.  Housefuls of Jesus Followers? Can we say more? The Ostia funerary reliefs that represent business men and women selling their wares in local shops and tabernae offer us a glance at the kind of audience Hermas’ messages address.24 It is possible though of course not demonstrable that Hermas’ former master, Rhoda, was precisely such a business woman. A fresco from Pompeii also helps us imagine the demography of the sort of meeting we are hypothesizing in a modest apartment of the sort Rhoda might have owned. The kitchen wall of the matron Sutoria Primigenia depicts the materfamilias presiding over a sacrifice to the domestic Lares, with thirteen members of her household – children, slaves, and freedpersons – in attendance.25 Large Lares frame her portrait, and figures of the Genius of the paterfamilias and Juno, her own guardian spirit, stand to the left of the altar. The household is one of a woman of modest means – the sort of woman who would have lived in a medianum apartment in Ostia. The fresco is conspicuously placed in the kitchen to advertise the piety of the familia or perhaps to encourage the piety of slaves who would have gathered daily in this space to offer sacrifices to the Lares and Genius of the household. What is useful for understanding Hermas’ ideal of community is that such a united family representation with the faithful matron leading the ritual offers a glimpse into what Hermas’ gatherings might have looked like in the modest homes of the business people Hermas’ messages often pillory for their lack of dedication to the larger community, including the poor. Given that Rhoda, Hermas’ erstwhile master, is both his sister and presumably household patron, if not patron of a worshiping assembly and his heavenly guide, it is just possible that she is the kind of business woman who would be officiating at a religious meeting that looked something like what we discover in the Pompeii fresco. All this is speculative and offers a very possible though by no means certain account of the physical space of Hermas’ social world. The majority of the Shepherd is dedicated to the contents of revelation rather than socio-demographic, much less, physical description. However, here again attention to social geogra24  N. B. Kampen, ‘Social Status and Gender in Roman Art: The Case of the Saleswoman’, in N. Broude and M. D. Garrard (eds.), Feminism and Art History: Questioning the Litany (New York: Harper & Row, 1982), 63–78. 25  For description of the fresco, its location, and its possible domestic meaning, see J. R. Clarke, ‘Representations of Worship at Rome, Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Ostia in the Imperial Period’, in Balch and Weissenrieder, Contested Spaces, 3–20, at 9.



From Material Place to Imagined Space in Hermas

155

phy is helpful. The work of the urban social geographer Edward Soja, specifically his notion of “thirdspace,” as well as Michel Foucault’s observations concerning “heterotopia” – a notion upon which Soja builds – offer a fruitful interdisciplinary avenue into a socio-historical understanding of Hermas’ writing and for locating his messages in the cosmopolitan space of late first and second century Rome.

VI.  From Material Place to Thirdspace in the Shepherd of Hermas Soja’s social geographical work continues the groundbreaking analysis of the earlier 20th century social thinker Henri Lefebvre, who represented an important moment in recognizing the importance of space in the formulation and prac­ tices of culture. For Lefebvre there is no culture or social meaning without space since for him all conceptions of reality are spatially inscribed. To understand the relation of social reality to space he distinguishes between spatial practice, representations of space, and representational spaces, or, respectively, perceived, conceived, and lived space.26 Spatial practice describes the physical uses of space as in the case, for example, of economic production, or the organization of physical spaces required to make the daily practices of a given society possible. Representation of space is conceptualized space – the way designers, urban planners, and social engineers divide up space: roads and bridges for driving; houses for living; restaurants for eating; and so on. Ideology renders the relation between perceived and conceived space natural and predictable although in fact there are innumerable ways to practice and imagine space. Taken together these furnish a kind of spatial social blueprint for the organization and interpretation of everyday life. Representational (or lived) space describes daily living out of the symbol systems that both portray and orchestrate practices of space. In one place, Lefebvre emphasizes the dominating quality of the spatial-representational / perceived-conceived unity. Most people receive this duality passively and live it out according to prescribed performances and understandings. Some however – Lefebvre names philosophers and artists – have a capacity to recognize the spatial organization of symbol systems and their prescriptions for daily life and are able to improvise new representational spaces for ends that question the alleged natural unity of the perceived and the conceived. Thus in another place he conceptualizes representational space as “linked to the clandestine or underground side of social life.”27 As we will see, it is precisely this improvisation of the perceived-conceived that Hermas furnishes for his Roman listeners. 26  H. Lefebvre, The Production of Space (trans. D. Nicholson-Smith; Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), 40–1. 27  Ibid., 41 and 33.

156

Harry O. Maier

Edward Soja’s notion of thirdspace represents a thorough study through multiple disciplines of the improvisation and reconfiguration, often from the under side, of Lefebvre’s representational spaces.28 Soja coins the terms first, second, and thirdspace to coincide with Lefebvre’s perceived, conceived, and lived space. His emphasis on thirdspace considers post-modernity from the perspective of spatial practices that reorganize and reconceptualise the real-imagined so as to create new subversive practices promoted by the so-called natural configuration of perception and conception of space. Thirdspace he describes as “an-Other way of understanding and acting to change the spatiality of human life, a distinct mode of critical spatial awareness … .”29 As such it rehearses (and acknowledges) Foucault’s conceptualization of heterotopia.30 Foucault theorizes heterotopia in a way that is very close to Soja’s thirdspace. He writes: There are also, probably in every culture, in every civilization, real places – places that do exist and that are formed in the very founding of a society – which are something like counter-sites, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found in the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted. Place of this kind are outside of all places, even though it may be possible to indicate their location in reality.31

Foucault emphasizes the ways in which heterotopia can change in meaning and orientation in time so that one heterotopic formulation gets reformulated at a later date in another place for a different purpose. Hermas’ messages are well conceived as a form of thirdspace or heterotopia. He takes the physical location and practices associated with the insulae of first and second century Rome and revisits those spaces with the help of an imagination steeped in apocalypse. It is notable that for an urban audience like Hermas’, the visions and teachings he offers his community are of the countryside. Hermas’ visions and dreams take him far from the crowded cityscape of Rome and place him in bucolic surroundings. Several of his visions and similitudes, for example, place him on the way to Cumae, or in his field (Vis. 1.1.3; 2.1.1; 3.1.2–4; Sim. 2.1–10; 3.1–4.8; 5.1; 6.1.5–6; 8.1; 9.1.4–10, etc.). Hermas in Vis. 1.3 is on his way to Cumae “and glorifying the creation of God, for its greatness and splendor and might” when he sees his first vision (Vis. 1.1.3). When he asks for an interpretation of one of his visions, he chooses “a beautiful and secluded spot” for his instructions (Vis. 3.1.3). The elements of his visions and parables are drawn from the countryside: trees, sheep, willow branches, mountains. Most dramatically, in Sim. 9.1.4, Hermas is transported to Arcadia where he witness28  E. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996), 10. 29  Ibid., 10. 30  M. Foucault, ‘Of Other Spaces’, in Diacritics 16 (1986), 22–7. 31  Ibid., 24.



From Material Place to Imagined Space in Hermas

157

es the construction of the tower. This is significant from a spatial perspective because as the introduction to the Similitudes quoted at the start of this paper indicated, Hermas’ revelations are designed to show right occupancy in the divinely revealed city. Indeed, it is paradoxical that notwithstanding the grandeur of creation which Hermas regularly finds himself enjoying, and the Arcadian utopia where he journeys, the bulk of Hermas’ visions and similitudes invite his audience to envision the church as a large tower that is (being) constructed from differing stones, indeed stones that are very much connected in their empirical form to urban commerce. Through the ekphrastic description of the construction of the tower or its architectural soundness Hermas places before the eyes of his listeners images of both idealized religious commitment and solidarity, and failure to live up to divine expectations.

VII.  Place out of Place The tower in the country that is the church of the city is an example of thirdspace socio-geographical conceptualization. For the traditional image of Arcadia and bucolic rest Hermas deploys traditional themes in Greco-Roman tradition and situates them anew in a new emerging religious tradition.32 As thirdspace the visions offer a reconceptualization of the lived space of the Roman tenement as a place for the faithful performance of communal solidarity and mutual care, and ­ oucault’s for the realization of a city that is outside all Roman imperial cities. In F terms, the space that emerges from these visions is a heterotopia – that is a place outside of any single place that “offers a kind of effectively enacted utopia.” In Sim. 1, cited at the start of this discussion, Hermas uses the language of being stranger or resident alien to mark not only a different set of practices that is to distinguish the community, through the “purchase” not of fields but of the disenfranchised, but to mark an alternative space, that is an alternative city which co-exists even with the city normal economic enterprise unfolds. The result is what Benjamin Dunning aptly describes as “the alterity of space in which Christians currently dwell.”33 Hermas’ visions, then are visions of the alterity of a city under construction – that is they portray actions as the building materials to create a place out of the city place where the listeners pursue their economic activities. By taking them out of this city, into the alternative city of their real Master who is not Caesar but God, the visions insert actors into utopian narrative and offer scripts for performing actions that are consistent with the idealized 32 This is the most notable example of Hermas’ deployment of Greco-Roman literary themes; for further discussion, see J. Schwartz, ‘Survivances littéraires païennes dans le ‘Pasteur’ d’Hermas’, in RB 72 (1965), 240–7. 33  B. H. Dunning, Aliens and Sojourners: Self as Other in Early Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), 86.

158

Harry O. Maier

community ­Hermas wishes to promote. As such they conform to the ideals of ekphrastic speech, namely to persuade by awakening emotion by vivid description of events placed before listeners eyes. Listeners find themselves visually built into a city created around them by the action of Hermas’ visions and parables. Further, they are consistent with urban utopian ideals of Antiquity in which country and city were envisioned as living in harmony; indeed Virgil’s Eclogues as well as the Einsiedeln Eclogues represent precisely such utopian hopes as in his representations of natural harmony.34 The ideal could also be seen on Roman monuments, as for example in Rome on the Ara Pacis, where Augustus’ family members are depicted in a civic scene of public ritual and in the lower parts of the monument show vines, a symbol of the Golden Age, with nature in harmony and the earth bursting forth with abundance.35 Lucian offers his own utopian vision of the city as garden where in the Vera historia he beholds a vision of the city of the Blessed Ones that is all gold, surrounded by a river of “finest myrrh, a hundred royal cubits wide and five deep. So that one can swim in it comfortably.” The “light which is on the country is like the gray morning toward dawn, when the sun has not yet risen … the grape-vines yield twelve vintages a year, bearing every month, the pomegranates, apples and other fruit-trees were said to bear thirteen times a year.”36 The ideal Roman city is then the garden city. Hermas’ city realizes the ideal in a different form – through the ethics of care of the widows and the poor. This makes of the tower constructed in the country “a city” worthy of its master, the city the hearers of Hermas’ revelations are to seek to inhabit. In the Book of Revelation’s vision of a heavenly city coming down to earth we see a similar use of Roman civic traditions to represent the heavenly Jerusalem with its healing tree and river of life as counterpoint to Babylon with its rivers of blood. As Revelation, so Hermas realizes a garden city dreamed of in utopian civic imagination but never attained.37 It is intriguing from the perspective of thirdspace investigation that Hermas chooses the image of a tower under construction to depict his ideal community. Wallace-Hadrill’s argument that Roman neighborhoods unfolded in a cellular fashion by the creation of new structures added to pre-existing ones as a means of servicing the needs of the richer and poorer inhabitants gathered at a 34  For example, Virgil, Ecl. 4; Einsiedeln Ecl. 2.15–38. For discussion of these and other texts in relation to urban-garden utopia, M. Ebner, Die Stadt als Lebensraum der ersten Christen. Das Urchristentum in seiner Umwelt, I/1: Grundrisse zum Neuen Testament (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012), 56–65. 35  P. Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, Jerome Lectures 16 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1983), 179–83. 36  Vera historia 2.11–13. 37  D. Georgi, Die Visionen von himmlischen Jerusalem in Apk 21 und 22 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1980), 364, 369; J. Comblin, Théologie de la ville, Encyclopédie universitaire (Paris: Éditions universitaires, 1968), 206. For further parallels, D. Aune, Revelation 17–22, WBC 52C (Nashville: Nelson, 1998), 1191–4.



From Material Place to Imagined Space in Hermas

159

particular locale invites us to consider a city under constant construction and renovation. Indeed the version of ancient Rome the average tourist meets when visiting the Forum is itself the product of a massive building project conducted under the Flavians at roughly the same time we can date Hermas’ earlier visions. Trajan, Hadrian, and the Antonine emperors continued the ambitious building of the capital. Reliefs such as the Haterii reliefs created to honor the Haterius family freedperson Quintus Haterius Tychicus, reveal the success of their protagonist as a building contractor, most probably involved in the construction of the Coliseum.38 The splendor of the reliefs as well as the size and material of his grave indicate his commercial success. Hermas’ visions challenge its listeners to consider a different kind of commercial success – the communal form of solidarity in which the built environment of his hearers’ world is not to be found in physical buildings, but in the working together of rich and poor in a morally pure and religiously dedicated community.

VIII.  Hermas’ Paradox Our discussion has shown the value of using socio-historical and social geographical analysis in considering connections between idea(l)s and realities in the community of Jesus followers Hermas addresses in the Shepherd. Urban space is Hermas’ Sitz im Leben for imagining new forms of social life, and for furnishing listeners with images to envision ideal pictures of communal life. In his visions and parables of the bucolic city, that “other City” of our opening quotation from Sim. 1, we can see him participating in forms of civic imagination one can find in other Greco-Roman sources. In the Shepherd religion takes place but also creates space whether through the delivery of revelations or through exhortations to promote patronage amongst the housefuls (Wallace-Hadrill) of Jesus followers who resided in Roman insulae. From such created space arises ways of imagining life together as well as the material world in which such life unfolds. Hermas exhorts his listeners to imagine themselves as inhabiting spaces out of place, that is, he encourages heterotopic imagination. Hermas seeks a delicate balancing act between economic pursuit to benefit his church’s poor, specifically through patronage, and curtailment of economic activities that might disadvantage them. An unintended consequence of imagining such ideal communities helped to promote – however unintentionally – dynamic forms of civic participation, whether that took the form of care for the poor or by seeking to arrive at widely held civic goals. If Hermas considers himself a stranger in 38  W. Jensen, The Sculptures from the Tomb of the Haterii 1–2 (Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, 1978), remains the definitive study; for images, D. E. E. Kleiner, Roman Sculpture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992), 196–9.

160

Harry O. Maier

Rome the result of his civic imagination was to make his alien city more inhabitable. That paradox is a consequence of Hermas’ thirdspace reconfiguration of the urban space of second-century Rome.

From Us but Not of Us? Moving the Boundaries of the Community Judith M. Lieu When in Book Four of his Church History Eusebius came to reflect on the second century, he traced an initial story of triumph against the odds. By the time of Hadrian and also, not coincidentally, of the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt, he can claim that “the churches were shining throughout the world like the most bright of lights.” At that very point the devil turned his misanthropic attention to the church, and having failed to destroy it from outside by persecution he determined now to make use of charlatans who shared “with us the same doctrinal name” (προσηγορία τοῦ δόγματος) in order to destroy the faithful as well as to mislead those who did not yet believe. Eusebius is clear that these “heresies” (αἱρέσεις) were never a sufficiently serious threat to dim the brilliance of the “universal and only true church,” but he sees no contradiction in also setting out the victorious campaigns of those who wrote against them (Hist. eccl. 4.7.1–4). Chief among these, and perhaps already in Eusebius’s time the only one to whose work he had any real access, was Irenaeus.

I.  The Achievement of Irenaeus, Against Heresies Whatever predecessors he may have had, Irenaeus seems to have established not just a new literary genre but also a new way of conceiving the nature of the Christian community in the face of the diversity that is now treated as the norm in the period. In justifying his own enterprise, Irenaeus consciously echoed Paul, that is 1 Timothy: what he writes is a refutation of “falsely-named knowledge” (ψευδωνύμος γνῶσις, Haer. Title; 2.praef.; 2.14.7; Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 5.7.1; cf. 1 Tim 6:20). Yet the title by which his five volumes were already dubbed by ­Eusebius (Hist. eccl. 4.28.1) was “Against the Heresies,” and this well reflects the long-term effect of his achievement, namely the identification of “others” who share a common identity with each other – as “heresies” they are uniformly not the Church; and yet they are possessed of an endless variability that itself demonstrates their separation from the Church, since that is by definition one, just as God is one, and just as the Gospel is one.

162

Judith M. Lieu

Ironically, in the light of his title, what Irenaeus is engaged in is, in terms associated with Michel Foucault, the production of a new discourse or way of organising “knowledge”; the intellectual control that he establishes is both an exercise in and a claim to power, even if identifiable social consequences still lie in the future. The development of the “discourse” of heresy beyond Irenaeus has been much studied;1 however, for present purposes seven aspects of Irenaeus’s achievement may be noted. 1. Irenaeus marks, if he does not originate, the development of a technical vocabulary, which quickly becomes routine, “heresy,” αἵρεσις. As has been frequently noted, this is not a new coinage as were some early Christian terms, but a redefinition of a familiar one. In general usage a choice, an option, and hence a faction, in philosophical contexts the term hairesis could refer to an ideological position, a set of convictions or outlook; used in this sense of groups such as the Cynics, Stoics, Epicureans, the reference is not to these as organisations or structures but to their outlook.2 Although there is some evidence of a genre of literature “Concerning the haireseis,” this appears to have been largely descriptive, and, even if evaluative, did not use the term as a way of devaluing other groups than the author’s own.3 However, when Irenaeus writes “against the heresies” in ca. 180 C. E., the term means “those who are not us”: Irenaeus himself emphatically does not belong to a hairesis in the way that Josephus does belong to the hairesis of the Pharisees. 2. Irenaeus assumes that those who are characterised as “heretical”4 belong to identifiable groups, named after their founder: his generalisations would not work were it not for the specifics he describes and to which he repeatedly returns, Valentinus and his school, Ptolemaeus and those around him, Marcion and his followers. These founders did not belong to the distant past (in contrast to “the Zadokites”) but were relatively recent, with a biography, which could be told with increasing imagination. Indeed, in due course names generate individuals: the Ebionites, perhaps so named after the term for “poor,” generate stories of a “founder,” Ebion (Tertullian, Carn. Chr. 14). Such naming is secondary and antithetical – in opposition to the prior term “Christians,” and is based, as shall be seen, on the model of philosophical “sects” known by the name of the source of their teaching. Such evidence as there is indicates that if these people called themselves anything it was “Christians.”5 1 See A. le Boulluec, La notion d’hérésie dans la littérature grecque, IIe–IIIe siècles (Paris: Études augustiniennes, 1985). 2  So, classically, Acts 5:17; 15:5; 28:22; Josephus, Vita 1.2 [10; 12]; cf. B. J. 2.8.2 [119]. 3 See J. Glucker, Antiochus and the Late Academy, Hyp. 56 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1978), 166–206. 4  This is the term Irenaeus prefers; see below n. 13. 5  Although there are “Christian” texts which do not use the term, and this was no doubt true of some groups or communities as well.



From Us but Not of Us? Moving the Boundaries of the Community

163

3. In Book One Irenaeus introduces a genealogy of error, the model of succession or of master and disciple – Menander was the disciple of Simon Magus, Saturninus and Basilides of Menander; Marcion was the disciple of Cerdo – although this is stated by assertion and not on the basis of any narrative of their apprenticeship (Haer. 1.21–8). Here too the philosophical model is playing a role, although Irenaeus also appeals to lines of succession within the churches he represents. Consequently, heresy is presented not as a local or temporary phenomenon but as part of a mimicking entity. This detailed naming of his opponents contrasts with his restraint towards those whom he represents as part of his authentic lineage, where on the one hand he prefers anonymity, speaking of “a presbyter” or “one of those before us,” and on the other where he leapfrogs across time from the apostles to Polycarp and to himself (Haer. 3.3.1–4; 4.praef.1.; 4.27.2). All this conspires to ensure that those whom he attacks cannot in any way find room for themselves in the temporal and geographical ecclesial space that he creates. They are “out there.” 4. What helps establish these individuals and groups as “other” is the extensive and detailed cataloguing of their ideas and practices that Irenaeus provides. They are framed so as to emphasise their elaborate and esoteric character, the use of alien names, and imagery soaked in the suggestive language of reproduction and lack of control. This was so successful that before the discovery of texts from Nag Hammadi most accounts of “gnosticism” reproduced and endeavoured to make sense of such heresiological accounts. 5. At the same time there is the motif of secrecy and of the ease with which the innocent might be misled.6 Irenaeus fears that the inexperienced or innocent might too easily be led astray; the error of those whom he attacks, he admits, is not self-evident, and instead it is concealed beneath assertions of having a greater truth. Although in fact wolves among the sheep, they are unrecognised because they do indeed wear sheep’s clothing. What they say (λαλέω) is like us, it is what they think (φρονέω) that is different: and that is why it needs an Irenaeus to expose them (Haer. 1.praef.). Yet, if those whom he attacks are indistinguishable to most observers, they surely are not the outsiders he would have them be but are to all intents and purposes insiders. 6. Among the strategies of response, authoritative texts and the interpretation of textual authorities play a central role.7 Irenaeus himself is engaged in a conscious textualisation; this is already apparent in his attitude to his own work 6  Here Irenaeus may have been subverting a theme in some of the texts themselves; see H. Förster, ‘Geheime Schriften und geheime Lehren? Zur Selbstbezeichnung von Texten aus dem Umfeld der frühchristlichen Gnosis unter Verwendung des Begriffs ἀπόκρυφος’, in ZNW 104 (2013), 118–45. 7  See further, J. M. Lieu, ‘Heresy and Scripture’, in M. Lang (ed.), Ein neues Geschlecht? Entwicklung des frühchristlichen Selbstbewusstseins (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 81–100.

164

Judith M. Lieu

where in the conventional opening he disavows being able to apply any “orato­ rical skills, compositional effectiveness, or well-crafted words” (Haer. 1.praef). Echoing this he will also appeal to the writings of his opponents, and in particular to their interpretive misuse of the very Scriptures that he also recognises. In his polemic the dividing line between the proclaimed Gospel and the written Gospel(s) is beginning to blur: thus he denies the Valentinian appeal to a “Gospel of truth” on the grounds that it is incompatible with the Gospel of truth handed down by the apostles and embodied in the tetramorphic Gospel (Haer. 3.11.9). The purpose and presupposition of such textual appeals are that they provide an apparently authoritative and objective marker of authenticity as well as of imposture. Here there are parallels with anti-Jewish polemic, which had already been shaped around the questions of who owns and has the right to interpret these texts. 7. The second focal strategy is expressed through structures, and includes the encouragement to avoid those who promulgate such teaching: there is no expectation that debate or argued case will provide a way forward. At some stage such avoidance becomes a matter of physical exclusion, although how, where, and when that becomes formalised remains opaque, and local situations no doubt varied greatly. Irenaeus himself betrays the difficulty: “To the extent that they separate (ἀφιστάναι) from the Church (sic), and put their trust in such anodyne myths, they are obviously self-condemned. Paul indeed instructed us to avoid them after a first or second warning” (Haer. 1.16.3; cf. 1 Tim 4:1 [“some separate from the faith”], 7; Tit 3:10–11). Despite the tentativeness here, the purpose of his enterprise is to create the boundaries that will establish them as outsiders, in the expectation that these boundaries will then be replicated in ecclesial and social organisation and recognition. How this idea of “heresy,” and such techniques of identifying and challenging it, develop after, and perhaps as a consequence of, Irenaeus, is not difficult to trace.8 More evasive is what leads up to him; how are the continuities and the changes from what has gone before to be mapped? It is often assumed that ­Irenaeus followed in the footsteps of Justin Martyr, who in his First Apology refers the Emperor to his “collation against all the haireseis that have been” (σύνταγμα κατὰ πασῶν τῶν γεγενημένων αἱρέσεων), and from whose work “against (πρός) Marcion” Irenaeus quotes (Justin, 1 Apol. 26.8; Irenaeus, Haer. 4.6.2; Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 4.18). Scholarly appeals to this lost work as the forerunner, and perhaps in part the source, of Irenaeus’s work are overly confident. Certainly, some of the steps taken by Irenaeus are anticipated by Justin: in his Apology, ostensibly addressing outsiders,9 he draws on the model of philosophical schools which, 8 

Le Boulluec, La notion d’hérésie. the importance of this see C. Scholten, ‘Die Funktion der Häresienabwehr in der

9  On



From Us but Not of Us? Moving the Boundaries of the Community

165

while all laying claim to the label “philosophy,” avow different doctrines; so also not all who claim the label “Christians” do so with integrity and thus merit the tolerant respect that Justin is seeking to elicit from his supposed imperial audience (1 Apol. 26.6–7). In the Dialogue, where Justin is concerned to differentiate between “Jews,” you, and “Christians,” us, he adopts a different tactic, namely that of assigning names: there are others who have no valid claim to the label “Christians,” whatever they might say; they are properly called “Marcians,10 Valentinians, Basilidians, Saturnilians … each named after their founder just as are the different members of those who adopt philosophy” (Dial. 35.1–6). As already noted in Irenaeus, such naming is an exercise in power and control. However, although the philosophical precedent would have allowed him to do so, he does not use hairesis in this context, largely reserving it for Jewish contexts, and going little further than had the author of Acts.11 Similarly, as has been seen, he anticipates the debates over the right to own and interpret Scripture, although for him these are targeted against the Jews, whose responsibility for the preservation and translation of those Scriptures he concedes: indeed, one of the ambiguities in early Christian writing is how the idea of hairesis related to Judaism. However, even if he does lay some of the groundwork, Justin is more concerned that outsiders will fail to make the necessary distinction between these people and those who merit the name “Christians,” than he is about how those Christians themselves deal with them.12 Irenaeus, however, represents himself as the heir, not of Justin, but of Paul, even, as already seen, in the title, and so in the task, that he gives his work. The allusion to Titus 3:10–11, cited above, is particularly striking because the culprit who lies behind the “them” who are to be avoided is there labelled “a partisan (heretical) person” (αἱρετικὸν ἄνθρωπον). Although Irenaeus does not include this phrase at this point (Haer. 1.16.3), the passage plays a significant role for him; indeed, given that the term αἱρετικός rarely carries this pejorative sense in Greek literature, its influence probably explains Irenaeus’s preference, throughout the Against Heresies, for speaking not of “heresy” (hairesis) but of “heretical person” (haereticus, most frequently in the plural, “all heretics,” omni haeretici).13 He continues, “For John the disciple of the Lord extended condemnation upon them and did not even want us to utter a greeting to them, ‘For the one who Alten Kirche’, in VigChr 66 (2012), 229–68, 238–49. See also R. Lyman, ‘Hellenism and Heresy’, in JECS 2 (2003), 209–22. 10  Presumably followers of Marcion, although textual emendation to “Marcionites” would destroy the play on the ending. 11  Other than in 1 Apol. 26.8 cited above; otherwise, Jewish groups: Dial. 62.3; 80.4; Jewish reports about the Christians: Dial. 17.1; 108.2; Scriptural allusion: Dial. 35.3; [51.2?]. 12  As evidenced by his very conciliatory attitude to different attitudes to continued observance of the Jewish Law in Dial. 48. 13  haereticus 31 (omni haeretici 21); haeresis 8; A. Benoît, ‘Irénée et l’hérésie: Les conceptions hérésiologiques de l’évêque de Lyon’, in Aug. 20 (1980), 55–67.

166

Judith M. Lieu

greets them, he says, shares (κοινωνεῖν) in their evil deeds’ (2 John 10–11)” (Haer. 1.16.3). The importance of both these passages is confirmed at a later point in Irenaeus’s argument, where he is tracing the true succession from the Apostles within the Church; from Peter and Paul, who inaugurate the succession in Rome, he moves to Polycarp, established by the Apostles as bishop in Smyrna. Polycarp, visiting Rome, had, he claims, restored to the Church “many of the aforementioned heretical people”; however, Polycarp had also encountered Marcion and rebuffed him as the firstborn of Satan, in so doing mimicking John’s (“the disciple of the Lord”) swift exit from the bath-house after seeing Cerinthus there. He summarises: “The apostles and their disciples exercised such due caution, so as to share (κοινωνεῖν) not even a word with anyone who adulterates the truth, as Paul himself said, ‘Avoid a partisan person after a first (and second) warning, knowing that such a person is perverted, and sins, and so is self-condemned’ (Tit 3:10–11)” (Haer. 3.3.4; Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 4.14.1–8).14 Thus for Irenaeus, the edict uttered by “Paul,” reinforcing that of “John,” is embedded within the authentic tradition of the unified apostolic church, and is activated in personal authoritative repudiation, also represented by John. Disregarding the significance of Irenaeus’s appeal to Titus and 2 John for their attestation and origin, in what ways was he justified in his appeal to Paul and to “John”? What, if anything, is it that characterises the invention of heresy as represented by Irenaeus that differentiates it from such earlier responses?15 After all, concern with “difference” is integral to the scriptural tradition, as is the idea of separation. The tension between “sameness” and “difference” runs throughout the biblical account and has been much explored within Hebrew Bible scholarship, and it continues into the New Testament. The most obvious examples are the debates over the status of “the people of the land,” and specifically over what has been dubbed “intermarriage” within Ezra and Nehemiah. In the so-called “sectarian” literature this becomes more acute, with explicit strategies of identifying “the other” as that: “those who walk after the ways of the Gentiles” in Jubilees would no doubt have identified themselves as Jews, while in the Dead Sea Scrolls the opposition becomes “demonised” as “the men of the lot of Belial” and as belonging to the prince of darkness.16 While the dividing lines may appear to have been matters of practice – calendar and the proper days for the observation of festivals, interpretations of purity or of permissible marriage relations – these are not readily separable from questions of belief, for 14 

“And second” is omitted in the Latin, perhaps following the old Latin of Titus. A sustained argument that there is more continuity is offerred by R. Royalty, The Origin of Heresy: A History of Discourse in Second Temple Judaism and Early Christianity (New York: Ashgate, 2013). 16 See D. Harlow et al., The Other in Second Temple Judaism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011). On the construction of “the other” see J. M. Lieu, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 269–97. 15 



From Us but Not of Us? Moving the Boundaries of the Community

167

example regarding the appropriate authorities and their interpretation, or the consequences of disregarding such issues. Thus, while it is entirely appropriate to appeal to the apocalyptic mindset within which such “dualisms” flourish, to do so does not bypass questions of their social articulation, and of the exercise of power and control within that.17

II. Paul and Another Gospel In turning our attention to the New Testament texts terminology will not be a guide, although that fact itself is telling. Contrary to modern interpreters who are inclined to write about, for example, “the Colossian heresy,” hairesis does not provide these writers with a vocabulary for differentiating among internal difference.18 Indeed, 1 Corinthians 11:17–19 precisely illustrates the point: when Paul tells the Corinthians that “there must needs be haireseis among you” he is referring to the various internal divisions that he has exposed in their life, manifested not so much by overt teaching as by practice – supremely in how they “come together” ἐν ἐκκλησίᾳ in the so-called “lord’s supper.” Such haireseis presumably characterise the whole community, and the term is little more than a variation of the schismata of the previous verse. The implied framework is that of the civic assembly where such factionalism was the norm but from which the Christian ekklesia is being sharply differentiated, at least in ideal.19 The intended outcome, the demonstration of those who are “approved” (δόκιμος), draws from the same vocabulary of civic virtues. Subsequently Paul appeals to the model of the body much favoured in civic discourse in order to manage appropriate differentiation (1 Cor 12:12–26). In the only other Pauline usage, Galatians 5:19–21, haireseis is but one among a number of vices, sexual and communal, which belong to the “works of the flesh,” and whose perpetrators “will not inherit the kingdom of God.” Again the emphasis is on behaviour that disrupts the harmony of the whole body. There is little to suggest that this conventional paraenesis has much immediate concern with the main substance of this letter, and it is that which is indeed of more interest in the present context. For, although Paul has no single term to describe the formation of alternative groups of those who think otherwise, he does take them with utmost seriousness. It was in the course of his tortuous dealings with the 17  From a different perspective, namely of social studies of deviancy see J. T. Sanders, Schismatics, Sectarians, Dissidents, Deviants: the First One Hundred Years of Jewish-Christian Relations (London: SCM, 1993). 18  Except 2 Peter 2:1 which may be a sign of this letter’s later date. 19  G. van Kooten, ‘ Ἐκκλησία τοῦ θεοῦ: The ‘Church of God’ and the Civic Assemblies (ἐκκλησίαι) of the Greek Cities in the Roman Empire: A Response to Paul Trebilco and Richard A. Horsley’, in NTS 58 (2012), 522–48, 540–2.

168

Judith M. Lieu

churches in Galatia that he was driven to articulate this. Thus, those whose influence he seeks to undermine are οἱ ἀναστατοῦντες ὑμᾶς; they, or perhaps one individual, disturb you, ταράσσω (5:10, 12; cf. 1:7). The KJV English translation of the former has left a long heritage in the ubiquitous epithet given them, “troublemakers”: “I would that they were even cut off which trouble you” (Gal 5:12).20 Although some other English translations tend to the more pastoral – they are “those who unsettle you” (NRSV) – it is likely that again the sphere of civic unrest is in mind, they are “agitators” (NIV, NEB). Yet what these translational efforts betray is that the linguistic resources available to Paul to locate these people are limited and tend towards the general. In addition, they thwart you from obeying the truth, ἐγκόπτω (5:7), although more specifically they “compel” or “want” you to be circumcised (6:12–13). In each of these cases, other than the specific “false brothers” of 2:4, they are defined in verbal form, by what they do and by its effect on the community; they are given no party label that might define who they are or the principled position they hold.21 Despite this, scholars have been quick to create from them a nominal cohesive group, with hints, perhaps, of principles and structures: “Judaisers,” even “the James party.” Indeed, Paul has left sufficient ambiguity for scholars to continue to debate whether these socalled “troublemakers” were from within the churches of Galatia or were visitors from elsewhere. Equally opaque is quite how the charge that the Galatians are again turning to enslavement to “the weak and impoverished stoicheia,” and to observing “days and months and seasons and years” (4:8–10), relates both to the circumstances that he has been decrying and to the local situation, if it were possible to be certain where and what that was. Yet the ambiguity of how Paul identifies them is also strangely out of kilter with the violence of his imaginings: he utters a solemn anathema against any one who “turns over” (μεταστρέφειν) the Gospel, or preaches some other Gospel (1:8–10). At this point “the Gospel” presumably means the core or fundamental message.22 The declaration of an anathema draws on septuagintal precedent, which leaves any effective action to God. Later, Paul hopes that these men might castrate (or “emasculate”) themselves (5:12). Although within a Jewish framework to have undergone this would effectively exclude them from the community it is unlikely that this is what Paul has in mind. De Boer argues that Paul is rhetorically identifying their practice with the self-mutilation associated with local cults;23 if persuasive, that association might be seen as a form of rhetorical identification with outsiders, but, if so, this is at best allusive. More to the point, even here, is 20 

The title originally suggested for this paper was “troublemakers.” This presupposes that οἱ ἐκ περιτομῆς (Gal 2:12; cf. 2:7–9) is an ethnic descriptor. 22  On μεταστρέφειν here see M. C. de Boer, Galatians: A Commentary, NTLi (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2011), 43–5, who rejects “pervert,” “distort” for “turn into its opposite.” Fundamentally, they are preaching a different Gospel. 23  Ibid., 524–7. 21 



From Us but Not of Us? Moving the Boundaries of the Community

169

that Paul himself has no means of bringing any such outcome into effect, and it is far from clear what practical consequences for communal organisation would (or did) follow from his fulminations. This does not mean that Paul has no concept of the truth as non-negotiable; on the contrary, proportionately he makes more appeals to “the Gospel” in Galatians than in any other letter, and his double defence of “the truth of the Gospel” is unequivocally polemical (2:5, 14). In this focalisation on “the Gospel” and in his linking it with “the truth” Irenaeus could claim to be his heir. Yet for Paul, the Gospel is that which is preached, and it can only be validated by reference to the one who preached it, just as its preacher has no status except in terms of the Gospel he (or she) preaches. “The Gospel,” too, has no institutional or communal articulation or embodiment. Hence, the idea of community is not central to Paul’s treatment of internal conflict, at least in Galatians.

III.  Johannine Conflicts With “John” – specifically the letters that bear his name – a very different set of categories is at work. The focal verse is 1 John 2:19: “They went out from us, but they were not from us (ἐξ ἡμῶν both times); for if they were from us, they would have remained with us (μεθ’ ἡμῶν). But in order that they might be exposed, because not all are from us.” The tightly phrased language, playing on repetition and variation, which translation finds so difficult to capture, gives expression to an important act of redefinition both of bodies and of boundaries. Conventionally, Johannine scholarship has identified the “they” of these verses as “heretics,” as “false teachers,” or, more recently, as “opponents”; but these are not terms that the author of 1 John uses, or, as shall be seen, that he would want to use; in the language of the letter they are “antichrists” or “false prophets,” terms taken not from their behaviour or from claims they made but from an eschatological tradition (2:18; 4:1). Conventionally, too, 2:18–19 has been read as pivotal to the understanding of 1 John, and as evidence of a schism in whose shadow the letter was written. “They” are, or had been, insiders, “from us”; yet, it is supposed, the language of separation or of schism is not available to the author to explain recent events – unlike his recent interpreters he cannot say “once they were from us, but now … .” In one sense this is in surprising contrast to the Gospel; John 6, which has frequently been interpreted as relating to the same sort of experience as that behind 1 John, envisages many who were “of ” or “from” (ἐκ)24 Jesus’ disciples falling away (ἀπέρχομαι εἰς τὰ ὀπίσω) and no longer travelling with (μετὰ) him because of the teaching he gave (John 6:66). On the other hand, there is in the Gospel a strong thrust towards the inviola24 

Omitted by some witnesses in 6:66, but uncontested in 6:60.

170

Judith M. Lieu

ble security of the community, which, like the net in chapter 21, cannot be split (σχίζειν: 21:11; cf. 19:24); so, also in chapter six, Jesus asserts that he will not cast out (ἐκβάλλειν ἔξω) anyone who comes to him, and that no-one can come to him unless the Father so ordain it (6:37, 44, 65). In the Fourth Gospel “schism” (σχίσμα) is found amongst those who fail to respond to Jesus, as also is “casting out” (7:43; 9:16, 34; 10:19). This has provoked the common interpretation that 1 John 2:19 is attempting to explain an actual experience which ideologically, in terms of Johannine theology, could not be explained or made no conceptual sense. For these purposes there would be no significant difference whether those who left were a minority or in the majority – in the latter case they may equally have attributed the “leaving” to the circle represented by the author of the letter. On the likelihood that the same groups are in view in chapter 4, those who once were “from us” (although this is not stated here) have now gone “into the world” (εἰς τὸν κόσμον), and their success there effectively demonstrates them to be “from the world” (ἐκ τοῦ κόσμου), a sphere which is defined by its hostility to those whose security lies in belonging to God. The situation envisaged would become more complicated if, as seems probable, “us” in chapter 2 refers only to the context from which the letter is being written, the author and his circle. In contrast to “us,” the audience, “you,” are in no immediate trouble, although some may try to mislead them: “You have an anointing from the holy one and you all know” (2:20). Yet by providing an aetiology of separation, 1 John 2:18–19 is also reshaping the community of the secure. Key to the Johannine model is the use of ἐκ, which merges different ways of thinking. Evidently it has a primary spatial or locative dimension, witnessed by the use of verbs of motion and by the contrast with εἰς and with μετά: in that sense “we” / “us” represent a quasi-space, although potentially only a virtual one. Yet the preposition also carries notions of belonging and even of origin, as is most clearly expressed in 3:8, 10, in the opposition between being ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ and being ἐκ τοῦ διαβόλου. 2:19 is best translated (as above) “because not all are from us,” rather than “they made it plain that none of them belongs to us” (so the NRSV), and this underlines the new dilemma that has been produced. Not all who appear to be “us” are “us”; visible boundaries and what will prove to be the true boundaries are not identical. Yet, what form such authentic boundaries might take is not obvious; but if boundaries are not defined how are they to be policed? At first, confessional formulae appear to be the key: “Jesus is the Christ” or “the Son of God” (2:22; 4:2–3, 15), but how such a basic confession would act as a measure of difference continues to puzzle interpreters, since this would seem to be the sine qua non of membership from the start. More importantly, the author does not say what “they” did believe or do, although once again interpreters have been quick to fill the silence. Although commentators have used the language of community/ies, 1 John has no terminology for such a concept; indeed, whereas a community, one



From Us but Not of Us? Moving the Boundaries of the Community

171

would expect, would define itself by place and person, 1 John studiously avoids so doing. The so-called “letter” is remarkable for the absence of any names or of identifying references: instead anonymity appears to be a core rhetorical device. Those identified both as “we” and as “you” lack any further signifiers; they have no name, no place, no certain history, and hence no objective way of identifying or of explaining those who are “not us.” Yet the very language, “we,” “you,” presupposes on the behalf of the author(s) a non-negotiable control of permitted membership. 2 John achieves a similar effect through the metaphorical use of female imagery and through the elision between singular and plural within a fictive letter format; within this framework 2 John 11, to which Irenaeus appeals, with its concern about visitors “to the house” reveals little of any significance.

IV. Ignatius Despite Irenaeus’s appeal to Polycarp, the letter from the latter to the church at Philippi provides little for further investigation. For, although Polycarp identifies particular errors, “whoever does not confess Jesus Christ has come in flesh, and whoever does not confess the testimony of the cross, and whoever distorts the sayings of the Lord,” he does not set them within any framework which would suggest from where such statements might emerge.25 Instead, it is Ignatius who is most commonly seen as developing an idea and a strategy for erroneous belief and practice. Characteristically, although Irenaeus does quote from Ignatius’s letter to the Romans, from which he knows of his condemnation to death, he does not mention him by name, referring to him only as “one of our people,” (Haer. 5.28.3; Ign. Rom. 4). Despite superficial similarities Ignatius’s analysis is radically different from that of both Paul and John. The actual events that prompted his impassioned response are notoriously difficult to reconstruct, and scholarship remains divided as to whether there was more than one form of opposition, and whether it was to be found in the churches to which he writes or in that which he had left, in Syrian Antioch. The uncertainties are the result of the dense yet shifting rhetoric through which his own concerns and the situations that he has encountered or imagined are refracted. He is continually caught between denying that he is aware of any failure on the part of his audience (Magn. 11.1; Trall. 8.1), and allusions to actual events: he was involved in a, somewhat opaque, encounter at Philadelphia, while the Ephesians purportedly resisted successfully some who passed through (Phld. 3; Eph. 9). However, over against the obscurity of any ac25  Arguably it is Irenaeus who has turned the anonymous rebukes of the letter against the “first-born of Satan” into a vividly enacted response to the named Marcion (Phil. 7.1; Haer. 3.3.4).

172

Judith M. Lieu

tual situation stands the insistent, if not always consistent, clarity of Ignatius’s construction of the true nature of the church and participation in it. Fundamental to that nature is its unity and oneness – related terms appear more than fifty times26 – which is articulated at every level, pre-eminently in the practice of the local community (Phld. 4), but also both through the network of churches established by Ignatius’s travels and correspondence and through their imagined global spread (Magn. 1.2; Smyrn. 2), and which is the mirror of the divine oneness (Eph. 5.1; 14.1). Communally that oneness is expressed in very precise ways, while its disruption moves between the specific and the mythical. Such oneness is first and foremost spatially imagined. Some of it draws on earlier traditions of sacred space: “If anyone is not within the altar (θυσιαστήριον) they lack the bread of God” (Eph. 5.2; cf. Magn. 7.2; Trall. 7.2; Rom. 2; Phld. 4).27 However, this serves only to undergird actual structural models. A repeated theme is the necessity of “coming together” (Eph. 2.3; 13.1; Phld. 6.2); such coming together is not simply that of communal living but is specifically centred around the bishop: “Do nothing without the bishop, preserve your flesh as the Temple of God, love unity …” (Phld. 7.2).28 Hence, particular individuals, in virtue of the office they hold, embody the whole community.29 More specifically, it is expressed in the sharing of a unified meal (Eph. 20.2); those who act or congregate independently, especially if they abstain from baptism or from eucharist, demonstrate what it is to “act without the bishop” and embody the danger (Smyrn. 7–8). Although the bishop is primarily locally defined, he is also to some extent an agent of the connectedness between the churches which ­Ignatius values and encourages (Phld. 10.2).30 However, while he is confident that bishops are geographically “defined to the farthest points of the earth” (Eph. 3.2), that they have a role in preserving the integrity of the church through history, as in 1 Clement, is less clear. However, Ignatius does not primarily conceive of the threat to this oneness in terms of schism. Only in the letter to the Philadelphians is there any anxiety about divisions (μερισμός) – and there, despite his own experience of harsh disagreement, he denies having found such (Phld. 2.1; 3.1; 7.2; 8.1).31 Hairesis, probably also “factionalism,” although certainly to be avoided, has little role in his vocabulary (Eph. 6.2; Trall. 6.1). Indeed, although he is concerned about those who avoid (ἀπέχεσθαι) “coming together,” it is he who initiates more overt acts 26 

Especially εἷς, ἑνότης, ἑνόω, ἕνωσις.

27 Cf. Eph. 15.3, “As if he were dwelling in us, and we were his Temples.”

28  “It is fitting not only to be named Christians but also to be, just as some name the bishop but do all things without him” (Magn. 4). 29  Magn. 6.1: Ignatius saw the whole community in the persons of the bishop, elder and deacon; cf. Trall. 1.1. 30  Messages between the churches, and especially to that in Syria, are a recurring goal of the letters: Eph. 21; Magn. 14–15; Rom. 9. 31 Also Smyrn. 7.2; σχίζω comes only once, Phld. 3.3.



From Us but Not of Us? Moving the Boundaries of the Community

173

of separation, counselling similar avoidance (ἀπέχεσθαι) of such people, to the extent of refusing even to mention them out loud (Smyrn. 7.2; Phld. 3; Trall. 6.1). However, despite the explicitly locative character of this twofold distancing, it does not have any obvious permanent expression in membership of the community. Indeed, elsewhere they may still belong to the company of “brothers” who should properly be treated with mildness; they may be like those afflicted with the plague but for whom healing may yet be possible, as too may be repentance (Eph. 10.3; Pol. 2.1; Smyrn. 4.1). A different thread in Ignatius’ rhetorical response sets them over against the community, a threat of a type familiar from the eschatological tradition or from more immediate experience. They are “wild beasts in human form,” to be feared and treated as dangerous animals (Smyrn. 4; Eph. 7) – perhaps not unlike the animals which he expects to be the means of his death (Trall. 10; Rom. 4–5); more insidiously, they may even appear to be trustworthy wolves – whatever these might look like (Phld. 2; cf. Matt 7:15; 10:16). Similarly deceptive, they are “a foreign plant,” a weed which is at the same time like an undetected but lethal poison (Trall. 6; 11); if such “planting” is to be ascribed to the devil, that is only because all threat and opposition ultimately is the devil’s work (Eph. 10.3; cf. Rom. 5.3). Conceptually, Ignatius both projects a community of the secure and implies a co-existing shadowy community of lurking poison, but he does not have the desire or the linguistic and theological resources to explain either. However, alongside this Ignatius is beginning to develop a vocabulary to interpret what he perceives. Those he opposes are defined not only by what they do or do not “act,” but also by what they do or do not “speak.” To a large extent this is developed negatively, against what Ignatius wishes to affirm, in almost creedal terms, about the genuine character (ἀληθῶς) of Jesus’ experience from birth to resurrection and beyond, but particularly of his suffering: “Turn deaf if someone speaks to you apart from Jesus Christ who … was truly born …” (Trall. 9; Smyrn. 1–4). Nonetheless, he does not define such “speaking” in terms of truth and error or falsehood: πλανάω is used only in a conventional rhetori­ cal sense while ψευδõς and related terms are surprisingly absent. Instead, it is that the teaching or views (potentially) being promulgated are “other” or “alien” (ἀλλοτρίος; ἑτερο-) which is his concern.32 Instead of such “alien greens” the Trallians are to stick to “Christian food” (χριστιανὴ τροφή, Trall. 6.1). One of the key, and most striking, steps Ignatius takes is to exploit “Christian” and to coin from it a number of compounds.33 Particularly important is “Christianism” (χριστιανισμός), which he treats as something to be heard as well as lived, a message as well as a practice (Magn. 32 ἀλλοτρίος: Rom. praef.; Trall. 6.1; Phld. 3.3; ἑτεροδοξ-: Magn. 8.1; Smyrn. 6.2; ἑτεροδίδασκω: Pol. 3.1. 33  χριστιανισμός; χριστομαθία; χριστόνομος; χριστοφόρος.

174

Judith M. Lieu

10.1, 3; Phld. 6.1; Rom. 3.3). Ignatius almost certainly coined the term on the basis of “Judaism” (ἰουδαισμός), which still represents its primary antithesis, although in Rom. 3.3 it is defined by the world’s hatred.34 Although some have posited a “Judaising error,” Ignatius does not so perceive it: “Judaism” is properly antecedent to “Christianism,” not a real contemporary alternative, still less a false outgrowth. Such labels are not a mere convenience but carry rhetorical force: to be called by a name other than this, presumably “Christian[ism]” is not to belong to God (Magn. 10.1), just as to be without the bishop and those around him is not to be called ἐκκλησία (Trall. 3.1). On the other hand, names can be inadequate if not misleading: one must be a Christian and not just be called one, although it is structural adherence that determines the difference (Magn. 4.1). Conversely, Ignatius deliberately avoids naming those he condemns (Smyrn. 5.3). He does so because they are unbelieving, ἄπιστα. Those who deny the reality of Jesus’s suffering are godless and unbelieving (ἄθεοι, ἄπιστοι), terms that he can also use of genuine outsiders, but that here refer to those who, no doubt, would see themselves as positive adherents of Jesus (Trall. 10.1; Smyrn. 2.1; 5.3; cf. Magn. 5). However, when scholars do give them a name, “docetists,” they are subverting Ignatius’s own rhetoric, which is to declare them to be all appearance, of no substance, just as they declare the death of Jesus to be: naming would imply substantial identity (Trall. 10; Smyrn. 2; 5.3). It is these contradictory messages that have led scholars to question just how much substance there was to these lurking figures, how far they serve primarily to reinforce Ignatius’s intense concern for the cohesion of the communities he visits around the structures represented by the bishop, a cohesion that may have been far more one of his aspirations than it was part of those churches’ experience. For however inconsistent the picture drawn by Ignatius may be when subjected to close scrutiny, the persuasive effect is to engender a persistent anxiety, alert to threat in multiple guises, while offering the reassurance that it is, after all, not so difficult to remain secure against it.

Concluding Remarks It has not been the intention of this paper to identify the troublemakers, opponents, or heretics hiding behind our texts, and still less to draw any lines of continuity between them such as has sometimes been attempted for Antioch between Paul and Ignatius, and for Ephesus between John and Ignatius. It is doubtful whether any such identification is possible, because these authors not only have no intention of advertising someone else’s message for them, but because they do not perceive them in terms of a fixed identity, namely of consistent beliefs and 34 

ἰουδαισμός: 2 Macc 2:21; 8:11; 14:38; 4 Macc 4:26; Gal 1:13–14.



From Us but Not of Us? Moving the Boundaries of the Community

175

practices and even allegiances. Yet, whatever the social reality about the diversity of early Christianity which has been so much emphasised in recent accounts, it would be wrong to suppose that this meant there was an initial acceptance of diversity which only later became replaced by its violent rejection. Paul, John and Ignatius are all equally exercised by divergent beliefs or expressions of the Christian message, and all see these as having existential consequences; each responds to that perception in different ways, although always with an underlying confidence in the stability of those who single-mindedly keep firm. To this extent there is no story to be told which becomes ever more serious or ever less tolerant as it progresses from Paul to Irenaeus. The obsessive concern with determining who “is not of us,” which characterises Christianity throughout its history, is there from the start. In this sense Irenaeus is not to be held responsible for inventing “the idea of heresy,” with all its destructive after-effects. On the other hand, there are significant shifts, which will have lengthy consequences; some of these may owe something to new constructions of where belief in Jesus fitted in established systems of knowledge, and some may still be described in terms of the creation of a “discourse,” of a new “knowledge.” The second century is undoubtedly the period where this can best be traced, but the wider intellectual and social dynamics that prompted it still invite further investigation.

Barnabas and the Outsiders Jews and Their World in the Epistle of Barnabas

James Carleton Paget I. Introduction The Epistle of Barnabas, reflecting what is the case with many early Christian writings, not least those associated with the so-called Apostolic Fathers, gives us little reliable indication of its author, date, or provenance, and is equally miserly in providing explicit evidence of the situation it might be addressing.1 Such lack of information extends to the character of the recipients of the epistle, if indeed that is an appropriate designation for the text.2 They are probably gentile in origin,3 but describing them in more detail is at best guesswork, a shadowy dance with the implied reader.4 While, then, there is a veil over much that we would like to know about the epistle and its background, most would agree that its author5 is taken up, at whatever remove, with the relationship of Christianity to Judaism; or perhaps, put less controversially, of believers in Christ to non-Christian Jews (notoriously, of 1  For recent discussion of these matters, see R. Hvalvik, The Struggle for Scripture and Covenant: The Purpose of the Epistle of Barnabas and Jewish-Christian Competition in the Second Century, WUNT 2.82 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 17–53; and F. R. Prostmeier, Der Barnabasbrief, KAV 8 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), 111–34. 2  On the contested genre of Barnabas, see Hvalvik, Struggle, 66–81; Prostmeier, Bar­ nabasbrief, 86–90. The letter is universally named an epistle in its inscription, but doubts about the appropriateness of this designation have been expressed. Some of this arises from its lack of specificity, but in broad terms it has the features of a letter. 3  Prostmeier, Barnabasbrief, 131–2. 4  The presentation of the reader in the opening chapter is idealized, though reference to bringing this person to a perfect knowledge implies the need for such a reader to know more. The implied reader of the epistle is probably of gentile origin, has a strong respect for scripture, or at least a knowledge of it (the author makes no effort to argue for scripture’s authority and quotes scripture in such a way as to lead us to assume that his audience has some knowledge of it), and possibly to live in some proximity to a Jewish community, or at least to know that community. 5  It is not clear that the letter was originally attributed to Barnabas, the companion of St. Paul, not least because there is no attempt to play on such an attribution in the body of the epistle. On this see J. Carleton Paget, The Epistle of Barnabas: Outlook and Background, WUNT 2.64 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994), 7, taking further comments made by H. Windisch, Der Barnabasbrief, HNT Erg. Die Apostolischen Väter 3 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1920), 413.

178

James Carleton Paget

course, the author fails to mention the words Jew or Judaism in his epistle). That is, in the author’s attempts to express his views, he feels it necessary to refer to and condemn the opinions of non-Christian Jews, especially, though not exclusively, as these relate to the interpretation of scripture. This hostility to Judaism makes the author of the epistle an oddity among the Apostolic Fathers. True, we can point to negative passages about Jews in Ignatius, Didache, Diognetus and the Martyrdom of Polycarp but these appear somewhat abstract, form small parts of the works in which they appear, and do not, at least explicitly, concern themselves with exegesis.6 Indeed other Apostolic Fathers who show interest in scriptural interpretation, do so with no reference to non-Christian Jewish opinion. So, for instance, the author of 1 Clement assumes, rather than argues for, a seamless interconnection between Old Testament texts and the Christian community of which he is a member, that is, he takes for granted a sense of the ownership of those texts, without explicitly stating that there may be another community, who would dispute such an easy-going conjunction, and would itself lay claim to the ownership of those texts.7 Barnabas, then, appears distinctive in the collection of the Apostolic Fathers, not simply in the degree to which he appears concerned with Jews and Jewish opinion, but, more importantly, in the context in which he discusses them.8 6  J. M. Lieu, Image and Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 4, argues for the absence of a “genuine concern with Jews and Judaism” among those associated with the Apostolic Fathers and thinks that it requires explanation, not least when these writings are compared with those of the New Testament where Jews are often a fundamental model for dealing with questions of Christian identity. She dismisses the claims of S. S. Harakas, ‘The Relation of the Church and Synagogue in the ­Apostolic Fathers’, in SVSQ 11 (1967), 123–38, that this matter can best be explained by reference to the fact that the Apostolic Fathers were exclusively concerned with the internal needs of the church, on the grounds that the same could be said for New Testament writers for whom Jews play an important part in the symbolic world of the Christianity they seek to portray. 7  See H. Schreckenberg, Die christlichen Adversus-Judaeos-Texte und ihr literarisches und historisches Umfeld, I, EHS.T 172 (Frankfurt am Main: P. Lang, 19902), 171. The author of 1 Clement assumes that the prophets announce the arrival of Christ (17.1), that Christ speaks in the Hebrew Scriptures (22.1–8), that Abraham is “our” father (31.2), and that the church is the chosen people (29.1–30.1). As Schreckenberg comments: “Das Judentum scheint dabei vergessen, es wird nicht einmal mehr erwähnt, von Polemik ganz zu schweigen, und es bedarf so auch kaum der vielen gekünstelten Allegoresen und Typologien, die später so oft als antijüdische apologetische Waffen benötigt und entwickelt werden.” See also O. Skarsaune, ‘The Development of Scriptural Interpretation in the Second and Third Centuries – Except Clement and Origen’, in M. Saebø (ed.), Hebrew Bible / Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation, I/1: Antiquity (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 373–422, 382 and 384. One could moderate Schreckenberg’s observations by noting that 1 Clement is addressed to a set of circumstances which is entirely intra-Christian. Similar comments could be made about ­2 ­Clement, where the author gives no sense that his use of the Old Testament might be contested, nor hints at any sign of antagonism with non-Christian Jews. On this see C. M. Tuckett (ed.), 2 Clement: Introduction, Text, and Commentary, Oxford Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: ­Oxford University Press, 2012), 75–6. 8  Lieu, Image, 4. Also note J. M. Lieu, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman



Barnabas and the Outsiders

179

II.  Barnabas’ Anti-Jewish Polemic – Its Role and Referent However, while many agree that Barnabas shows a striking and distinctive interest in non-Christian Jews, there is disagreement on what their presence implies for an understanding of Barnabas’ relationship to the Jewish community; or put another way, scholars are not at one on how they understand the role of the Jews in the epistle, and what it may imply about the proximity of Jews to Barnabas’ community. The question is directly related to a more general, and indeed, hoary, debate about the implications of anti-Jewish references in early Christian writings. To what extent do these provide evidence of actual encounter between Jews and Christians, and to what extent do they arise out of the needs of Christian exegesis and paraenesis and so betray little evidence of viva voce contact? This debate has seen learned voices on both sides,9 with others hovering in the middle.10 Its results, if there be any, need not be rehearsed in detail here. Suffice it to say that most would agree that the Jewish population of the Roman Empire and beyond was sufficiently important, and indeed self-confident, in the late first and second centuries, at least in places, for there to be a prima facie case for the view that Christians mentioned Jews in their works because the Jewish community formed a significant element in the world they inhabited. When we add to this general observation the fact that anti-Jewish rhetoric is not witnessed as consistently as one would expect if it were the stock-in-trade of Christian exegesis and paraenesis (witness the Apostolic Fathers themselves),11 and that many Christian works which engage in apparent polemic with Jews betray knowledge of Jewish exegetical and other traditions, then the case for seeing anti-Jewish references as reflecting some form of actual encounter seems, in general terms, convincing. Of course, that is not the same as saying that all texts which speak negatively of Jews imply the same level of encounter, or that the same texts do not, to quote one recent commentator, witness to a complex interaction between an image of the Jew, affected by the setting and context in which that figure is being used by the World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 42, where, in claiming that Justin is the first Christian author to give us evidence of an explicit encounter with an alternative reading of scripture, she mentions Barnabas as a possible precursor. See also M. Kok, ‘The True Covenant People: Ethnic Reasoning in the Epistle of Barnabas’, in SR 40 (2011), 83: “The epistle of Barnabas is one of the earliest texts to reflect the perspective that Christian identity and social praxis are diametrically opposed to belonging to the Judean ethnos.” 9  For these voices see J. Carleton Paget, ‘Anti-Judaism and Early Christian Identity’, in Idem, Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians in Antiquity, WUNT 1.251 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 44–5. Principal among those who have argued for the view that anti-Jewish references are not evidence of actual encounter are A. von Harnack, R. Ruether and M. Taylor. The opposite case has been argued by, among others, J. Juster, M. Simon, W. Horbury and S. G. Wilson. Relevant literature cited in Carleton Paget, ‘Anti-Judaism’. 10  See esp. Lieu, Image, esp. 277–90. 11  See J. Carleton Paget, ‘Clement of Alexandria and the Jews’, in Idem, Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians, 91–102.

180

James Carleton Paget

Christian writer in question, and the reality of the Jewish presence in the actual world of the Christian author, whatever that might mean or be.12 What, then, of the individual case of the Epistle of Barnabas? For many years there have been those who have argued strongly for the view that its author shows little or no sign of interaction with actual Jews, and betrays little sense of Jews as an enemy-to-be-feared. The view emerges from a number of observations: (i) The Jews to whom Barnabas refers can hardly be considered a threat – at best the author’s relation to them is a distant one. Separation has already occurred,13 conjuring up the vision of two communities leading separate existences which never intersect.14 (ii) Related to this observation is the fact that it is not easy to discern any polemic bound up with a presumed Jewish threat or presence either in the opening or closing chapter of the epistle. (iii) As the author himself is thought to imply, and as is amply witnessed in the text itself, he has made much use of sources, and it may well be to the sources, rather than to Barnabas himself, that we should attribute whatever anti-Jewish sentiment there is in the letter.15 (iv) In so far as the epistle witnesses to anti-Jewish sentiment, it does so unevenly.16 Moreover, what some term anti-Jewish sentiment could equally be described as anti-cultic.17 (v) The author is in general more concerned with ethical paraenesis than he is with polemising against Jews, a point which becomes clear, not only in the 12  “When this literature speaks of Jews and Judaism there is a contemporary reality, one of which, in differing degrees, its authors are aware … Yet their (the Christians’) own needs, the logic of their argument, and the tradition they draw on, especially the ‘Old Testament’, help create and mould the terms in which they speak – to create an image” (Lieu, Image, 12). 13  Such a view is encouraged by the references to “them” and “us” (see n. 20 below), by the reference to “their” law (3.6), by the possible reference to the covenant belonging to them and us (4.6b: on the textual difficulties see below), by the claim that the Jews are πρῶτος λαός understood as the former people (13.1 f.), and by the striking distancing of Barnabas from the Jewish temple, whose construction he associates with wretched men whose God he describes as “their” God (16.1). On this see Prostmeier, Barnabasbrief, 506–7. 14 See Windisch, Barnabasbrief, 323; and Prostmeier, Barnabasbrief, 88 and 506. 15 See Barn. 1.5 and the author’s reference to handing over a portion of what he has received, though the language here is consistent with the processes of transmission more generally conceived, and there is nothing from 1.5 which would indicate written sources. For advocates of a source theory which renders the anti-Jewish polemic broadly irrelevant to a consideration of the context of the letter, see Windisch, Barnabasbrief; R. A. Kraft, The Epistle of Barnabas: Its Quotations and Their Sources (Ph. D. diss., Harvard University, 1961); R. A. Kraft, The ­Apostolic Fathers: A New Translation and Commentary, III: Barnabas and the Didache (New York: Nelson, 1965); P. Prigent, Les testimonia dans le christianisme primitive: l’Épître de Barnabé et ses sources (Paris: Gabalda, 1961); K. Wengst, Tradition und Theologie des Barnabasbriefes, AKG 42 (Berlin / New York: de Gruyter, 1971). 16 See Windisch, Barnabasbrief, 322–3. 17  See R. A. Kraft, ‘Review of P. Prigent’s L’Épître de Barnabé’, in JThS 13 (1962), 401–8, 405.



Barnabas and the Outsiders

181

author’s strong interest in knowing the commandments of God, but also in the fact that the Two-Ways section concludes the epistle and is an important feature of the main part of the work, chapters 2–16.18 (vi) Less importantly, some have contended that an examination of the ancient interpretation of the text, beginning with Clement of Alexandria (Strom. 2.6.31; 2.7.35; 2.15.67; 2.18.84; 2.20.116; 5.8.51–2; 5.10.63), does not betray evidence of an anti-Jewish / polemical usage.19 But are these observations enough to exclude the Jewish community, or the Jews – “them” and “us” in Barnabas’ terminology20 – from the concern of the author? I think not, though in contesting such a reading of the epistle, I shall not seek to replace it with a view that is definite in what it claims can be said either about the Jews’ precise relationship to those to whom Barnabas writes or about that community as it existed in reality. Why might we oppose the view I have presented above? First, we should note that the content of Barnabas’ letter is something that he terms “perfect knowledge” (see 1.5). It is clear from what he goes on to say both in chapter 1, and later on in the epistle, that such knowledge is bound up closely with scriptural interpretation. So in 1.6, after glossing what perfect knowledge might be, in the following verse he goes on to mention interpretation of the prophets (“For through the prophets the Master has made known [ἐγνώρισεν] to us what has happened and what now is …”), here implying the comprehensiveness of scripture for the author. The epistle then begins its main section with an interpretation of what true sacrifice might consist in. Moreover, in the rest of the epistle “gnosis” and words related to it are often used in connection with the right understanding of scripture, or specifically a Christian understanding of scripture.21 The fact that Barnabas often expresses the view that Jewish exegesis is false (see esp. 8.7 and 10.12) is surely of significance for an understanding of “perfect knowledge.” It is perhaps also of consequence that the only other time in the epistle where Barna18  See esp. J. N. Rhodes, The Epistle of Barnabas and the Deuteronomic Tradition, WUNT 2.188 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), though his work, at least in broad terms, has a pedigree going back to Kraft. 19  See F. R. Prostmeier, ‘Antijüdische Polemik im Rahmen christlicher Hermeneutik. Zum Streit über christliche Identität in der Alten Kirche. Notizen zum Barnabasbrief’, in ZAC 6 (2002), 38. 20  Barnabas frequently refers to “us” and “them,” though not always by way of a straightforward contrast (e. g. see 1.7) but often the contrast is emphasized. See, inter alia, 2.4, 7, 9, 10; 3.1, 3, 6; 4.7, 8, 14; 5.2, 11, 12; 6.7, 8, 12–13; 7.1, 2, 5; 8.7; 9.4; 10.9, 12; 11.1, 11; 13.1; 14.4, 5; 15.8. For this material see Hvalvik, Struggle, 137–9. Interestingly, the Latin translator (L), whose translation may date from the early third century, always translates ἐκεῖνος by the appropriate form of ille.  Ἰσραήλ, on the other hand, is normally translated by populus Iudaeorum. 21  For explicit association of γνῶσις with biblical interpretation, see 6.9; 9.8 and 10.10. For associated terms, see Barnabas’ use of σοφία at 2.3; 16.9 and 21.5, σύνεσις at 2.3 and 21.5, and ἐπιστήμη at 2.3 and 21.5. Also note Barnabas’ use of γνωρίζω (1.7; 5.3) and νοέω (4.14; 6.10; 7.1; 8.2; 10.12). On this see Hvalvik, Struggle, 83–4.

182

James Carleton Paget

bas comes close to referring to perfect knowledge, at 13.7 (here the reference is to “perfection of knowledge”), it is at the end of a section affirming the covenantal status of Christians over against an implied Jewish claim to the contrary. Secondly, the subjects about which Barnabas seems most exercised, namely the interpretation of Jewish laws such as sacrifice (2), fasts (3), circumcision (9), the dietary laws (10), the Sabbath (15), as well as such subjects as the covenant (4, 13 and 14), the temple (2 and 16), and the land (6), are all central to Jewish identity, and, moreover, his concerns with these as well as with Christ’s death, the cross, and baptism, all reflect important subjects in later Christian adversus Judaeos literature.22 That questions to do with the interpretation of distinctive Jewish laws occupy structurally significant parts of the letter, is also important,23 as is the fact that Christian interpretations of these subjects are often contrasted with Jewish ones.24 Thirdly, the author could be taken to give hints of a genuine concern that Christians might become converts to the Jewish law, first in 3.6,25 with its reference to being dashed against their law as proselytes, in the textually problematic 4.6b, where, on one reading, an unidentified “certain people” (τισιν) declare the covenant to be both theirs and ours,26 whatever its meaning,27 and 9.6 where an interlocutor defends circumcision as a sign or seal.28 22  In Justin’s Dialogue, for instance, discussion of circumcision (16; 19; 23), fasts (15), sacrifice (22), Sabbath (12; 19; 21) and the covenant (25) accompany discussion of baptism (14), and crucifixion (40 f.; 86 f.; 90). It should be noted, however, that Christological themes, at least as these relate to the identity of Jesus as Messiah, play much less of a role in Barnabas than in traditional adversus Judaeos texts. 23  Comments on these laws occupy the beginning (2–3), the middle (9–10), and the end (15–16) of the main part of the epistle before the author moves to consider what he terms “another gnosis.” 24 See Hvalvik, Struggle, 97, who notes that Barnabas’ interest in the law indicates that he is concerned with the living reality of Jews, the way they lived. A more abstract approach might be marked, Hvalvik argues, by a concentration on the issue of proving Jesus’ Messianic identity, as is the case in most adversus Judaeos texts. On the basis of this observation, Hvalvik concludes that Barnabas’ concerns are dictated by Jewish, not Christian, concerns. In this context it is interesting to note that in Second Temple Judaism differences in Halakah seem to mark divisions between groups much more than differences in theology per se. 25  The Greek could be translated as either “so that we might not be shipwrecked as if proselytes to their law,” or as “in order that we might not be dashed against their law as proselytes.” Sinaiticus reads ἐπήλυτοι while L and H read προσήλυτοι. Most agree that the former is the more likely reading but that the two terms are synonymous, both meaning proselyte (see Prostmeier, Barnabasbrief, 169–70, for a slightly different position). 26  The reading of this verse is problematic. It is usually rendered as “the covenant is both theirs and ours,” based on an acceptance of the Latin reading (illorum et nostrum est; nostrum est autem) (with some additions from the Greek: on this see Prostmeier, Barnabasbrief, 191). Two different readings are witnessed by the Greek (ἡ διαθήκη ὑμῶν ὑμῖν μένει [H] or ἡ διαθήκη ἡμῶν μέν [S]), the latter of which makes little sense. Rhodes, Barnabas, 24–8, and at greater length, J. N. Rhodes, ‘Barnabas 4.6B: The Exegetical Implications of a Textual Problem’, in VigChr 58 (2004), 365–92, notes that the widespread acceptance of the Latin is odd as it goes against two basic rules of text criticism, namely a preference for the shorter and more difficult



Barnabas and the Outsiders

183

Fourth, it would be wrong, I think, to contend that anti-Jewish polemic is unevenly distributed through the epistle. At 2.9 Jews are described as those who are deceived; at 3.6 conversion to their law is the equivalent of shipwreck; at chapters reading. Moreover, Rhodes states, the Latin translation of Barnabas is generally held to be a suspect rendition of the Greek. After noting that in terms of transcriptional probabilities, no one reading is more obvious than the other, Rhodes suggests an emendation of his own based on the most difficult of the three extant readings, namely S’s, proposing ἡ διαθήκη ἡμῶν μένει, in this context understanding the statement as coming from a non-Christian Jew (τισιν and ἐκεῖνοι being taken to refer to the same people). This, in his opinion, has the advantage of explaining S’s and H’s readings, and making better sense of what Barnabas goes on to write from 4.11 f., where it appears that the message of Israel’s worship of the calf and its subsequent consequences are used in an admonitory way to oppose Christian complacency (see 4.11 and 14). Rhodes also suggests that his emendation has the added benefit of not causing the interpreter to introduce a third party (an unknown, possibly Christian, interlocutor, which the Latin assumes) and of making better sense of the reference to heaping up sins in 4.6a, a point further supported by the importance of sin in Barnabas’ account of Israel’s failings (see 5.11; 8.1; 14.5). Also, according to Rhodes, the emendation more easily explains the reference to the Jews losing the covenant completely in 4.7 (that is, it does not remain theirs); and finally, it makes sense as an utterance of Jews in the wake of the fall of the temple, a sort of appeal to the permanency of the covenant, not dissimilar to what we find in Liber Antiquitatum 21.10. The case Rhodes makes has its merits (for a recent defence of it see S. Moll, The Arch-Heretic Marcion, WUNT 1.250 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010], 139–40), one of which lies in the close attention it pays to the context in which the words are found – after all, given the textcriti­cal malaise the reader confronts in 4.6b, a solution based heavily on the context makes good sense. There are a number of difficulties with the proposal, however. First, while S is the more difficult reading, Rhodes’ conjecture no longer is. Secondly, Rhodes’ reconstruction disagrees with the two mss. which make sense for both share an interlocutor who thinks that the Jews are still in some sense a covenant people. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, Rhodes’ assertion that τισιν refers to the Jews is unconvincing for surely one would expect Barnabas to use a form of ἐκεῖνοι if he were referring to the opinion of Jews (the latter term being used exclusively to refer to Jewish opinion in his letter) as he has already done at 2.7, 9 and 3.6. In Greek (as in most languages) one might introduce a group as “some people,” and then refer to them with definiteness as “those people.” But it would seem odd to do the opposite, that is, start with a definite group and then talk indefinitely about them with τίνες (Moll, Marcion, 140, agrees with this observation). Fourthly, while the context is not infinitely malleable, it is not sufficiently precise to warrant preferring Rhodes’ reading over others (see below). The advantage of retaining the Latin, the content of which is not easily explained by reference to either S or H, or indeed the emended text, may lie in the fact that what it gives voice to as a concern is hinted at elsewhere in the letter (see esp. 13.1) and it makes better sense of Barnabas’ use of τισιν to describe those who speak (on this see above). While it is true that the slightly emended Latin text does not sit so easily with the context, it could be argued that we move from a rebuke of those who assert some sort of similarity between the Jewish and Christian covenant by referring to its loss by the Jews, and then to a lesson to be drawn from this loss for the Christians. 27  Does it mean that their covenant is ours and so we must do as they do? Or does it mean that we share the same covenant and so the same heritage and therefore enjoy parity of esteem in the mind of God (see Ps.-Clem. Hom. 8.5–7)? Or is it another way of stating a conventional salvation-historical view? 28  L reads Sed etiam cum circumcises est populus in signo, omitting any reference to a statement by an imagined interlocutor. The same textual witness does not refer to the use of circumcision by Syrians, as is the case in all the Greek witnesses, and adds instead the word Iudeus, which seems odd in the context.

184

James Carleton Paget

4 and 14 their worship of the golden calf appears to lead to their immediate loss of the covenant; at 5.11 they are portrayed as those who persecuted the prophets and whose sins were completed by their killing of Christ; at 8.1 they are perfect in sin; at 8.7 things are obscure to them but clear to the Christians; at 9.4 their belief that the command to circumcise was meant literally is attributed to an evil angel; at 9.6 their trust in circumcision is regarded as a petty commonplace; at 10.9 their failure to understand the food laws is attributed to their lust of the flesh and in the same chapter their failure to understand these laws is repeatedly criticized; at 11.1 they are lambasted for not accepting baptism and building for themselves, which is portrayed as desertion of God (11.2) and impiety (11.7);29 at 12.3 their failure to respond to Christ condemns them to damnation; at 15.8 their sabbaths are rejected; and at 16 their building of a temple for God, associated with the work of wretched people, is likened to the activity of pagans (16.2). It is difficult to take this as uneven distribution of polemic or to describe these accusations as anti-cultic rather than anti-Jewish, especially if we assume Barnabas to hold non-Christians to be a separate entity; or to see why “so much lively polemic would have been gathered together in circumstances to which it did not speak.”30 Fifth, though it is true that we can read Barnabas to imply that Christians and Jews have separated, that non-Christian Jews are outsiders, we need to be careful both in asserting this too boldly or assuming that such an assertion means that non-Christian Jews are of no concern to the epistle’s author. So, for instance, on the latter point we need to ask whether the use of “them” and “us,” far from indicating a distance from “them,” by its very assumption that “they” will be known, implies a certain proximity to Jews rather than the opposite.31 And in relation to the first point, and mindful of recent debates about the character and nature of Jewish and Christian separation,32 we should ask whether when Barnabas insists, 29 

See the citation of Ps 1:3–6 and its reference to the “impious.” See W. Horbury, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations in Barnabas and Justin Martyr’, in Idem, Jews and Christians in Contact and Controversy (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 135. 31  On this see Rhodes, ‘Exegetical implications’, 380–1, who asks whether we would expect a writer of the second century to refer to the Jews in such a way, playing up the importance Barnabas attributes to the term Israel, which Rhodes takes as referring to the Jews of the past. But Rhodes, in spite of wondering whether references to “them” alone mean that we need to exclude contemporary Jews from any understanding of the epistle (“One might even argue that if Barnabas is able to avoid the words “Jew”, “Judaism”, and “Judaize” so completely, the interpreter ought to be able to summarize his purpose without recourse to these words” [Rhodes, Barnabas, 196]), fails to explain the references to “them.” For further discussion see Prostmeier, ‘Polemik’, 46. For the idea of separation and proximity see William Horbury’s neat formulation: “The ways have parted already for the writers considered here (Barnabas and Justin) … For both authors the ways still run close together” (Horbury, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations’, 127). 32  I refer here to the debate which challenges the view that the ways had straightforwardly parted by the middle of the second century and highlights both theoretical and historical objections to this view. See esp. J. M. Lieu, ‘‘The Parting of the Ways’: Theological Construct or Historical Realty?’, in Eadem, Neither Jew nor Greek: Constructing Early Christianity (Edin30 



Barnabas and the Outsiders

185

for instance, in chapter 13 of his epistle that Christians are the real people of God and not the Jews, the so-called former people, he protests too much in the face not only of Jews who would claim the opposite, but also against some Christians who saw no difference between their own claims to the status of the people of God and those of the Jews.33 In this view Barnabas appears as a separatist who is trying to impose his separatism upon other Christians who would deny it.34 Related to this point are possible indications in the epistle of genuine contact with Jews. This can come in the form of knowledge of extra-biblical Jewish traditions, perhaps best exemplified in Barnabas’ Christological interpretation of the events associated with the Day of Atonement in chapters 7 and 8.35 Here, and elsewhere,36 Barnabas might be dependent upon sources which draw upon extra-biblical Jewish traditions.37 Possibly better evidence for contact with Jews might come from Barnabas’ strong emphasis in chapter 3 upon Jewish fasting, which, while reflecting contemporary Jewish practice, is not so heavily emphasized in the Bible.38 burgh: T&T Clark, 2002), 11–30; A. Becker and A. Y. Reed, The Ways That Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, TSAJ 95 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003). 33  In this context note should be taken of the language of 13.3 (“you ought to perceive” [αἰσθάνεσθαι ὀφείλετε]) and 13.6 (“you see” [βλέπετε], or possibly “see” in the imperative), indicative of a certain urgency. 34  See the comments of Kok, ‘Covenant People’, 93: “The alarm underlying the fierce rhetoric in Barnabas is that the borders remained fluid and many Christians saw no logical contradiction between devotion to Jesus and adopting Judean praxis or fellowship in synagogues. Ethnic reasoning was utilized to reinforce Christian claims to naturalness and to construct sharp differences between Christians and Judeans.” 35  For the extra-biblical details in the account both of the ritual connected with the two goats and of the red heifer in Barn. 7 and 8 and their parallels in m. Yoma 6 and m. Parah 3, see Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 137–42. 36  Barn. 10 is another example. Here the interpretation of the food laws seems to draw on Hellenistic-Jewish traditions we meet in Aristeas and elsewhere, and the affirmation at 10.11 (“See how well Moses legislated! [πῶς ἐνομοθέτησεν Μωϋσῆς καλῶς]”) could have been taken from a Jewish source. 37  For this possibility as it relates to Barn. 7 and 8, see Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 138–40. 38  On this see Horbury, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations’, 136–7, taking up comments made by S. Lowy, ‘The Confutation of Judaism in the Epistle of Barnabas’, in JJS 11 (1960), 2–10. Horbury notes how fasting is not a main subject of the Pentateuch, apart from the fast of the Day of Atonement (Lev 16:29; 23:26–32). While Horbury sees a connection between that fast and the fasting mentioned at Barn. 3, arguing that the text of Isa 58 used by Barnabas here had come to be linked to that day, though it had come to be associated with the admonition to be addressed to the elders beginning a fast (according to the Tosefta – see TosTann. 1.8), it still reflects a comparably greater interest in fasting than is the case in the Bible. “Moreover, this chapter of Barnabas as it now stands is on fasting in general rather than on the unmentioned Day of Atonement in particular … and the space given to fasting in chapter iii is accordingly best understood … against the background of other regular fasts, of which the Day of Atonement would simply form the supreme example …” (Horbury, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations’, 137). Some might respond to these observations by noting that the criticism of fasting comes in the quotation from Isa 58, and that a concern with right fasting and indeed the prioritizing of fasting is a commonplace in Christian texts (see Hermas, Sim. 5.3.7 [alluding to Isa 58]; and

186

James Carleton Paget

Barnabas’ discussion of the Jewish temple in chapter 16 should also be considered in this context. Its importance for the present discussion lies not so much in the vehemence of Barnabas’ denunciation of the Jewish decision to make a temple and worship God there, a criticism which reflects places elsewhere in the epistle where the desire on the part of Jews to do things for themselves is attacked,39 but in the fact that, if we accept one reading, the author appears to betray knowledge of a contemporary event in Jewish history. That is, what he is referring to in 16.3–4, the fulfillment of Isa 49:17, appears to be taking place in the present time – it is actually happening in the here and now (γίνεται), we are told.40 To many the primary question here is whether 16.3–4 should be understood to refer to a rebuilding of the Jewish or of a pagan temple, possibly on the site of the Jewish temple. The former possibility is supported by the fact that what Barnabas is telling us appears to be the fulfillment of Isa 49:17 (surely only to be taken as a reference to Jerusalem, here understood exclusively as the Jewish temple)41 and by the observation that what is described as a “rebuilding,” is best understood as a rebuilding of the original temple.42 Such a hope could be linked to the beginning of the Principate of Nerva when he issued a coin with the legend on it Calumnia fisci judaici sublata, which, in its apparent reversal of harsh Flavian policies against the Jews, connected with the collecting of the Fis2 Clem. 16.4). But the polemical edge of Barnabas, whatever its origins, is marked in relation to these passages (see also Clement, Paed. 3.90.1, which also concerns fasting but without a developed polemical aspect). For a more polemical reference to fasting, which cites Isa 58, see Justin, Dial. 15. 39  See 2.6 and the use of the word ἀνθρωποποίητον, and 11.1 with its accusation that the Jews build for themselves. 40  Γίνεται is omitted by S and H, but witnessed in G and in the Latin translation as fiet. Retention of γίνεται is supported by its starkly asyndetic quality, which appears to be supported by the presence of other asyndeta in the epistle (see, inter alia, 4.2, 3, 10, 12; 5.6; 6.5; 7.5, 6; 8.2; 9.5, 9; 12.10, 11; and 15.4), by the presence of νῦν, and the indicative of ἀνοικοδομήσουσιν, which unlike the subjunctive form of the same verb in Sinaiticus (ἀνοικοδομήσωσιν), points to the fact that a definite decision has been made. Also 16.5c with its use of ἐγένετο and its reference to a fulfillment of the prophecy would point in this direction. For some of these arguments see Prostmeier, Barnabasbrief, 503. If γίνεται is secondary, it constitutes either a scribal gloss (this might make sense of its asyndetic character), which has, over time, found its way into the text, or an actual addition made by a scribe writing at a time when it was thought that the passage (Isa 49:17), as quoted by Barnabas at 16.3, was being fulfilled. 41 W. Horbury, Jewish Revolts under Trajan and Hadrian (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming), suggests that an interpretation of Isa 49:17 as referring to a rebuilding of the city of Jerusalem was widely disseminated, a fact implied by the LXX translation of the Hebrew (the latter reads: “Your builders outdo your destroyers and those who lay you waste, go out from you”; the former: “Quickly shalt thou be built by those by whom you were destroyed” [καὶ ταχὺ οἰκοδομηθήσῃ ὑφ᾽ ὧν καθῃρέθης]), and the fact that the Aramaic Targum can be rendered similarly to the LXX to read, “thy destroyers shall quickly build up thy desolation.” Some would argue that Barnabas’ denunciation of the temple as “almost like the pagans” softens the paradoxical understanding of the original biblical text in terms of a pagan rebuilding. 42  In contrast to the verb in the quotation, Barnabas uses “rebuilding” in 16.4.



Barnabas and the Outsiders

187

cus, is thought to have inspired hopes in a rebuilt temple;43 or led to a decision, subsequently reneged upon, to rebuild the temple in the time of Hadrian.44 The second interpretation, that it refers to the building of a pagan temple in Jerusalem, can only be connected with Hadrian and his decision, taken probably before the outbreak of the Bar Kokhba revolt, and carried out subsequently, to refound Jerusalem as a veterans’ city with the name Aelia Capitolina, a foundation which included the building of a temple dedicated to Zeus, possibly on the site of the Jerusalem temple.45 This thesis is supported by the observation that there is more secure evidence for the building of the temple of Zeus in the new city of Aelia than there is for the claim that permission was given for a rebuilding of the destroyed Jewish temple (and then withdrawn);46 that the claim at 16.2 that “their hope is in vain” and the immediate citation of Isa 49:17 would seem to make an 43  See M. B. Shukster and P. Richardson, ‘Barnabas, Nerva, and the Yavnean Rabbis’, in JThS 35 (1983), 31–55, who argue for the view that the legend referred to a decision to abandon the fiscus tax (see M. Goodman, Mission and Conversion: Proselytizing in the Religious History of the Roman Empire [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994], 122–4, for a similar reading), and so generated hopes in a rebuilding of the temple. They also suggest that the reference to the “little horn” in Barn. 4.3–5 fits Nerva best. See Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 9–28, for an endorsement of this view, emphasizing in particular the way in which the other locus classicus for dating the epistle, 4.3–5 with its reference to a sequence of horns followed by a little excrescence (παραφυάδιον), best suits a Nervan date. The major difficulty with this solution lies in placing so much importance on the implications of the coin legend of Nerva, whose interpretation and whose effect are not easily established (for a recent discussion and different understanding of the legend, see M. Heemstra, The Fiscus Judaicus and the Parting of the Ways, WUNT 2.277 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010], 67–84). Horbury, Revolts (forthcoming), thinks that reference in a well-known rabbinic source to Lulianus and Pappus setting up tables in Acco in Ber. Rab. 64.10 (“In the days of Joshus ben Hananiah, the empire decreed that the house of the sanctuary should be rebuilt. Pappus and Lulianus set up banks from Acco to Antioch, and supplied those who came up from the Exile …”), is best taken as a reference to events accompanying the end of Nerva’s and the beginning of Trajan’s reign. 44  See the passage referred to in the previous footnote, Ber. Rab. 64.10. After the reference to Lulianus and Pappus, Joshua is depicted as calming the Jews in Beth Rimmon, who become angered by the withdrawal of permission to rebuild the temple by an anonymous emperor. Joshua is attested as killed under Trajan but the story referred to above mentions Beth Rimmon, associated with the Bar Kokhba revolt under Hadrian and said to be a place associated with the slaughter of the Jews by that emperor. Horbury in the end opts for the view that the midrash comes from the time of Trajan. See Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 22–3, for a summary of the difficulties related to this passage. 45  On this see Dio Cassius, Hist. 69.12; and Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 4.6.4. For the view that the author may refer to other events supposedly associated with the outbreak of the Bar Kokhba revolt, see D. R. Schwartz, ‘On Barnabas and Bar-Kokhba’, in Idem, Studies in the Jewish Background of Christianity, WUNT 1.60 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), 147–53, who claims that Barnabas’ use of καταργέω at 9.4 refers to Hadrian’s apparent ban on circumcision, recorded in the Historia Augusta, Hadrian 14.2 (he holds the use of the same verb at 2.6 and 16.2 to confirm an interpretation of 16.3–4 as implying the building of a pagan temple). But there is no hint in the chapter of a current event, which serves to confirm prophecies from long ago (see Barn. 9.1–3). On this see Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 29. 46  But we should note the absence of any reference to such a temple in a number of important Christian sources on Aelia (Epiphanius, Mens et Pond. 14.2; and the seventh-century

188

James Carleton Paget

interpretation of the latter passage in terms of a rebuilt Jewish temple strained;47 and that 16.5, with its reference to the apparent handing over of the city, the temple and the people of God, comports more easily with the background of the building of a pagan temple.48 In the context of the present discussion, I am not interested in adjudicating between these solutions. My real interest lies in observing that both solutions seem to suffer from the apparently matter-of-fact, unglossed way in which the passage refers to events in Jerusalem, what one commentator has described as its “notoriously brief ” character.49 So if the Jerusalem temple is being rebuilt, why is this issue not discussed at greater length?50 Here efforts have been made to show how a careful reading of the epistle reveals that the temple is more of an issue than some have thought and evidence can be adduced in support of this view, though not all of it is wholly convincing;51 and advocates of such a thesis usually, though not always,52 go on to argue that the epistle is a kind of response to a reenergized Judaism, which may have looked attractive to Christians, but the problem of brevity may simply be accentuated if this is true.53 If the passage refers to a pagan temple the same problem remains, that is, of brevity, for the author does not exploit the polemical value such a decision would surely have had for him, as seen in Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho, where the consequences of the building of Aelia are accorded great importance.54 It should, however, be noted, that Justin is writing some years after the revolt, and so able to absorb Chronicon Paschale), as well as the absence of any archaeological confirmation of the building of such a temple. 47  Much here depends on how one understands the μάταια ἡ ἐλπίς (should it be understood as “their hope is in vain” or “was in vain”), the nature of the hope being criticized (is it the hope that God dwells in buildings or a hope for a rebuilding?), and whether one reads the strange and typically Barnabaean connective πέρας γέ τοι as following on logically from the previous sentence or being a rather uncomfortable addition, not obviously linked to what precedes it. 48  More recent supporters of this well-established view are Hvalvik, Struggle, 18–23; and Rhodes, Barnabas, 75–80. 49 See Hvalvik, Struggle, 23 f.; Rhodes, Barnabas, 83. 50 See Rhodes, Barnabas, 83. 51  The evidence is summarized in Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 66–8, largely reflecting the arguments of M. B. Shukster and P. Richardson, ‘Temple and Bet-ha-Midrash in the Epistle of Barnabas’, in S. G. Wilson (ed.), Anti-Judaism in early Christianity, II: Separation and Polemic (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier, 1986), 17–32. Rhodes, Barnabas, 35–87, argues for an ongoing interest in the temple on the part of Barnabas, but for his own distinctive reasons (on which see below). For skepticism on this point see Hvalvik, Struggle, 24. 52  Rhodes is an exception. 53 For an early presentation of this interpretation see Lowy, ‘Confutation’. Also see ­Horbury, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations’. Hvalvik, Struggle, 25, rejects any attempt to give the text a specific setting, including the temple issue, noting that there are almost no indications in the epistle of such a context. See below and our discussion of Rhodes for a different understanding of the implications of this event for the author. 54 Justin, Dial. 9.3; 16.2; 92.2; 114.5; 133. Lieu, Image, 121–3, brings out the sense of the immediacy of the revolt and its consequences both for Justin and his Jewish interlocutor.



Barnabas and the Outsiders

189

its implications in a way Barnabas, writing perhaps at its outbreak, or near it, is not.55 But the point here may be that the brevity of the reference arises from the fact that Barnabas stands at a distance from Judaism and so from the events, however significant, associated with its history, even its contemporary history, and so he can, almost in passing, refer to the events implied in chapter 16.56 How, then, should the ethical thrust of the epistle be accounted for in an interpretation which seeks to take seriously polemic against the Jews? After all, Barnabas is a text filled with calls to seek, learn, or do what God commands (see 2.1, 9; 4.1; 10.11; 21.1, 4, 5, 6, 8). The words for commandment (ἐντολή) and prescription (δικαίωμα) occur 8 and 10 times respectively, words which conventionally refer to the commandments of the Torah; and the call to do such commands cannot be seen as tangential to the epistle (see 2.1; 4.1; and 21.157). It is in this context that we should consider James Rhodes’ original interpretation of the epistle which plays up its ethical thrust and seeks to argue for the view that Barnabas’ principal concern with Israel lies in its past failings and present demise, used as an example to warn Christians against a sense of complacency. Rhodes’ thesis is supported by an interpretation of chapter 4 as an explicit attack upon possible Christian complacency, which, as we have seen, is supported by an emendation of 4.6b,58 an emphasis on what he terms the nomistic thrust of Barnabas’ language, its reflection of Deuteronomistic themes (these were popular, he maintains, in broadly contemporary Jewish writers),59 and the importance for the epistle and its author of the Two Ways tradition.60 Rhodes also highlights Barnabas’ use of Israel as a term for the Jews, arguing that this carries with it concerns with the biblical past (rather than with contemporary Jews – the word Jew is not used by Barnabas, as we have pointed out) with which Barnabas is much concerned.61 This is clear in the interest the author shows in the golden calf in55  Prostmeier, Barnabasbrief, 117–18, hints at this point, dating Barnabas just before the outbreak of the revolt, when Hadrian had made the decision to rebuild Aelia, but before the Jews had taken up arms, here following Dio’s, rather than Eusebius’ chronology. 56  Rhodes, Barnabas, 82, argues that Barnabas’ interest in things coming to pass (1.7) is reflected precisely in his reference to the present reality of the temple issue in 16.4–5, implying a real concern with the event. It is possible, as some have argued, that 16.3–4 is an addition to the original text in the light of received intelligence, and this explains its brief mention. 57 See Rhodes, Barnabas, 89. 58  See above. 59  Rhodes highlights the importance for Barnabas of the covenant, and within this wider setting, his emphasis on obeying the commandments, on the idea of the fear of God, and on retribution and reward. Rhodes also notes that Barnabas’ critique of the Jews picks up on motifs used by the Deuteronomist in his critique of Israel such as listening to the word of God, spiritual circumcision and persecution of the prophets. As Rhodes notes: “Barnabas’ nomistic mind-set and his emphasis on the consequences of obedience and disobedience place him in fundamental sympathy with the exhortations of Deuteronomy” (Rhodes, Barnabas, 104). 60  Rhodes, Barnabas, 88–112; and J. N. Rhodes, ‘The Two Ways Tradition in the Epistle of Barnabas: Revisiting an Old Question’, in CBQ 73 (2011), 797–816. 61  See 4.14; 5.2, 8; 6.7; 8.1, 3; 9.2 (here as part of a quotation); 12.2, 5; 16.5. The term is not

190

James Carleton Paget

cident, taken by Rhodes as a paradigmatic event portraying Israel’s disobedience to God rather than the endpoint of the covenant,62 but elsewhere, too. So while Barnabas’ account in chapter 12 of Moses stretching out his hand constitutes a prophetic type of the crucifixion, it also conjures up images of the unbelieving generation of Jews in the wilderness period, whose behaviour could be compared with that of contemporary Jews and so act as a warning to Christians.63 In such a view Jewish history becomes an abortive period in salvation history and the Jews are culpable for their failure, which reaches a climax in their killing of Christ. It follows that Barnabas’ polemic about the Jews can be attributed to a “‘christianized deuteronomism’ in which the people of Israel serve as a tragic paradigm of those whose faith ultimately proved not to be salvific,”64 a view which contrasts strikingly with those who would talk about Barnabas as written against the background of a re-energized Judaism. And so, according to Rhodes, “he (Barnabas) did not write to raise a triumphal cry (against the Jews); he wrote to spare his spiritual sons and daughters a similar fate.”65 In seeking a context for the epistle, Rhodes supports the view that it is written against the background of the rebuilding of Jerusalem as Aelia Capitolina, this disastrous event in Jewish history causing the author to reflect upon the demise of the Jews.66 Such reflection leads both to the confirmation of views that Rhodes argues the author already held about what constituted the righteous requirements of God (these lay in moral virtues, and not ritual prescriptions)67 and to an exposition of the lessons of Jewish failure for the Christians.68

always used to refer to Israel’s past (e. g. at 5.2, 8; 6.7; 8.1; 16.5). The Latin translator (L) might be seen to hint at a non-biblical understanding of the term in his translation of it as populus Iudaeorum. 62  Rhodes, Barnabas, 1–10. 63  Ibid., 112. 64  Rhodes, ‘Exegetical Implications’, 381. 65  Rhodes, Barnabas, 205. 66  Rhodes supports this observation by noting that at 1.7 Barnabas suggests that certain events find their meaning in the light of prophecy and that they are of such a character that they ought to inspire fear. By drawing out parallels between 1.7 and 16.5, he believes that he is able to show that the events concerned relate to the temple. See Rhodes, Barnabas, 81 f. and 197. 67 See Rhodes, ‘Two Ways’, 815, here at the end of a developed argument about the history of the Two Ways tradition and what Barnabas’ use of it in his epistle might imply. “The failure of the Second Jewish Revolt confirms much of what the author already believes. The righteous requirements of God have far more to do with moral virtues than ritual actions. The temple, sacrifices – and now even circumcision [here he follows Schwartz’s probably faulty interpretation of 9.4 as a reference to an assumed Hadrianic ban on circumcision] – have been brought to an end, proving once and for all that God never desired such things. Israel lies abandoned, having forfeited its claims to God’s covenant.” 68  Rhodes, as we have indicated above, assumes the temple to play a greater role in the epistle than some think. See Rhodes, Barnabas, 33–112.



Barnabas and the Outsiders

191

Rhodes’ interpretation of the epistle, which seeks to take account of both Barnabas’ anti-Jewish polemic and his ethical emphasis,69 has much to commend it but as a hold-all interpretation of the epistle, it fails to convince. The negative image of the Jew is not, I would contend, solely used to warn Christians against ethical error, against sins which may preclude the latter from salvation at the end time, though it may, I accept, play that role in 4.11 f.70 It is also used to show that Jews are not what they might claim to be – the legitimate possessors of the covenant, the right interpreters of the Mosaic law and possibly even the legitimate rejectors of Christ. Barnabas’ comments on these issues are often made without any reference to ethics, or without any attempt to draw ethical messages from Jewish failure. In fact chapter 14, which repeats in large part the contents of 4.8 f., in which Barnabas reports the incident of the golden calf and its consequences, does not warn Christians, through the example of the Jews, that the former might lose their covenant. On the contrary, he affirms Christian ownership of the covenant, just as he had affirmed in the previous chapter their status as the people of God.71 It is supersession rather than any moral lesson that he is keen to convey. But if we are unconvinced by Rhodes’s explanation, how might we make sense of Barnabas’ ethical concerns against the background of his apparent anti-Jewish polemic? As we shall show, Barnabas is a conservative thinker seeking to interpret the law in the right way: a call not to adhere to a literal interpretation of a command as found in scripture is the negative side of a call to act according to the true meaning of that command. As Barnabas writes in his conclusion to chapters 9 and 10: “But how was it possible for them to know or comprehend these things? But having a righteous understanding (δικαίως νοήσαντες), we announce the commandments (τὰς ἐντολάς) as the Lord wished” (10.12).72 Such an ethical thrust, often conveyed through the use of words for commandment, which are conventionally associated with the Jewish Torah, words like ἐντολή and δικαίωμα, would be consistent, too, with the covenantal / Deuteronomistic thrust of the epistle. Here we can affirm a tendency in the epistle, emphasized by Rhodes, but without seeing it as incompatible with the anti-Jewish thrust of the epistle. There is a related point, too. In his Dialogue with Trypho, Justin makes 69  Rhodes correctly observes that too often these two emphases have not been sufficiently accounted for in interpretations of the epistle, a point best seen in the way in which the Two Ways section of the epistle is rarely discussed in relation to the author’s purpose. See Rhodes, ‘Two Ways’, 799–800. 70  Note also 6.19 and 15.6, where Barnabas hints at the importance of enduring to the end. For the importance of this as a theme in Barnabas, see P. F. Beatrice, ‘Une citation de l’évan­ gile de Matthieu dans l’Épître de Barnabé’, in J. M. Sevrin (ed.), The New Testament in the Early Church, BETL 86 (Leuven: Peeters, 1989), 231–45. 71  For the importance of the issue of ethnic identity for Barnabas, see most recently Kok, ‘True Covenant’. 72 See Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 62.

192

James Carleton Paget

Trypho say that the Christians do not follow the commandments of God, and in these he includes circumcision, Sabbaths and observances of feasts (see Dial. 10.3; cf. also 8.4). The author of Barnabas might be seen to be responding to such a view of Christianity as anti-nomian, or sitting lightly by the laws. Precisely an emphasis on ethics, inter alia, could be seen to be a response to such a criticism.73 Christians are, according to Barnabas, the right interpreters of God’s ordinances, and this in spite of the fact that they do not interpret them like the Jews. There is still the question of the opening and final chapters of the epistle and the absence of any reference in them to the Jews, and, at least explicitly, to anything polemical. In part, of course, we should note what has already been said about “perfect knowledge” in 1.5, and its evident reference to scripture, as implied by 1.7, in many ways the central issue in the epistle; and the fact that 1.7 refers to us (ἡμῖν) in a text where “we” are arraigned against a nefarious “they”; and the importance in 21 of references to knowledge of God’s commandments, and the need to be good lawgivers to themselves (21.5), all pertinent in a text taken up with the right interpretation of such laws. Similarly, we should note the reference to a greater and deeper offering in 1.8, with its implied sense, consistent with the reference to “perfect knowledge” (τελείαν … τὴν γνῶσιν), that improvement of understanding is possible.74 We should also be clear that just as Paul, when writing his letter to the Romans, begins with an exordium that barely hints at some of the polemic which will follow, so Barnabas does the same. This does not mean that the polemical centre of the letter is denuded of its significance. Finally, while it is probable that Barnabas has used sources, I think it is important to note that (a) he has cited the sources he has, that is, these sources must have been thought to have some relevance to the situation he was addressing; and (b) a good case can be made for seeing Barnabas as a genuine user of these sources, as someone who has added things to them, and combined different strands of tradition, to produce a distinctive theological position. It is this point that I want to develop in the final part of this piece as I seek to show how Barnabas portrays the Jews as outsiders.

III. Barnabas’ Perspective: The Jew as Outsider We have noted the centrality of the Old Testament to Barnabas and in this context of the importance to him both of the interpretation of the law and of such concepts as the covenant, the cross and baptism. It is in discussion of these matters, together with the subject of Christ’s death, that Jews, though never explicitly named as such, become prominent. Before going on to outline the way 73 See Hvalvik, Struggle, 99–100; and Horbury, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations’, 135–6. 74 

See on this Hvalvik, Struggle, 167–71 and 201–3.



Barnabas and the Outsiders

193

in which Barnabas describes the Jews, it is worth noting the distinctive views Barnabas holds on these broadly scriptural matters. For him there is one law, the law given by Moses, and that law, if interpreted correctly (that is, non-literally) is in and of itself perfect. Not for him a view that argues that the original Mosaic law, in particular the so-called second law, or deuterosis, given after the worship of the golden calf, was somehow flawed or problematic, a concession to Jewish hard-heartedness, and brought to an end by the arrival of Christ. Barnabas, in contrast to this position, of which he may betray some knowledge,75 affirms the Mosaic law in its entirety, even at one point declaring the excellence of Moses’ legislation. Consistent with this Barnabas almost never links Christ to the fate of the law, or indicates that he is the bringer of a new law or a law of Christ. True, the law, like the whole of scripture, is correctly interpreted by those who are Christians, who have had the gift of understanding implanted in them (6.10; 9.9), and this is ultimately linked to the activity of Christ (4.9; 14.4), but the fate of the law is never linked to Christ. An extension of Barnabas’ position on the law is found in his conviction that there is just one covenant, given by Moses at Sinai, lost at that point by the Jews and then, through Christ’s death, given to the Christians. Linked to this is Barnabas’ understanding of typology.76 Here the sense of historical continuity, found in the fact that an event in the past in its own right has a relationship, albeit a subservient one, to one in the future, seems almost muffled to the point of extinction. Rather what we have is a set of correspondences in which any sense of the historical validity of the type has disappeared, and in which Jewish history and practices have their only meaning in Christian assertion (see 12.2 and 5).77 For Barnabas there is a comprehensiveness to the contents of scripture and those contents are comprehensively Christian to

75 See Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 106–7, esp. n. 25, where an attempt is made to show that the reference to the law as “a yoke of necessity (ζυγοῦ ἀνάγκης)” in 2.6, may betray knowledge of traditions in the admittedly later Didascalia in which sacrifices imposed after the giving of the golden calf is referred to as “necessary” (imposuit necessitatem). The idea that the law, given after the golden calf incident, is a yoke is also in Irenaeus, Haer. 4.15.1. See Horbury, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations’, 144, for Barnabas’ possible knowledge of the two-law schema, and the view that it is the second law that Barnabas assumes to be the right law misunderstood by the Jews. See also J. Loman, ‘The Letter of Barnabas in Early Second-Century Egypt’, in A. Hilhorst and G. van Kooten (eds.), The Wisdom of Egypt: Jewish, Early Christian, and Gnostic Essays in Honour of Gerard P. Luttikhuizen, AGJU 59 (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 247–65, 258. 76  See 6.11; 7.3, 7, 10, 11; 8.1; 12.2, 5, 6, 10; 13.5; 16.5. 77  Note especially Barnabas’ claim that Moses stretches out his hands when the Amalekites are attacking the Israelites in order that he should make a type of the cross and of the one who was about to suffer, that they might realize that if they did not believe in him, they would be attacked forever. See the comments in Prostmeier, ‘Polemik’, 48: “In Barn 12 wird nun gezeigt, dass nicht nur das, was Mose geboten hat [see ch. 10], pneumatischen Hintersinn besitzt, sondern ebenso alles, was er tat.” The sole referent point of Moses’ actions is Christ and all Jewish hopes are absorbed into that event.

194

James Carleton Paget

such an extent that Jewish history is not divine history except and insofar as it looks forward to Christian phenomena.78 This view, which Barnabas carries through with a not always sustainable logic,79 was not one he had inherited. There are too many indications of knowledge on his part of what we think of as a more conventional two-covenant scheme of salvation history.80 So, for instance, when at 2.6 Barnabas states that “he nullified things that the new law of our Lord Jesus Christ, which is without the yoke of compulsion, should provide an offering not made with human hands,” he betrays a sense that there was an old law, which can be characterized in ways witnessed elsewhere in writers with a two-covenant view.81 Similarly, when he speaks 78 See Prostmeier, ‘Polemik’, 55.

79  Rhodes, Barnabas, 5 f., shows up the forced logic of Barnabas’ view that Jews lost the covenant at the incident of the golden calf. In his opinion it contradicts evidence in Barnabas that God goes on dealing with Israel after the incident, seen in his citation of the prophets, in his use of typological predictions of the coming of Christ from incidents after the golden calf story as well as allegorical interpretations of passages from the same period. Most importantly there is evidence that Barnabas held that Jewish sin reached its full measure with the rejection of Jesus (see 5.11; 8.1; 14.5), possibly implying that loss of the covenant came then. Rhodes cannot believe that Barnabas could have been so illogical and sees his account of the golden calf in 4 and 14 as rhetorical hyperbole in which the incident is of paradigmatic significance, in the way that acts of disobedience performed by Israel were seen in this way by the Deuteronomist, indicating the complete failure of Israel to understand the commandments of God. But while Rhodes makes good points about the strained logic of Barnabas, it is difficult to read the relevant passages in 4 and 14 as no more than rhetorical hyperbole. 80  Moll, Marcion, 142, questions the extent to which Barnabas’ one covenant view would have been “unusual” (here quoting Hvalvik, Struggle, 92). He argues that there is little evidence for a two covenant position before Barnabas, dismissing Pauline evidence (2 Cor 3:6 f.) and that from Hebrews as too early to be of importance, and that from Justin and Irenaeus, the other witnesses to a two covenant theology cited by Hvalvik, as too late. Moll goes on to note that neither Ignatius nor the writer of 1 Clement have “a reflective distinction between two different covenants/testaments,” pointing out that both writers take for granted the idea that the Old Testament is a Christian book, adding that there is little sign of the two-covenant theology in Hermas either. “Therefore,” he concludes, “Barnabas is by no means the isolated instance we occasionally see him as, but may on the contrary and with good reason be called a man of his times” (Moll, Marcion, 143). Moll’s argument has some strong points – I agree, for instance, that it is difficult to discern an explicit two-covenant theology in 1 Clement or Ignatius. But should Moll be allowed to dismiss evidence from the New Testament, especially evidence from Hebrews, which seems to come from a similar theological milieu to Barnabas (see Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 214–25) as too early, or that from Justin and Irenaeus as too late, especially when we consider the fact that both authors could have been using sources? Also we could add Melito, Peri Pascha, to the witnesses to a two-covenant schema, at least by implication. Moreover, as I have attempted to show, there are signs in Barnabas of knowledge of a two-covenant schema; and conversely, very little evidence, outside Barnabas, of an explicitly one-covenant schema. 81 See Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 105–6, for the way Barnabas understands “new” in the context in which he places the expression. That the term in a mooted original context had the sense of “new” implying “old” is indicated in the odd expression “without yoke of compulsion” which recalls descriptions found in a number of Christian authors of the law before the arrival of Christ, where it appears as a way of curbing Jewish idolatry, manifested in the worship of



Barnabas and the Outsiders

195

of “the former people” as he does in 13.1, he hints at knowledge of the same schema, which appears to create confusion because the purport of the chapter with its use of Gen 48 and 25 respectively, with their accounts of the choice of Ephraim over Manasseh, and Jacob over Esau, is heavily based upon an idea of chronological precedence, meaning that when Barnabas describes the Christians as “first” (πρῶτος) at 13.6 the term should not be understood qualitatively, as would appear to be the case because of the use of the same word to describe Jews at 13.1, but rather chronologically.82 Order might be restored if we see Barnabas as combining sources in a slightly inept way.83 Moreover, it can be shown that insofar as we have evidence of Barnabas’ use of pre-existing collections of testimonia, those testimonia are often found in collections supporting a two-covenant view. Finally, and related to what we have written above, it is possible to show that Barnabas’ argument in favour of his particular position is constructed from collections of material, whose original context was different from the one in which they find themselves in the epistle.84 What has caused Barnabas to argue the case he has, to begin to form a somewhat flat, highly conservative, view of scripture in terms of its unitary Christian truth, which excludes any sense of revelatory progression? I doubt that it is the result of a kind of academic debate among Christians about the character of salvation history, as has been suggested, the defence of extreme scripturalism in the face of something different.85 It may be more easily explained as the result of a the golden calf. This view is expressed in Justin and Irenaeus, but comes out most clearly in the Didascalia. On this see Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 106–7, esp. n. 25. 82  See also Barnabas’ reference to the Christians as “a new people” (5.7; 7.5 [τὸν λαὸν τὸν καινόν]); a people to come (13.5 [τοῦ λαοῦ τοῦ μεταξύ]), and “a people whom he has prepared in his beloved” (3.6 [ὁ λαός ἐτοίμασεν]), implying a more conventional salvation history. 83  It is possible that Barnabas’ reference to Abraham at 13.7 betrays knowledge of Rom 4, where at 4:12 Paul affirms the partial inheritance of Israel. This might suggest that in the original source, it was assumed that Israel was first chronologically and then succeeded by the church. On this see J. Carleton Paget, ‘The Epistle of Barnabas and the Writings that Later Formed the New Testament’, in A. F. Gregory and C. M. Tuckett (eds.), The New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers, I: The Reception of the New Testament in the Apostolic Fathers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 240–1. See Rhodes, Barnabas, 109–11, for other examples in Barnabas of an apparently salvation-historical way of thinking. Rather than seeing these as evidence that Barnabas did entertain a salvation-historical view, as Rhodes implies, I see these places as examples of a residue of that view which Barnabas is trying to modify and which he inherits from some of his sources, shards of another perspective. 84 See Barn. 9. Here Barnabas combines well-known interpretations of hearing as circumcising the ears (9.1–3), with a view, probably his own, that the literal command to circumcise was given by an evil angel, with a claim that the only true understanding of circumcision was a spiritual one with a typological interpretation of Abraham’s circumcision. The argumentation is jerky and piecemeal but the point that it seeks to convey is clear. Similar observations can be made about chapter 15. 85  For this see K. Wengst, Schriften des Urchristentums: Didache, Barnabasbrief, Zweiter Klemensbrief, Schriften an Diognet, SUC 2 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1984), 112–14. He draws particular attention to 4.6b (reading “the covenant is theirs and

196

James Carleton Paget

wholesale desire to appropriate scripture in the face of Jewish opposition, or at least those who would claim some sense of continuity, even commonality, with non-Christian Jews, as is implied by 4.6, though understanding what precisely lies behind these elliptical words is, as we have seen, difficult. Whatever the case, Jews emerge from the account very negatively. First, they are avowedly not the people of God, having lost their right to that title through their worship of the golden calf. Their disinherited state becomes clearer still in the fact that their supposed position as the first people is discounted through God’s actions in choosing younger children at significant moments in Israel’s history (chapter 13). Secondly, they are false interpreters of the texts which God gave them. Such misinterpretation manifests itself both in their literalist understanding of distinctive laws given to them such as circumcision, Sabbath, sacrifice, fasts etc.; and in their failure to see that the Scriptures pointed exclusively to Christ (12.7) and the Christian church, an oversight which led them to reject and murder Christ (in essence this failure to understand scripture is linked to their failure to be baptized, for in Barnabas’ scheme the gift of understanding scripture comes exclusively through becoming a Christian86). Such failure to understand the Scriptures is related to the lust of the flesh (10.9), implicitly contrasted with a spiritual and properly gnostic understanding, to a failure to listen to God (8.7; 9.1–3) and to deception, on one occasion associating Jewish understanding of circumcision with the work of an evil angel (9.4; but see also 2.9), and so, potentially, demonizing a central Jewish rite. Given this it becomes possible to see Barnabas’ reference to the deception of the present time in chapter 4 as a reference to Judaism, at least on the basis of an inter-textual reading, and to see the apocalyptic language which saturates his work as bound up with Judaism, at least in part (see 2.10; 4.1 f. etc.). Consistent with this is a developed sense in which all Jewish hopes are rendered void, both by their own history and by Christ’s coming. The latter serves to bring to completion their history of sin and misdeeds, and appropriates to itself all these expectations whether to do with the land, the temple or the future more generally, and a claim which is supported by the great figures of Jewish history, whether Moses, Abraham or David. Scripture, with its comprehensive contents, belongs to the Christians and no one else, its right understanding determined by the fact of one’s Christian identity. Given all of the above, the Jewish fate seems inevitable, and there is little attempt on the part of Barnabas to indicate any kind of future conversion ours” [see n. 26 above for our reading of this text]), 9.6 with its reference to those who claim that circumcision is a seal, and 12.10, arguing that each verse represents a normal Christian two-covenant scheme. But the view is not sustainable. See Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 56–61. 86  See 6.9a; 9.9, 10b; 10.12. Note Prostmeier’s observation: “Der Verfasser und seine Leser sind also aufgrund ihres Christseins nicht nur die vorzüglichsten Hermeneuten … sie sind vielmehr die einzigen, die die Schrift in rechter Weise verstehen kann” (Prostmeier, ‘Polemik’, 42).



Barnabas and the Outsiders

197

for them.87 Jews, a wretched and deceived people, are truly outside,88 and no overt attempt is made either to indicate commonalities of belief, or to convince them of their need to convert, as is the case, for instance, in Justin’s Dialogue. Barnabas’ approach to what might be termed the Jewish-Christian question is uncompromisingly polarized (see 12.3),89 a polarized mentality compatible with his adoption of the Two Ways, and probably informed by it.90

IV. The Actual Place of the Jews in Barnabas’ World But what, then, can be said about the actual place of the Jews in Barnabas’ world? What is the reality, if any, behind the polemic? Discerning this is very difficult. Unlike Justin, for instance, Barnabas could be seen barely to afford us a glimpse of the realities of Jewish life,91 beyond those referred to in scripture (his reference to fasting in chapter 3 may be exception in this regard but the reference still lacks much specificity), failing, for instance, to mention even the synagogue,92 or Jewish leaders of any kind. The word “Jew,” as noted, does not occur in the text, Barnabas preferring the term “Israel” with its scriptural resonance.93 Arguments as such are not put into Jewish mouths, at least in any detailed form, as they are into the mouth of Trypho and his friends. Moreover, beyond the fact of false interpretation, sometimes associated with the past,94 almost no activity in a discernible present time is imputed to the Jews Barnabas has inscribed on his pages, even the persecution of Christians which Justin, and the writer of the Martyrdom of Polycarp and others impute to them; and their conversionary activity appears at one remove, actions attributable to them but implied, not described, as seen in 87  See 12.3 for a possible exception to this view with its claim that Moses stretched out his hand in the battle with Amalek “so that they might know (γνῶσιν) that they cannot be saved unless they hope on him.” Of course, if Barnabas is addressed to Christians, and does not have non-Christian Jews as a part of its intended audience, a likely hypothesis, then the absence of conversionary sentiments may make sense. 88  Barnabas is not solely interested, like Paul, in arguing for the inclusion of the gentiles among the people of God, but also in arguing, it would seem, for the exclusion of Jews. 89  One might contrast this with a writer like Aristides, or even Justin. 90  The extent of Barnabas’ attachment to the Two Ways is clear from the many places in which “Two Ways” language is used in the parts of his letter not devoted to the discussion of the Two Ways. On this see Rhodes, ‘Two Ways’, 802 f. and 809, and his view that the Two Ways constitutes “the most foundational elements of the author’s theology.” 91  On these complex glimpses, see Lieu, Image, 140–8; and P. Bobichon, Justin Martyr, Dialogue avec Tryphon. Édition critique I, Par. 47 (Fribourg: Academic Press, 2003), 78–100. 92  The word συναγωγή appears in 5.13 and 6.6 but as part of scriptural citations from Ps 22. 93  See n. 20 above and the fact that the term “Israel” is not always used for a group of people in the past, and the fact that L translates the term populus Iudaeorum. 94  In 2.9; 8.7; 9.4; 10.9; and 16.1 f. non-Christian Jews are referred to in the past. In 3.6; 10.12; 15.8; and by implication, 16.1 f., they are referred to in the present.

198

James Carleton Paget

3.6. So there is a strikingly general quality to Barnabas’ image of the Jews, their opinions monochrome, their day-to-day world almost invisible, and their actions in the face of the Christian community not discernible. This observation needs to be balanced by evidence of knowledge of Jewish custom in connection not only with fasts but also the Day of Atonement practice and the ritual of the Red Heifer, and the sharing with Jews of anti-Roman eschatological expectations, as seen in traditions associated with Amalek in chapter 12.95 This latter material need not, of course, indicate proximity to Jews, but rather a knowledge of things Jewish, at whatever remove, but its presence should be accorded some significance in interpreting the letter. If Barnabas was a text written in Alexandria, a view to which the majority of critics would subscribe in spite of the almost complete absence from the text of any clear indication of provenance,96 might what we have described above be expected? Jews as part of the background noise, which had to be taken into account, but not a group which needed to be approached in a rather general manner? Of course, if, as some have argued, Barnabas is written at the time of Hadrian, then it would have been written in an Alexandria or Egypt, which, in the wake of the Trajanic Revolt, probably contained a much depleted population of Jews. In such a situation, knowledge of Jews would have been alive, but their presence would have been less obvious, and while those Barnabas is addressing would have continued to have a strong feeling for Judaism, a sense of its importance and a knowledge of some of its traditions, they would have done so without clear reference to a reality on the ground. Barnabas is a text which betrays strong interest in Jewish practices and scriptural traditions because of its Alexandrian origins, but because of this, too, and in the wake of the Trajanic Revolt, also reflects an anti-Jewish disposition.97 Or is the vagueness best explained by seeing the text, with Reidar Hvalvik, as pertinent to Jewish-Christian relations more generally in the empire in the second century, here relegating micro-contexts to a subsidiary, almost irrelevant, role, and emphasizing a wider context for the epistle in which Jews continued to be emphatically relevant?98 Or should we see Barnabas’ attack upon Jewish inter95 

On this see Horbury, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations’, 145–7. Arguments for an Alexandrian provenance are summarized in Carleton Paget, Barnabas, 30–45. 97  In this volume, and in an attempt to explain the background to the anti-Jewish sentiments of Diognetus, Tobias Nicklas suggests that that text was written in Alexandria in a post-Trajanic setting, arguing that “Biases against Judaism and patterns of anti-Jewish propaganda … often survive even in times where there is no Jewish community at all” (trans. JCP). While such a setting, then, might explain the anti-Jewish propaganda, though in Diognetus it is much less intense and involved than in Barnabas, it may make it more difficult to explain why some Christians would have sought to emphasize their affinity with Jews in the wake of such a catastrophic event in Jewish history and apparent growing dislike of Judaism. 98  Hvalvik, Struggle, 25 and 42. 96 



Barnabas and the Outsiders

199

pretation as an attack upon Christians who would advocate such interpretations in their attempts to persuade individuals to Judaizing positions? In such a view is it not easier to see Jews, then, as relegated to the role of biblical Jews, historical Israel, but little else? Or to see their presence as determined by inner-Christian concerns? So, for instance, if we accept that 4.6b refers to the opinion of some Christians in Barnabas’ community who assert the parity of the Jewish and Christian covenant, however such a belief might have manifested itself, then can we argue that it is strong opposition to this that has led Barnabas to assert the absolute ownership of scripture by the Christians and the uncompromising separation of Jews from Christians?99 But even if this is true, can we understand such an assertion without assuming the presence of a larger Jewish community? And how in this context might the significance of the possible reference Barnabas makes to events surrounding the Bar Kokhba war be understood, particularly as the latter impacted upon the issue of the temple? Can we read the letter through the prism of the excitement that conflict might have caused among Jews and Christians, the latter encouraged, perhaps, to identify with the former?100 Is, for instance, the eschatological tenor of the epistle attributable to such excitement? Or should Barnabas’ passing, unglossed reference to the temple and its rebuilding at 16.3–4 be seen as an indication of the revolt’s distant quality, an irrelevance which may accurately reflect wider Jewish Diasporic response to events in Judea 99  This is the opinion of Prostmeier, ‘Polemik’. For him Barnabas’ attempt to contest the views of those mentioned in 4.6b leads, necessarily and of itself, to the expression of strongly anti-Jewish sentiments. As a result of the fact that the cause of the Christianity he was opposing was supported by a literal understanding of scripture, which he thought the basis of all Jewish error, he likens these opponents to Jews. Prostmeier, however, is never clear what those in 4.6b believe, noting simply “Es besteht also ein Dissens über die Heilsbedeutung Jesu und wie sich zeigt, ebenso über das Verstehen der Schrift,” going on to note that Barnabas sees such individuals, both in their beliefs and their behaviour, as attributing a priority to Jewish practice and dogmatics which relativizes the soteriological significance of the Christ event (Prostmeier, ‘Polemik’, 55); and hinting elsewhere that the opinions of these individuals came close to those of what he terms the ecclesia catholica, without outlining what that might be (he rejects an Ebionitic interpretation of their opinions, though without stating why). Moreover, in his article Prostmeier does not appear to entertain the possibility that proximity to Jews may have lain behind the assertions of Barnabas’ opponents, in spite of the fact, as previously noted, that he sees the opponents, in the view of Barnabas, as possessing Jewish characteristics. 100  For the effect of the Bar Kokhba revolt upon Christians, see Justin 1 Apol. 31.6, which talks about Christians being persecuted for not denying Jesus’ Messiahship, a point possibly confirmed by Apocalypse of Peter 2.8–13 with its strong emphasis upon a false messiah, probably Bar Kokhba; on this see R. Bauckham, ‘Jews and Jewish Christians in the Land of Israel at the Time of the Bar Kochba War, with Special Reference to the Apocalypse of Peter’, in G. N. Stanton and G. Stroumsa (eds.), Tolerance and Intolerance in Early Judaism and Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 228–38. Here, though, the effect of the revolt upon Christians is negative, leading to their persecution, and not to any sense of excitement among them. Hvalvik, Struggle, 25, argues that the absence of much interest in the issue of messianism in Barnabas, not least the messianism of Jesus (see 12.10–11), is striking if the text was written at a time of heightened expectation.

200

James Carleton Paget

in the 130s? Or is his concern to appropriate for the Christians the symbol of the temple (see 16.5 f.) as well as that of the land and covenant understandable in a context in which such subjects were central? Or does all of this make more sense in a setting prior to Hadrian, in which hopes for a rebuilding took root, inspired by Nerva’s perceived positive attitudes to the Jews, a point which might explain the ongoing concern with Jews in pre-Trajanic Alexandria? All of these positions are possible and arguments could be presented to support each of them. Whichever one favors, what is clear is that non-Christian Jews stand in the background of the Epistle of Barnabas, that their presence had to be registered by Barnabas, in a way that it did not for the writers of 1 and 2 Clement, and this in spite of the latter two’s interest in what Christians came to call the Old Testament; and that reference to non-Christian Jews is almost exclusively negative. Anti-Jewish polemic, then, needs to be taken into account in an interpretation of the epistle, however difficult it may be to: (a) arrive at a picture of that community which reflects a recognizable reality rather than a textual construction; and (b) to describe a precise context which best explains this feature of the epistle’s contents and structure.

V. Conclusions (i) Barnabas appears unique among the Apostolic Fathers in that its author takes seriously the idea that Christian readings of the Old Testament contradict very different Jewish readings, and seeks to refute these readings. While Barnabas is clear, then, that these Scriptures conjoin with Christian hopes, he does not, as other Apostolic Fathers do, see such conjunction as unopposed. (ii) It is difficult, in spite of spirited attempts to argue such a case, to see Jews in Barnabas’ epistle as somehow irrelevant to its understanding, no more than foils in a debate taken up with different issues. While it is clear that Barnabas assumes a separation between Jews and Christians, though he does not speak of the matter in such terms, such separation does not seem to render Jewish views irrelevant to the situation he is addressing. The emphatic claim that it is Christians who are the first people, the covenantal people of God, is asserted in such a way as to assume the proximate and indeed rebarbative presence of an alternative view, implying that the separatism of Barnabas has come up against an alternative view affected by the presence of Jews, and perhaps held by Christians, in which there is a less emphatic view of separation. Similar comments could be made about Barnabas’ interaction with Jewish opinion about the right interpretation of the law. The fact that the atmosphere of the epistle is so Jewish is indicative of the origins of Barnabas’ world view, possibly of contact with Jewish opinion, and of its standing in his own community. Moreover, one could argue that the conservatism of his position, which avoids any criticism of the original



Barnabas and the Outsiders

201

law given by Moses, or even a belief in a second and better covenant, reflects a respect for the Torah compatible with proximity to the synagogue, the origins of which can be discerned in known Jewish opinion.101 (iii) Barnabas’ concern with ethical issues is not incompatible with a polemi­ cal reading of his letter. Covenant, ethics and the right interpretation of the law are all interconnected. (iv) It is probable that Barnabas has made creative use of sources in the construction of his distinctive outlook. This one-covenant view stands in contrast to the more widely attested two-covenant view, though Barnabas betrays knowledge of the latter. His own view might, as noted, be deemed radically conservative in its adherence to a positive understanding of the Jewish law and of Jewish symbols and ideas (the conservatism is there in 1 Clement but without any of the anti-Jewish polemic, though it is interesting to speculate how the writer of that text would have handled explicit, Jewish opposition to his ideas) albeit interpreted in a Christian way, further indication of the author’s proximity to Judaism. The appropriation of Jewish symbols is strikingly thorough-going, involving not only well-known laws, like the Sabbath and circumcision, but also the temple and the land. This desire to appropriate biblical symbols and institutions is, of course, not unprecedented but the polemical manner in which Barnabas sets about the task is not witnessed among the other writings of the Apostolic Fathers, or indeed many other Christian writings. (v) The Jews for Barnabas are clearly outsiders, wretched and disinherited people, who have failed to understand the Scriptures and so have killed the person who came as their saviour. Barnabas makes no effort to convince them to become converts to his view of things, at least explicitly – his work has the characteristics of a defensive document more intent upon condemnation of those opposed to his view than persuading them to another. In this context it could be argued that Barnabas’ separatism is opposed to a much more blurred view of Jewish-Christian interaction among those he is addressing. (vi) Discerning the reality of the Jewish presence behind Barnabas’ presentation is impossible – he fails, strikingly, to refer to the realities of their communal life, whether seen in the synagogue, their leadership or their interaction with Christians. In this he differs from Justin, however we understand Justin’s references to the realia of Jewish life. Jews are a reality in the world of Barnabas but that reality is seen entirely in terms of their moral and interpretative failings and is presented monochromatically and in general terms without hinting very much at a quotidian world beyond. Jews are outsiders and nothing else, a distant “other” to the author, but perhaps not to some of those he was addressing.102 101  Horbury, ‘Jewish-Christian Relations’, 150, mentions in this context the radical allegorizers of Philo, Migr. 89–93, who advocate an exclusively allegorical view of the law, which, while not precisely reflecting Barnabas’ stance, has something in common with it. 102  “Nevertheless, an ambivalent reciprocal relationship exists and it produces a double

202

James Carleton Paget

(vii) The fact that alone of the Apostolic Fathers, Barnabas engages in consis­ tent polemic with Jews, and so gives a sense of contestation concerning the Bible and its interpretation, need not indicate that he was an eccentric, or that his concerns were somehow singular. He reflects a complex exegetical heritage at which his epistle hints, of which dispute with Jews was a part, though not everywhere. That other writings associated with the Apostolic Fathers only hint at that background, and almost never in the context of their biblical interpretation, need not be taken to indicate a lack of concern with this subject in their world and its time.

metonymy: othering is meant to prove dissimilarity, but the stringent warnings against adopting Judean praxis is motivated by the fear that ‘we’ were once and could yet become the other” (Kok, ‘True Covenant’, 92).

Identitätsbildung durch Konstruktion der „Anderen“: Die Schrift Ad Diognetum Tobias Nicklas So sehr man über viele Aspekte von Daniel Boyarins bedeutender Studie „Border Lines“1 diskutieren kann, so wichtig erscheint mir doch – unter vielen anderen – der Gedanke, dass die Konstruktion des Gegenübers bzw. Gegners, wie sie etwa in Justins Dialog mit Trypho geschieht, immer wieder von entscheidender Bedeutung für die Konstruktion „christlicher“ Identitäten geworden sein mag. Ähnliche Grenzziehungen zwischen „Juden“ und „Christen“ – ich setze beide Kategorien bewusst in Anführungszeichen, entsprechen sie doch antiken Realitäten nur ansatzweise – lassen sich auch bei einem Autor wie etwa Ignatius von Antiochien beobachten, der etwa in seinem Brief an die Magnesier (Magn. 8 und 10) vielleicht erstmals von „Christentum“ und „Judentum“ als unvereinbaren Gegenübern spricht. Dass die Grenzlinien lange Zeit noch fließend waren sowie zudem an unterschiedlichen Stellen bzw. zwischen verschiedenen Gruppen verlaufen konnten, zeigen andere Texte wie das Judasevangelium, aus dessen Sicht die Großkirche „zu jüdisch“ ist,2 oder Passagen der Pseudoklementinen, für diese offenbar nicht „jüdisch genug“ zu sein scheint.3 Auch die Schrift An Diognet mit ihrer ausführlichen Polemik gegen pagane und jüdische Formen der Gottesverehrung scheint Grenzen zu ziehen, die eine Funktion für die Identität der Angesprochenen erfüllen. Bevor ich mich jedoch der Frage zuwende, welche konkrete Funktion diesen Grenzziehungen zukommen mag, sind einige einleitende Worte angebracht: Trotz ihrer Über1  Vgl. D. Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007); zur Frage der Entwicklung „christlicher Identität(en)“ im Verlaufe des 2. Jahrhunderts vgl. J. M. Lieu, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006²). 2  Vgl. hierzu z. B. die Passagen zur Vision der Jünger auf Codex Tchacos S. 38. 3  Ich denke in diesem Zusammenhang vor allem an die Polemik dieser Texte gegen Paulus und damit gegen ein (zu) paulinisches Christentum. Hierzu vgl. J. Verheyden, ‚The Demonization of the Opponent in Early Christian Literature: The Case of the Pseudo-Clementines‘, in T. L. Hettema, A. van der Kooij und J. A. M. Snoek (Hg.), Religious Polemics in Context. Papers Presented to the Second International Conference of the Leiden Institute for the Study of Religions (LISOR) held at Leiden, 27–28 April 2000, STAR 11 (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2004), 330– 59, oder J. Wehnert, ‚Antipaulinismus in den Pseudoklementinen‘, in T. Nicklas, A. Merkt und J. Verheyden (Hg.), Ancient Perspectives on Paul, NTOA 102 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 170–90.

204

Tobias Nicklas

schrift handelt es sich bei der Schrift An Diognet sicherlich nicht um einen Brief; trotz unverkennbarer apologetischer Elemente4 sollte der Text, der sich an einen gewissen, wenn auch unbekannten Diognet richtet,5 der mehr über die „Gottesverehrung der Christen“ (Diogn. 1.1) erfahren will, mit Horacio Lona am besten als Logos Protreptikos interpretiert werden:6 Der Text möchte seine(n) Adressaten mit der Wahrheit des Christentums vertraut machen, welche von anderen Wahrheitsansprüchen abgegrenzt werden soll. Bereits in seinem Proömium bezeichnet der Text die Christen – diese Bezeichnung wird tatsächlich verwendet – als „neues Genos und neue Lebensweise“ (Diogn. 1.1d) und grenzt sie so von Griechen und Juden ab. Dabei werden diese drei Gruppen nie als auf gleicher Ebene stehend angesehen, für Diogn. repräsentieren sie vielmehr verschiedene Ebenen der Gottesverehrung.7 So spricht der Autor zwar im Zusammenhang mit dem Christentum von einer θεοσέβεια (Diogn. 1.1), bezeichnet das Juden4  Zur Diskussion des Begriffs „Apologetik“ bzw. „Apologeten“ vgl. z. B. A.-C. Jacobsen, ‚Apologetics and Apologies – Some Definitions‘, in A.-C. Jacobsen, J. Ulrich und M. Kahlos (Hg.), Continuity and Discontinuity in Early Christian Apologetics, Early Christianity in the Context of Antiquity 5 (Frankfurt am Main: P. Lang, 2009), 5–21. – Dies wiederum heißt natürlich nicht, dass Diogn. keinerlei Bezug zu apologetischer Literatur aufweise. Vielmehr wurde der Text von einer Vielzahl von Autoren als Apologie eingeordnet. Vgl. hierzu z. B. P. Foster, ‚The Epistle to Diognetus‘, in Idem (Hg.), The Writings of the Apostolic Fathers (London / New York: T&T Clark, 2007), 147–56, bes. 149–50, C. N. Jefford, The Apostolic Fathers and the New Testament (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2006), 203 („the only true apology preserved among the Apostolic fathers“), oder M. W. Holmes, The Apostolic Fathers. Greek Texts and English Translations (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2007³), 686–7. 5  Für eine Übersicht bisheriger Versuche, den im Text angesprochenen Diognet zu identifizieren, vgl. H. E. Lona, An Diognet, KFA 8 (Freiburg: Herder, 2001), 62, welcher schreibt: „Die Versuche, Diognet mit einer historischen Person zu identifizieren, konzentrieren sich auf zwei Gestalten. Die erste und am häufigsten erwähnte ist Diognet, der Lehrer des Kaisers Mark Aurel … Die zweite … ist der Prokurator Claudios Diognetus unter Septimius Severus, der als Hohepriester Ägyptens, d. h. als Verwalter der Güter der heidnischen Priester und Tempel tätig war. Wenn die Schrift an Diognet im alexandrinischen Raum entstanden ist, würde dies zeitlich und räumlich gut zur Person des Claudius Diognetus passen. Beide Hypothesen können für sich eine gewisse Plausibilität beanspruchen, einen überzeugenden Beweis gibt es für keine von beiden. Dass Diognet als Eigenname gebraucht wird, schließt die Möglichkeit eines fiktiven Adressaten nicht aus.“ – Für eine ausführlicher Auseinandersetzung mit der zweiten von Lona genannten Möglichkeit siehe v. a. H.-I. Marrou, A Diognète: Introduction, édition critique, traduction et commentaire, SC 33 (Paris: Cerf, 1965²), 265–8; knapper auch Jefford, Apostolic Fathers, 36. 6 Vgl. Lona, Diognet, 23–4; vgl. auch E. Norelli, A Diogneto (Milano: Edizione Paolino, 1991), 27–41; K. Wengst, Schriften des Urchristentums: Didache, Barnabasbrief, Zweiter Klemensbrief, Schriften an Diognet, SUC 2 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1984), 281–348, bes. 293, wo er Diogn. als „apologetisch-protreptisches Schreiben …, wobei das protreptische Element den stärkeren Akzent hat,“ beschreibt. 7 M. Rizzi, ‚Ad Diognetum 2–4: Polemics and Politics‘, in G. Aragione, E. Norelli und F. Nuvolone (Hg.), A Diognète: Visions chrétiennes face à l’empire romain. Actes de la journée d’étude du GSEP du 24 novembre 2007 (Prahins/CH: Éditions du Zèbre, 2012), 79–89, bes. 88–9, betont zu Recht, dass es Diogn. nicht darum geht, das Christentum neben anderen Kulten zu etablieren; diese sollen vielmehr verdrängt werden.



Identitätsbildung durch Konstruktion der „Anderen“ in Ad Diognetum

205

tum jedoch als δεισιδαιμονία, d. h. „Aberglauben“ (Diogn. 1.1 und 4.1). Pagane Gottesverehrung schließlich wird als λατρεία, d. h. Gottesdienst (Diogn. 3.2), bezeichnet, in diesem Zusammenhang jedoch nie der Begriff θεοσέβεια verwendet. Und auch wenn Juden nur einen Gott verehren (θεὸν … σέβειν; Diogn. 3.2), wird ihre Art der Gottesverehrung als sündig verstanden.8 So sehr Diogn. also an der Konstruktion einer attraktiven „christlichen“ Identität interessiert ist, so sehr beschäftigt er sich in (mehr als) drei Kapiteln seiner Schrift mit der Beschreibung anderer Wege der Gottesverehrung, die er jedoch als dem Christentum klar unterlegen versteht. Vor diesem Hintergrund stellen sich die folgenden konkreten Fragen: Worin besteht die konkrete Funktion der Gegnerpolemik in der Schrift Ad Diognetum? Für welche Gruppen soll sie attraktiv wirken und was erzählt sie uns über die christliche(n) Gemeinde(n) hinter diesem Text?

I.  Die Darstellung paganer Gottesverehrung Während Diogn. 1 von den Christen als „neuem Genos“ mit einer neuen Art der Lebensführung gesprochen hat, verspricht Diogn. 2 seinem bzw. seinen Adressaten als Anhänger eines „neuen Logos“ zu „neuen Menschen“ zu werden (καινὸς ἄνθρωπος, Diogn. 2.1). Das Wort καινός wird in den Kapiteln 1–2 so geradezu zu einem Leitmotiv des Textes, ja zum entscheidenden Attribut von allem, was das Christentum ausmacht. Dies ist durchaus überraschend, weil riskant, gilt in antikem Denken doch bekanntlich üblicherweise das Alter eines Kults als wichtiges Kriterium seines Wahrheitsanspruchs. Dem Gedanken der Neuheit der christlichen Form der θεοσέβεια9 – der Begriff dürfte bereits für christliche Ansprüche auf universale Anerkennung stehen – steht die Idee christlicher φιλοστοργία 8  Der Text spricht von jüdischer θρησκεία (3.2). Dieser Begriff wird in der LXX normalerweise von Nichtjuden verwendet, die sich in negativer Weise über das Judentum äußern (4 Makk 5:7, 13), bzw. von Juden, die die Verehrung von Götterbildern beschreiben, wie dies etwa in Weish 14:17, 27 der Fall ist. Die Verwendung bei Diogn. ist jedoch neutral, da das θρησκεύω auch bei der Beschreibung christlicher Gottesverehrung Verwendung findet (Diogn. 1.1). 9  F. R. Prostmeier, ‚„Zeig mir deinen Gott!“ Einführung in das Christentum für Eliten‘, in Idem (Hg.), Frühchristentum und Kultur, KFA 2 (Freiburg: Herder, 2007), 155–82, bes. 156–7, bietet eine Übersicht über die Verwendung dieses Terminus, der ansonsten in christlicher Literatur des 2. Jahrhunderts nur selten begegnet. Er schreibt: „θεοσέβεια [meint] bei Theophilos wie in Diog 1,1a ‚die Religion‘ nicht das fromme Verhalten … Entsprechend diesem Sprachgebrauch, der wohl schon in 1Tim 2,10 durchscheint, beansprucht Theophilos mittels des Begriffes θεοσέβεια für das Christentum, die ‚wahre Religion‘ zu sein. … Die erste und grundlegende Erkenntnis, die Gebildete über das Christentum erlangen müssen, ist ihr Anspruch, die wahre θεοσέβεια zu sein. Das Christentum ist kein Kult neben anderen Kulten, es ist nicht nur eine Frömmigkeitsform, sondern eine Religion mit universalem Anspruch. … Die christliche Religion beansprucht für sich, die theologische Wahrheit hinsichtlich der Vorstellung von Gott, Welt, Mensch und Geschichte zu besitzen, und es verlangt ein mit der christlichen Lehre kongruentes Handeln, das sich im gesamten Lebenswandel zeigt.“

206

Tobias Nicklas

(Diogn. 1.1) an der Seite, ein Terminus, der üblicherweise die Liebe der Mitglieder einer Familie zueinander ausdrückt.10 Die Beschreibung bisheriger Formen der Gottesverehrung fungiert so als eine Negativfolie zur Konstruktion einer „universalen Familie der Christen“ und ihres neuen Lebensstils. In anderen Worten: für Diogn. macht „Christ sein“ den Unterschied, und der Text versucht dies u. a. dadurch aufzuweisen, dass er die Irrtümer anderer Kulte aufzeigt. Diese erste Erkenntnis ist natürlich noch keineswegs spektakulär, der genauere Blick in die Beschreibung paganer (und später jüdischer) Formen der Gottesverehrung (und Gotteserkenntnis) scheint mir jedoch tiefere Blicke zuzulassen. Diogn. 2 listet die folgenden Kritikpunkte an paganer Gottesverehrung auf: Heidnische Götzenbilder bestehen aus totem und vergänglichem Material (­ Diogn. 2.2), sie sind von Menschen geschaffen, welche aus dem gleichen Material ganz unterschiedliche Dinge hätten produzieren können (Diogn. 2.3), die Götzenbilder haben keine eigenen Sinne, sondern sind „taub und blind, seelen-, gefühl- und bewegungslos“ (Diogn. 2.5). Das Blut und Fett der Opfer wiederum ehrt sie nicht, sondern würde, wären sie nicht vollkommen bar jeder Sinneswahrnehmung, eine Beleidigung darstellen (Diogn. 2.8–9). Diogn. 2.7 schließlich, vielleicht der originellste Gedanke, stellt eine Verbindung zwischen dem Wert eines Götzenbildes und dem Wert des Materials, aus dem es besteht, her. Ihr aber, die ihr (sie) zu loben glaubt und meint – verachtet ihr sie [d. h. die Götterbilder; TN] nicht sehr viel mehr? Verspottet ihr sie nicht viel mehr und beleidigt sie, wenn ihr zwar die steinernen und tönernen, die ihr verehrt, unbewacht lasst, die silbernen und goldenen aber in den Nächten einschließt und am Tage Wächter aufstellt, damit sie nicht gestohlen werden?11

Ein ausführlicher Beweis, dass diese Sammlung von Ideen über pagane Kulte alles andere als originell ist, ist überflüssig. So hat bereits vor etwa einem Jahrhundert Johannes Geffcken seinen Eindruck von Kapitel 2 in die folgenden Worte gefasst: Diognet wirft „die längst abgebrauchten Argumente journalistisch spielend aufs Papier und ist sich auch wohl ihrer Abgedroschenheit so bewußt, dass er (II 10) bald davon aufhört.“12 Natürlich hat Geffcken in gewisser Hin10  Vgl. auch die Beispiele, die Norelli, Diogneto, 77–8 n. 8 anführt, oder auch Wengst, Diognet, 313 n. 5. – Für eine ausführlichere Diskussion des Motivs der „Liebe“ für die Argumentation im Diogn. vgl. R. Noormann, ‚Himmelsbürger auf Erden. Anmerkungen zum Weltverhältnis und zum ‚Paulinismus‘ des Auctor ad Diognetum‘, in D. Wyrwa, B. Aland und C. Schäublin (Hg.), Die Weltlichkeit des Glaubens in der Alten Kirche. Festschrift für Ulrich Wickert zum siebzigsten Geburtstag, BZNW 85 (Berlin / New York: de Gruyter, 1997), 199–229, bes. 218–22. 11  Texte und Übersetzungen der Apostolischen Väter, soweit nicht anders vermerkt, nach A. Lindemann und H. Paulsen (Hg.), Die Apostolischen Väter. Griechisch-deutsche Parallelausgabe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992). 12 J. Geffcken, Zwei griechische Apologeten (Leipzig / Berlin: Akademie, 1907), xli. Darüber hinaus vgl. auch das Statement bei Marrou, A Diognète, 116–7. Bezüge zwischen Diogn. 2 und dem Test. Abr. stellt Norelli, A Diogneto, 149–50 her.



Identitätsbildung durch Konstruktion der „Anderen“ in Ad Diognetum

207

sicht Recht. Diogn. 2 macht im Grunde nichts anderes, als eine Reihe mehr oder minder traditioneller Argumente gegen pagane Kulte zusammenzustellen – die angebotene Liste stellt nicht einmal Anspruch auf Vollständigkeit (Diogn. 2.10). Doch sind die Argumente gleichzeitig und sofort als rein banal abzutun? Bricht Diogn. 2.10 die Argumentation aus reiner Lustlosigkeit ab oder kommt dem Vers eine andere Funktion zu? Horacio Lona, der in seinem meisterlichen Kommentar dem Abschnitt mehrere Seiten widmet, kommt zu folgenden Überlegungen: Es bedarf keiner großen Denkanstrengung, um die Stichhaltigkeit der Argumentation in Diog 2 in Frage zu stellen. Sie beruht nämlich auf der Annahme, dass zwischen dem Gottesbild und dem abgebildeten Gott eine einfache materielle Identität besteht. Der Protest des Kelsos gegen diese Annahme und sein Hinweis auf den bildlichen und daher auch zeichenhaften Charakter der Darstellung zeigen, dass unter den Heiden die Haltung gegenüber den Götterbildern differenzierter war, als die jüdische und christliche Polemik es darstellt. Im dritten Jahrhundert verfasst Porphyrios die Schrift περὶ ἀγαλμάτων (‚De cultu simulacrorum‘), eine Art von Apologie des Heidentums, um den Götzendienst vor heidnischen und christlichen Vorwürfen in Schutz zu nehmen. Wenn der Vf. [der Schrift An Diognet; TN] eine so einfache Position einnimmt, stellt sich die Frage, ob er dies aus eigener Naivität tut, oder ob er sich nicht verpflichtet sieht, seine Kritik in subtilerer Form vorzulegen.13

Lona zeigt mit Recht, dass die Argumentation Diognets den Kern wie auch die Idee paganer Verehrung von Götterbildern nicht trifft: Pagane Kulte waren sicherlich mehr und die hinter ihnen stehenden Gedankenwelten tiefer, vielfältiger und komplexer als das Zerrbild, das Ad Diognetum entwirft. Vielleicht jedoch geht Lona einen Schritt zu weit. Autoren wie Kelsos und Porphyrios repräsentieren – wohl mehr als der Autor Ad Diognetum – die intellektuelle Elite ihrer Zeit. Aber inwiefern spiegelt ihr hoch differenziertes Bild paganer Kulte das Denken und die Vorstellungen einfacher, ungebildeter Menschen?14 Differenzen zwischen wissenschaftlich reflektierter Theologie und den Vorstellungen einfacher Glaubender lassen sich ja auch heute noch sehr deutlich erkennen. Ich würde also nicht zu schnell ausschließen, dass die Polemik Diognets nicht doch etwas mit gewissen Realitäten zu tun hat, mag sie sich doch zumindest teilweise mit dem Tun und Denken (wohl nicht nur) einfacher, ungebildeter Menschen getroffen haben – oder besser: sie mag sich mit dem Bild getroffen haben, das sich manch Gebildete – unter ihnen auch gebildete Heiden – vom Tun und Denken einfacher, ungebildeter Menschen machten. So bleibt Diogn. 2 eine Karikatur realen Lebens; gerade aber die Tatsache, dass es sich um eine in entscheidenden 13 

Lona, Diognet, 113–4. Noch etwas differenzierter argumentiert Rizzi, ‚Ad Diognetum‘, 2–4, 81, der die Trennlinien zwischen verschiedenen Formen des Verständnisses paganer Kulte nicht nur zwischen Ober- und Unterschichten differenzieren möchte. 14 

208

Tobias Nicklas

Teilen wenig originelle Karikatur handelt, mag bedeuten, dass sie wenigstens einen Aspekt von Realität bzw. ein verbreitetes Bild der Realität spiegelt. Dies zeigt sich besonders schön durch eine (auch bei Horacio Lona angesprochene) Parallele im Werk des Lukian von Samosata (ca. 120–180 n. Chr.):15 In Kapitel 7 seines „Tragischen Jupiter“ beschreibt Lukian eine Götterversammlung, deren Sitzordnung zu einigen Diskussionen führt:16 7. Jupiter. Brav, Merkur! Du hast deine Sache recht gut gemacht. Schon kommen sie von allen Seiten herbei. Empfange sie und weise ihnen ihre Plätze an, je nach dem Range, der ihnen von Seiten des Stoffes oder der Kunst gebührt. Zuerst kommen zu sitzen die Goldenen, hierauf die Silbernen, dann die Elfenbeinernen, nach diesen die Ehernen und Steinernen, und von diesen wieder zuerst die von Phidias, Alkamenes, Myron, Euphranor und andern dergleichen Meister. Der ganze übrige gemeine und kunstlose Tross aber soll sich dort hinten in der Ecke zusammenstellen und sich fein still verhalten; denn sie sind ja nur da, damit die Versammlung voll werde. Merkur. Gut, sie sollen sich nach der Ordnung setzen. Aber, Jupiter, Eines ist doch noch nicht ausgemacht: wenn ein Gott zwar von Gold, und dem Gewicht nach viele Talente wert, aber ohne alles Ebenmaß gearbeitet und verpfuscht ist, soll ich ihn dennoch vor die ehernen Götter eines Myron und Polyklet, und vor die Steinernen des Phidias und Alkamenes setzen, oder soll in diesem Falle die Kunst den Vorrang haben? Jupiter. So sollte es freilich sein: aber dem Gold gebührt nun einmal doch der Vorzug.

Lukians Hauptpunkt ist klar: die Sitzordnung wird anhand der Materialien arrangiert, aus denen die verschiedenen Götterbilder hergestellt sind – eine ziemlich deutliche Parallele zum oben zitierten Diogn. 2.7. Natürlich ist Lukians Karikatur gekonnter als die der Schrift Ad Diognetum, es handelt sich um Satire. Satire ohne jeglichen Bezug zu realer Erfahrungswelt jedoch kann nicht existieren. Die Realität hinter dieser Satire mag nicht nur in der Realität einfacher Menschen bestanden haben, sondern mindestens genauso in dem Bild, das sich Intellektuelle von ihnen und ihrer Denkwelt machten. Was sagt dies über unseren Autor und die von ihm angezielten Adressaten? So unterschiedlich Lukian und Diogn. sein mögen, beide – und wohl auch ihre Adressatenschaft – teilen die Meinung, dass sie „anders“ sind als die Masse, zu einer gerade sich auch intellektuell definierenden Elite gehören und nach einer Wahrheit suchen, die abseits der ausgetretenen Pfade, an denen sie von gewöhnlichen Menschen gesucht wird, zu finden ist. 15 Dies ist nur eines, jedoch ein besonders schönes Beispiel. Für eine ausführlichere Diskussion paganer Parallelen zur Polemik des Diogn. vgl. Lona, Diognet, 109–13, während Marrou, A Diognète, 106, und Norelli, Diogneto, 81–3, eine Vielzahl von Parallelen anderer christlich-apologetischer Schriften anführen. R. Brändle, Die Ethik der „Schrift an Diognet“. Eine Wiederaufnahme paulinischer und johanneischer Theologie am Ausgang des zweiten Jahrhunderts, ATANT 64 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 1975), 31, wiederum schreibt: „Der Strom dieser Tradition wird aus zwei verschiedenen Quellen gespeist: der innerheidnischen Kritik an den Götterstatuen, die von Heraklit bis Lucian reicht und der jüdischen Polemik gegen jede Darstellung Gottes.“ 16  See also Lona, Diognet, 109.



Identitätsbildung durch Konstruktion der „Anderen“ in Ad Diognetum

209

Dies hilft uns auch, die bereits von Geffcken angesprochene Passage Diogn. 2.10 besser zu verstehen: Darüber nun, dass die Christen solchen Göttern nicht gehorsam sind, könnte ich zwar (noch) vieles und anderes sagen; wenn aber jemandem das (Gesagte) etwa noch nicht hinreichend zu sein scheint, halte ich es für überflüssig, noch mehr zu sagen. (Übersetzung Lindemann/Paulsen)

Mit anderen Worten: wer aufgrund der bis jetzt angeführten Argumente nicht überzeugt ist, dem ist nicht zu helfen, jedes weitere Argument würde bedeuten Zeit zu verlieren an jemanden, der einfach zu dumm oder zu verstockt ist um zu begreifen. Damit wäre Diogn. 2.10 nicht einfach als Zeichen der Halbherzigkeit der Argumentation unseres Autors zu verstehen: Der Abschnitt sendet vielmehr ein wichtiges Signal an den Leser des Textes – und möchte zum Ausdruck bringen: „Wir beide gehören zusammen, wir teilen die gemeinsame Überzeugung, dass die üblichen Formen paganer Gottesverehrung dumm, ja lächerlich sind; wir beide könnten noch weitere Argumente anführen – für ‚dich‘, Leser, jedoch, der du wert sein willst, dem neuen ‚Genos‘ der Christen anzugehören und ein neuer Mensch zu werden (Diogn. 2.1), ist das nicht nötig.“ Den bisherigen Beobachtungen ist ein weiterer Punkt hinzuzufügen: Interessanterweise fehlt in Kapitel 2 ein wichtiges Motiv jüdischer und christlicher Traditionen der Polemik gegen pagane Kulte: die Vorstellung, dass pagane Kulte anstelle des Schöpfers die Schöpfung anbeten. Im Alten Testament findet sich dieser Gedanke bereits in Dtn 4:16–20, im Neuen Testament ist etwa an Röm 1:24 f. zu denken, immer wieder taucht es in christlicher Apologetik des 2. Jahrhunderts auf. Das Fehlen dieses konkreten Motivs macht jedoch Sinn, wenn Diogn. sich tatsächlich an pagane, am Christentum interessierte Adressaten wendet: das Argument, pagane Kulte verwechselten Gott und seine Schöpfung, ist ja zunächst nur „nach innen“ nachvollziehbar, d. h. da, wo bereits an den Gott Israels bzw. der Christen als Schöpfer der Welt geglaubt wird.17 Ad Diognetum vergisst diesen Aspekt nicht vollkommen, erwähnt ihn aber erst deutlich später, im Zusammenhang mit seiner Diskussion paganer Philosophien in Kapitel 8, d. h. erst nachdem Gott als Schöpfer der Welt eingeführt ist (Kap. 7). Diogn. 8.1–4 ist besonders interessant: Denn wer von den Menschen wusste überhaupt, was Gott ist, bevor er selbst gekommen war? Oder akzeptierst du etwa die hohlen und albernen Aussagen jener ‚vertrauenswürdigen‘ Philosophen, von denen die einen sagen, Gott sei Feuer – wohin sie selbst gelangen werden, das nennen sie Gott! –, die anderen: Wasser, die anderen: irgendein anderes der Elemente, die doch geschaffen worden sind von Gott? Freilich, wenn irgendeine dieser 17  Dass apologetischer Literatur eine entscheidende Funktion nach innen, d. h. zur Selbstvergewisserung angesichts des „Außen“ hat, wurde in der Literatur immer wieder betont. Vgl. z. B. L. S. Nasrallah, Christian Responses to Roman Art and Architecture: The Second-Century Church Amid the Spaces of Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 23–8.

210

Tobias Nicklas

Aussagen akzeptabel ist, könnte auch ein jegliches der übrigen Geschöpfe gleichermaßen Gott (zu sein) offenbaren. Aber das (alles) ist Blendwerk und Täuschung der Betrüger. (Übersetzung nach Lindemann/Paulsen)

Auch diese Beschreibung philosophischer Ideen ist nicht vollkommen aus der Luft gegriffen – Horacio Lona vergleicht die Passage über „Feuer“ mit Aussagen bei Heraklit, Zeno oder Chrysippos, die über „Wasser“ mit Theagenes, die Aussagen über „andere Elemente“ korrespondieren zumindest Aussagen über angebliche Vorstellungen des Empedokles.18 Doch natürlich bietet die Schrift An Diognet auch hier im Grunde nichts anderes als eine Art von Remake dessen, was wir auch in anderen jüdischen und christlichen Polemiken von Philo bis Clemens von Alexandrien finden.19 Hätten wir nur Diogn. 8.1–4 müssten wir den Eindruck gewinnen, der Autor habe keine direkte Kenntnis der genannten Philosophen bzw. Philosophien. Der Sachverhalt ist jedoch nicht so einfach. Andere Abschnitte des Textes zeigen, dass unser Autor zumindest eine gewisse philosophische Bildung genossen haben muss. Horacio Lona schreibt in diesem Zusammenhang:20 Nur Diog 8,2 nimmt eigens Bezug auf die Philosophen, die mit ihren ‚leeren und läppischen Reden‘ Gott mit den Weltelementen gleichsetzen. ‚Das ist Gaukelei und Irrtum von Schwindlern‘ (8,4). Der Text selbst aber weist an mehreren Stellen sprachliche Gemeinsamkeiten mit Aussagen griechischer Philosophen auf, die die zitierte Einschätzung relativieren. Themen wie die Nachahmung Gottes und das Glück (10,3–6) gehören in die philosophische Tradition des Platonismus. Die Darstellung der Lage der Christen in der Welt anhand des Verhältnisses zwischen Leib und Seele (6,1–9) berührt sich mit der siebten Dissertation des Maximus von Tyrus. An diesen Stellen und darüber hinaus durch die Qualität seiner Sprache erweist der Verfasser seine Befähigung, am Diskurs der Gebildeten im zweiten Jahrhundert teilzunehmen. Die gemeinsame Grundlage der Bildung bietet ihm die Möglichkeit, sie in ‚der gleichen Sprache‘ anzureden.

Der Autor spielt also ein doppeltes Spiel – wenn er gebildete Heiden von der Wahrheit der „neuen Bewegung“ überzeugen will, darf er sich nicht zu tief auf eine Diskussion philosophischer Konzepte Gottes einlassen – ein Spiel, das er verlieren könnte –, er muss jedoch so sehr in den Termini der Gebildeten sprechen, dass er zeigen kann, dass sein eigener Bildungsstand sozial wie intellektuell annehmbar ist. Vielleicht kann dem noch eine kleine Beobachtung hinzugefügt werden: ein Schlüssel in dem eher schwachen Argument gegen philosophische Ideen findet 18 

Lona, Diognet, 236–7. Vgl. auch die detaillierte Übersicht bei Lona, Diognet, 237–8. 20  H. E. Lona, ‚Die Schrift ‚An Diognet‘‘, in W. Pratscher (Hg.), Die Apostolischen Väter. Eine Einleitung, UTB 3272 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 208–25, bes. 213–4. Vgl. ähnlich auch Brändle, Ethik, 48–50; für den Bezug des Diogn. zur zweiten Sophistik vgl. M. Rizzi, ,La cittadinanza paradossale dei cristiani (Ad Diognetum 5–6). Le trasformazioni cristiane di un topos retorico‘, in AScR 1 (1996), 221–60. 19 



Identitätsbildung durch Konstruktion der „Anderen“ in Ad Diognetum

211

sich m. E. in Diogn. 8.2b „Feuer – wohin sie selbst gelangen werden, das nennen sie Gott!“ Dieser Halbsatz ist im Hinblick auf die Argumentationsstrategie des Textes erneut recht aussagekräftig: Er bietet kein wirkliches Argument, versucht aber erneut eine Beziehung zwischen Autor und Leser herzustellen: „Sie“ erhalten keinen konkreten Namen und „sie“ sind so dumm, Schöpfer und Schöpfung miteinander zu verwechseln, deshalb wird „ihre“ Zukunft das Feuer (sicher der Hölle) sein (vgl. auch Diogn. 10.7 f). Aussagen wie diese können nur dann akzeptiert werden, wenn Autor und intendierte Leser ein gemeinsames Muster an Überzeugungen teilen: „Sie“ gehören zu einer Welt, mit der „wir“ nichts oder nichts mehr zu tun haben wollen.

II.  Ad Diognetum 3–4: Polemik gegen das Judentum Auch wenn Ad Diognetum 3.2 zunächst klar zwischen Heiden und Juden differenziert, da sich jüdischer Kult deutlich von dem in Kapitel 2 Beschriebenen unterscheide und Juden zumindest beanspruchten, den einen Gott der Welt zu verehren, bleibt das für Diogn. die einzige – fast versteckte – Verbindung zwischen Christen und Juden.21 Wie bereits erwähnt, wird das Judentum als „Aberglaube“ bezeichnet (1), der Begriff θρησκεία (Diogn. 3.2) verwendet und der jüdische Kult als „Sünde“ qualifiziert (διαμαρτάνουσιν; Diogn. 3.2). Da Diogn. 3–4 bereits mehrfach untersucht wurde, mag es genügen, einige entscheidende Beobachtungen zum Text zusammenzustellen:22 – Diogn. 3 entwickelt ein Bild jüdischer Opferhandlungen, das kaum etwas mit dem zu tun hat, was wir aus dem Alten Testament oder frühjüdischer Literatur kennen. Soweit ich sehe, ist der Gedanke, Juden glaubten, ihr Gott brauche ihr Opfer (Diogn. 3.3; siehe auch 3.5), nirgends im Alten Testament belegt. Für die Schrift An Diognet jedoch belegt dies, zusammen mit der Vorstellung, dass jüdische Opferpraxis mit Blut, Fettgeruch und der Verbrennung von Tieren zu tun habe (Diogn. 3.5), dass Juden einem verkehrten Bild Gottes anhingen. Katha­rina Schneider schreibt: 21 A. Lindemann, ‚Gott und die Götter: Paulus, Lukian von Samosata und der „Brief an Diognet“‘, in D. C. Bienert, J. Jeska und T. Witulski (Hg.), Paulus und die antike Welt. Beiträge zur zeit- und religionsgeschichtlichen Erforschung des paulinischen Christentums, ­FRLANT 222 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008), 33–55, bes. 54, betont v. a. die letzte Verbindungslinie: „Ungeachtet aller Kritik wird aber deutlich, dass im Diogn sehr bewusst zwischen Juden und Heiden unterschieden wird; vor allem bei den Aussagen, die von Gott als dem Schöpfer sprechen, wird deutlich, dass Christen und Juden denselben Gott meinen, auch wenn die Verehrung auf unterschiedliche Weise geschieht.“ – Lindemann hat damit sicherlich Recht, dies jedoch nicht, dass Diogn. in irgendeiner Weise Ansätze einer positiven Israeltheologie entwickeln würde. 22  Vgl. z. B. K. Schneider, ‚Die Stellung der Juden und Christen in der Welt nach dem Diognetbrief‘, in JbAC 42 (1999), 20–41, bes. 21–31, und Lona, Diognet, 141–50.

212

Tobias Nicklas

Während die Propheten gegen die falsche Opfergesinnung Israels polemisieren, richtet sich in ‚Ad Diognetum‘ der Angriff nicht so sehr gegen die jüdischen Opfer selbst, als vielmehr gegen das aus ihnen abgeleitete Gottesbild, welches der Verfasser den Juden zuschreibt.23

Dabei macht der Text den Eindruck, als existierten jüdische Opferpraktiken im Tempel zu Jerusalem noch immer – Katharina Schneider hält deswegen das Ende des Bar Kokhba Krieges im Jahr 135 n. Chr. terminus ad quem der Datierung unseres Textes. Ich halte es jedoch für viel wahrscheinlicher, dass die Frage, ob der Tempel und der an ihn gebundene Kult tatsächlich noch existierten, für Diogn. vollkommen uninteressant ist.24 Dem Text geht es einfach darum, Motive paga­ ner antijüdischer Polemik anzuführen, die im vorliegenden Kontext beweisen sollen, dass Juden zwar nur einen Gott verehrten, jedoch darüber hinaus kein grundsätzlicher Unterschied zwischen jüdischer und paganer Gottesverehrung bestehe. –  Diognets Polemik gegen andere jüdische Praktiken, wie sie sich in Kapitel 4 finden, erinnert an Motive, die wir aus paganen Polemiken gegen das Judentum kennen25 – im gegebenen Rahmen mag es genügen, auf einige Parallelen hinzuweisen. Eine der ältesten paganen Auseinandersetzungen mit dem Judentum findet sich bereits im späten 4. bzw. frühen 3. Jahrhundert vor unserer Zeitrechnung bei dem Ägypter Hekataios von Abdera. Ein anderes, besonders interessantes Beispiel finden wir bei Apion von Oasis (später Alexandrien) im 1. Jahrhundert unserer Zeitrechnung, der im Jahr 40 n. Chr. Mitglied einer Gesandtschaft zu Kaiser Caligula wurde, die sich gegen die Juden Alexandriens richtete. Bekanntlich ist Apions Werk in Josephus’ Contra Apionem bis in Details hinein dokumentiert. Auch wenn Apions Polemik weit über das hinausführt, was wir bei Diogn. finden, zeigt Josephus’ Resümee der Kritik Apions am Judentum (Contra Apionem 2.137) eine Kombination von Motiven, die deutlich an

23  Schneider, ‚Stellung‘, 22.

24  Eine interessante Parallele hierzu bietet etwa Irenäus von Lyon, der noch am Ende des 2. Jahrhunderts in einer Weise über den Tempel zu Jerusalem schreiben kann, als stünde dieser noch (vgl. hierzu etwa Haer. 5.25.1–4 und 5.30.4), während nur wenig später Hippolyt in seiner Interpretation der Prophezeiungen vom Antichristen in 2 Thess 2 vom zukünftigen Wiederaufbau des Tempels ausgeht (vgl. Hippolyt, Antichr. 6). 25  Für wichtige Zusammenfassungen des relevanten Materials vgl. – neben dem Kommentar Lonas (142–7) – H. Conzelmann, Heiden – Juden – Christen. Auseinandersetzungen in der Literatur der hellenistisch-römischen Zeit, BHTh 62 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1981), bes. 43–120, und P. Schäfer, Judeophobia: Attitudes toward the Jews in the Ancient World (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997). – Selbst Teile der Beschreibung der Beziehung zwischen Christen und Welt, wie sie sich in Diogn. 5 finden, können als Polemik gegen angebliche elitäre Ansprüche des Judentums verstanden werden. Hierzu vgl. die Gedanken von J. M. Lieu, ‘The Forging of Christian Identity and the Letter to Diognetus’, in J. A. North und S. R. F. Price (Hg.), The Religious History of the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 235–59, 244–5.



Identitätsbildung durch Konstruktion der „Anderen“ in Ad Diognetum

213

Diogn. 4 erinnern: Juden werden beschuldigt, Tiere zu opfern, zudem macht der Autor sich darüber lustig, dass sie kein Schweinefleisch verzehren, und kritisiert die Praxis der Beschneidung. Auch der bereits erwähnte Kelsos, vielleicht ein Zeitgenosse des Autors Ad Diognetum, kann in diesem Zusammenhang erwähnt werden. Was Kelsos für uns interessant macht, ist die Tatsache, dass er das Judentum wegen seiner Nähe zum Christentum kritisiert und in seiner Kritik des Christentums Elemente antijüdischer Polemik einbaut.26 – Viele weitere Beispiele könnten darüber hinaus angeführt werden. Am bekanntesten ist vielleicht der antijüdische Exkurs in den Historien des Tacitus (5); viele der Motive aus Diogn. 3–4 finden zudem ihre Parallelen auch in christlich antijüdischer Literatur wie dem Barnabasbrief oder der Apologie des Aristides. Doch gerade im Vergleich mit christlicher Literatur zeigt sich, dass einige entscheidende Aspekte typischer christlicher antijüdischer Polemik in Diogn. fehlen. Der Autor zeigt weder Interesse an Jesu Identität als Messias,27 seiner Ablehnung durch Israel, Israels angeblicher Verantwortung für die Kreuzigung Jesu oder die Frage, ob nach Israel aufgrund seiner Ablehnung Jesu nun von Gott verworfen sei.28 Diognets Kritik jüdischer Praktiken wiederholt so nicht nur Formen und Muster vor allem paganer Polemik gegen das Judentum; stärker als viele andere Texte zieht Diogn. hier eine Trennlinie zwischen Christentum und seinen jüdischen Wurzeln – für Diogn. haben beide kaum etwas gemeinsam (und dürfen im Grunde nichts gemeinsam haben, wenn das Christentum „neues Genos“ sein will). Das Judentum ist für Diogn. nicht einmal wert, für den mangelnden Glauben am jüdischen Messias Jesus kritisiert zu werden. Anders etwa als im Barnabasbrief, wo die Schriften Israels ganz für das Christentum eingenommen werden, geht dies für Diogn. einher mit einem nahezu vollständigen Fehlen jeg-

26  Die wichtigste Auseinandersetzung mit Kelsos der vergangenen Jahre hat erneut H. E. Lona, Die ‚Wahre Lehre‘ des Kelsos, KFA 1 (Freiburg: Herder, 2005) vorgelegt. 27  Wichtiges Material hierzu bietet u. a. W. Horbury, ,Messianism among Jews and Christians in the Second Century‘, in Idem, Messianism among Jews and Christians: Biblical and Historical Studies (London / New York: T&T Clark, 2003), 275–88. 28 Vgl. ähnlich auch Schneider, ‚Stellung‘, 28–9: „Im Vergleich mit der antijüdischen Polemik anderer Apologien weist diese Kritik unserer Schrift auch Unterschiede auf. Der Verfasser verschweigt den gegen die Juden erhobenen Vorwurf des Engelkultes, das Problem der Messianität Jesu und das einer messianischen Idee im Judentum. Ebenso übergeht er die Frage nach der Verwerfung Israels und der Erwählung der ganzen Schöpfung sowie der Verantwortung der Juden für die Kreuzigung des Herrn. … [D]iese Kritik zielt keineswegs auf eine Auseinandersetzung mit bestimmten Gegnern oder dem Judentum allgemein, sondern ist von ihm mit Hilfe der Stilmittel von Einleitung, Durchführung und Resümee eigenständig allein in der Intention verfaßt, eine in jeder Hinsicht ablehnende Stellungnahme gegenüber den Juden vorzulegen.“

214

Tobias Nicklas

licher Anspielungen auf Texte des Alten Testaments. Die Schriften Israels spielen für Diognets Konstruktion des Christentums keine Rolle.29 Horacio Lona ordnet Diognets Polemik in den Kontext jüdisch-christlicher Konflikte ein und erklärt die Schroffheit des Textes gegen Juden und die gleichzeitige extreme Distanz, die der Text zwischen Juden und Christen kreiert, in der folgenden Weise: Der Text schreibe keine Apologie des Christentums, sondern unternimmt – ganz konsequent und entschieden – die Demontage des Judentums, indem er dessen nichtigen religiösen Wert nachweist. Nach dieser Erklärung ist die Schärfe seiner Polemik durch eine ebenso scharfe Kritik [von jüdischer Seite] mitbedingt. Seine Adressaten wussten nur zu gut, warum sie sich von den Götzen fernzuhalten hatten. Ihr Verhältnis zum Judentum war nicht so eindeutig. Wenn sie nun mit der Autorität des christlichen Lehrers dazu geführt werden, das Judentum für so wertlos zu halten wie den Götzendienst, dann deswegen weil es – wie auch immer – für sie eine potentielle Gefährdung wie das religiöse Angebot des Heidentums darstellte. Ohne diesen polemischen Hintergrund – die jüdische Kritik am christlichen Glauben – bleibt die durchgeführte Widerlegung des Judentums in Diog 3–4 schwer erklärbar.

Von der Geschichte der christlichen Mission her lässt sich auch verstehen, warum das Judentum für diese Heiden eine solche Gefahr war. Die Adressaten der christlichen Missionare waren schwerlich ‚Heiden‘ schlechthin, sondern solche, die schon mit der hellenistischen Synagoge in Kontakt standen und zu den Sympathisanten oder gar zu den ‚Gottesfürchtigen‘ zählten.30 Lonas Deutung der Situation würde, soweit ich sehe, auf viele antik-christliche Polemiken gegen das Judentum – von Melito bis Johannes Chrysostomus – passen.31 Aber ist damit wirklich das Muster von Argumenten, das wir im Diogn. finden, adäquat erklärt? Könnte eine Beschreibung angeblicher jüdischer Opferpraktiken wirklich einen Gottesfürchtigen überzeugen, der ja vollkommen andere Erfahrungen mit jüdischen Gottesdiensten hatte? Wie ist ein Satz wie Diogn. 4.1, jüdische Praktiken seien „überaus lächerlich und keines Wortes wert“ (Übersetzung Lindemann/Paulsen), erklärbar, würde der Text sich tatsächlich an Gottesfürchtige wenden? Wäre der totale Bruch zwischen Judentum und Christentum, den Diogn. voraussetzt oder eventuell erst kreiert, tatsächlich für Menschen attraktiv, die sich vorher aktiv für das Judentum interessiert und As29  Weiterführend zur Behandlung des Alten Testaments in Diogn. ist etwa Brändle, Ethik, 61, welcher schreibt: Der Autor ad Diognetum „kennt zwar das AT …, aber er vermag zwischen ihm und der einen Offenbarung Gottes in seinem Sohn keine Verbindung herzustellen. Er versucht weder mit Hilfe der allegorischen Methode, eine Brücke zu schlagen zwischen Altem und Neuem, noch mittels des Alters- und Weissagungsbeweises den Ursprung des christlichen Glaubens möglichst früh in der Geschichte der Menschheit zu verankern. Zwischen Altem und Neuem Testament klafft für ihn ein Bruch.“ 30  Lona, Diognet, 149–50. 31  Für eine ausführliche Diskussion von Bildern von Juden und Judentum in christlicher Literatur des 2. Jahrhunderts vgl. J. M. Lieu, Image and Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996).



Identitätsbildung durch Konstruktion der „Anderen“ in Ad Diognetum

215

pekte seiner Lebenspraxis übernommen haben? Wäre es in einem solchen Falle nicht viel klüger zu argumentieren, dass das Judentum ein erster Schritt zur richtigen Gotteserkenntnis sei – aber eben nur ein erster Schritt? Vielleicht macht deswegen eine andere Erklärung mehr Sinn: wenn wir Diogn. als einen im Alexandrien der zweiten Hälfte des 2. Jahrhunderts entstandenen Text lesen wollen, wie dies viele Autoren, auch Lona, tun,32 dann sollte unsere Interpretation die Situation des alexandrinischen Judentums dieser Zeit etwas konkreter ins Auge fassen.33 Nach der Katastrophe des Diasporaaufstands (115–117 n. Chr.) muss die einst große und selbstbewusste jüdische Gemeinde Alexandriens wie auch andere jüdische Gemeinden Ägyptens nahezu vollkommen verschwunden sein oder wenigstens nur noch in kleinen Resten überlebt haben. Vielleicht mögen auch die Auswirkungen des Bar Kokhba Krieges (132–135 n. Chr.) den Eindruck verstärkt haben, die Juden seien eine Gruppe ohne Zukunft. Für heidenchristliche Gruppierungen, die nicht direkt (oder noch nicht) mit der Krise um Markion konfrontiert waren, mögen in dieser Situation die jüdischen Wurzeln des Christentums nicht von maßgeblicher Bedeutung gewesen sein. Vielleicht kann man gar noch einen Schritt weiter gehen: Das „Judentum“ war kein sichtbarer – oder zumindest kein bedeutender, einflussreicher Faktor in der Gesellschaft Alexandriens mehr. Vorurteile gegen Juden und Muster antijüdischer Propaganda jedoch überleben häufig selbst in Zeiten und 32 Vgl. Lona, Diognet, 67–9 und Idem, ‚An Diognet‘, 223–4, aber auch Jefford, Apostolic Fathers, 35–6, 217–19, oder Holmes, Apostolic Fathers, 687 („In many respects the author anticipates later Alexandrian writers“); vorsichtig zustimmend auch Wengst, Diognet, 309 („Als Ort der Abfassung wird oft Alexandrien genannt“). – Leider wird Diogn. nicht in einigen entscheidenden Arbeiten zur Geschichte des alexandrinischen Christentums diskutiert: vgl. etwa A. Fürst, Christentum als Intellektuellen-Religion. Die Anfänge des Christentums in Alexandria, SBS 213 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2007); A. Jakab, Ecclesia alexandrina: évolution sociale et institutionnelle du christianisme alexandrine (IIe et IIIe siècles) (Bern: P. Lang, 2001); die Schrift wird auch nicht in dem Sammelband von W. Pratscher, M. Öhler und M. Lang (Hg.), Das ägyptische Christentum im 2. Jahrhundert, SNTU.B 6 (Wien / Berlin: LIT, 2008) erwähnt. – Die Einordnung nach Alexandrien ist natürlich nicht unumstritten. Vgl. z. B. Norelli, A Diogneto, 53–61 (Rom), oder die Diskussion zwischen C. E. Hill, From the Lost Teaching of Polycarp: Identifying Irenaeus’ Apostolic Presbyter and the Author of Ad Diognetum, WUNT 1.186 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006) und E. Norelli, ,Ramener l’A Diognète en Asie Mineure? Une discussion de la thèse de Charles E. Hill‘, in Aragione, Norelli und Nuvolone (Hg.), A Diognète, 91–117. 33  Vgl. knapp auch Fürst, Christentum, 16: „Wichtig ist …, dass das Judentum im gesellschaftlichen und kulturellen Gefüge der Stadt im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert nach der Katastrophe des Jahres 117 so gut wie keine Rolle mehr spielte.“ – Ein detaillierteres Bild bietet J. Mélèze Modrzejewski, The Jews of Egypt: From Rameses II to Emperor Hadrian (Philadelphia / Jerusalem: Jewish Publication Society, 1995), 207–31. – Hoch interessant in Bezug auf die Entwicklung des ägyptischen Diasporajudentums nach 117 ist der Überblick von V. Tcherikover über jüdische Papyri (vgl. CPJ 451–90). Im Hinblick auf die Entwicklung außerhalb Alexandriens (mit Fokus auf Oxyrhynchos) vgl. E. J. Epp, ,The Jews and the Jewish Community in Oxyrhyn­ chus: Socio-Religious Context for the New Testament Papyri‘, in T. J. Kraus und T. Nicklas (Hg.), New Testament Manuscripts: Their Texts and Their World, TENT 2 (Leiden / Boston: Brill, 2006), 13–52.

216

Tobias Nicklas

Kontexten, wo keine jüdische Gemeinde mehr greifbar ist. In Zeiten nach den Erfahrungen eines furchtbaren Krieges, der zumindest teilweise von Diasporajuden verursacht war, konnten sie sich sicherlich lange am Leben halten: auch wenn sich der Text zunächst gegen Christen richtet, ist Kelsos’ Alethes Logos nur ein Beispiel dieses Überlebens antijüdischer Polemik im Alexandrien des späten 2. Jahrhunderts unserer Zeitrechnung.34 In einem derartigen Kontext ist es sehr wohl möglich, dass zumindest Teile der christlichen Bewegung so wenig wie möglich mit Juden in Verbindung gebracht werden wollten. Dies könnte erklären, warum Diogn. als ein Text, der das Christentum attraktiv für Heiden einer gewissen intellektuellen Oberschicht machen will, zumindest ein gewisses Interesse daran hat, Muster mehr oder weniger allgemein bekannter antijüdischer Aussagen zu wiederholen – viele pagane Leser, die sich für die neue Bewegung interessierten, dürften mit den Ideen, die in den Kapiteln 3 und 4 zum Ausdruck gebracht werden, übereinstimmen, da antijüdische Stereotypen auch in Zeiten überlebten, in denen nicht mehr viele Juden in Alexandrien gelebt haben dürften (oder in denen jüdisches Leben zumindest in der Öffentlichkeit an Bedeutung verloren hatte). Ein derartiger Kontext, in dem eine mögliche Identifikation der „christlichen“ Bewegung mit dem Judentum eine echte Bedrohung darstellen konnte, könnte den Hintergrund einer Form paganen Christentums ausmachen, das sich selbst ein „neues Genos“ nennt, dessen Grenzen zum Judentum ähnlich scharf gezogen werden wie die zu paganen Kulten.

III. Fazit Diognets Beschreibung paganen und jüdischen Kults ist tatsächlich Teil seiner Konstruktion einer besonderen Form von „Christentum“ – eines Christentums, das nicht nur „drittes Genos“ sein möchte,35 sondern neues Genos (und dabei ein erhebliches Risiko eingeht), eines Christentums das attraktiv sein möchte für Heiden mit einem gewissen Bildungsniveau, vielleicht gar intellektuellen Hintergrund. Dies lässt sich an den folgenden Beobachtungen festmachen: (1) Diognets Polemik gegen pagane Kulte ist sicherlich kaum originell, sie erinnert an Formen von Polemik, wie wir sie in paganen Intellektuellenzirkeln finden. (2) Diognets Verhältnis zu griechischer Philosophie ist ambivalent: einerseits liefert der Text eine recht oberflächliche Polemik gegen einige (angebliche) philosophische Vorstellungen Gottes, andererseits zeigt der Stil des Textes, aber auch seine Form des Umgangs mit einigen Problemen, dass der Autor zumindest 34  Weiterführend zur Tradition alexandrinischen Antijudaismus vgl. auch J. G. Gager, The Origins of Anti-Semitism: Attitudes Toward Judaism in Pagan and Christian Antiquity (New York / Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983), 43–54. 35  Zur Idee des Christentum als drittem Genos vgl. v. a. Lieu, Christian Identity, 239–68.



Identitätsbildung durch Konstruktion der „Anderen“ in Ad Diognetum

217

grundlegende Kenntnis wenigstens einiger philosophischer Richtungen und ihrer Lehren hat und in der Lage ist, gebildete philosophisch beeinflusste Sprache anzuwenden. (3) Diognets Beschreibung des Judentums schließlich ist besonders aufschlussreich: Während der Text Stereotypen paganer antijüdischer Polemik wiederholt, die gerade in Alexandrien in einer langen, unseligen Tradition stehen, ist er offenbar nicht an einigen Schlüsselargumenten christlicher Polemiken gegen das Judentum interessiert. Gleichzeitig schneidet der Text so konsequent wie möglich alle Verbindungslinien zwischen Christentum und Judentum ab. All diese Strategien – und dabei ist die dritte vielleicht die wichtigste – helfen ihm, ein Bild des Christentums als eines neuen Genos, das seine Anhänger zu neuen Menschen macht, zu konstruieren.36 Diese Strategie ist, wie gesagt, durchaus riskant – immerhin musste der Autor mit der Frage rechnen, wie eine solch neue Bewegung wie das Christentum wahr sein könne.37 Vielleicht lassen sich die Gründe dafür, dass der Autor der Schrift An Diognet dieses Risiko eingeht, im möglichen historischen Kontext im Alexandrien (wohl) der zweiten Hälfte des 2. Jahrhunderts ausmachen. Soweit ich sehe, würde es ausgezeichneten Sinn machen, die Form von Christentum, wie sie in Diogn. konstruiert wird, in dieser östlichen Metropole mit den Möglichkeiten, eine soziale wie intellektuelle Elite mit hohem Interesse in neuen, andersartigen religiösen Bewegungen anzusprechen, zu verorten. Der Hauptgrund für die christlich antijüdische Polemik in der besonderen Form, wie Diogn. sie präsentiert, könnte dann mit der schwierigen Situation des alexandrinischen bzw. ägyptischen Diasporajudentums nach dem Diasporaaufstand zu tun haben: ein Judentum, das Christen sichtbar an ihre jüdischen Wurzeln erinnerte, ist dort nicht oder kaum mehr vorhanden, gleichzeitig dürften pagane Stereotypen gegen „die“ Juden, die einen Krieg verursachten, weiterhin nicht verschwunden sein. Ein solcher Kontext, in dem zudem offenbar die markionitische Gefahr (noch) keine Rolle gespielt haben mag, könnte einen idealen Hintergrund der Konstruktion eines Christentums für Intellektuelle gebildet haben, die Teil eines „neuen Genos“ mit klaren Grenzlinien gegen Bilder eines Judentums werden wollten, mit dem Christen so wenig wie möglich assoziiert werden wollten.38 36  In seinem Band Christentum als Intellektuellen-Religion schreibt A. Fürst: „Jüdisches Leben in Alexandria und Ägypten war faktisch zusammengebrochen. Ein eventueller Einfluss dieser Ereignisse auf die Anfänge des Christentums in Alexandria ist mangels Quellen nicht zu bestimmen.“ (16) – Vielleicht ist die Form von Christentum, die Diogn. zu konstruieren sucht, gerade der Situation zu verdanken, die Fürst beschreibt. 37  Zu paganen Aussagen, dass das Christentum nicht wahr sein könne, weil es so neu sei, vgl. Brändle, Ethik, 44–7. 38  Der vorliegende Text verwendet Material, das ich in englischer Sprache in dem Band J. Kok, T. Nicklas, D. T. Roth und C. M. Hays (Hg.), Sensitivity to Outsiders: Exploring the Dynamic Relationship between Mission and Ethics in the New Testament and Early Christianity, WUNT 2.364 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014) publiziert habe.

List of Contributors James Carleton Paget (Ph.D. 1992, University of Cambridge) is Senior Lecturer in New Testament Studies at the University of Cambridge. Recent publications include ‘The Epistle of Barnabas’, in ET 117 (2006), 441–6, reprinted in P. Foster (ed.), The Writings of the Apostolic Fathers (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 72–80; Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians in Antiquity, WUNT 1.251 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010); and The New Cambridge History of the Bible, I:  From the Beginnings to 600 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013) (ed. with J. Schaper). Paul Foster (Ph.D. 2002, University of Oxford) is Senior Lecturer in New Testament Language, Literature and Theology at The University of Edinburgh. Recent publications include The Gospel of Peter: Introduction, Critical Edition and Commentary, Texts and Editions for New Testament Study 4 (Leiden: Brill, 2010); Irenaeus: Life, Scripture, Legacy (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012) (ed. with S. Parvis); and ‘Mission and Ethics in the Writings of Ignatius’, in J. Kok, T. Nicklas, D. T. Roth and C. M. Hays (eds.), Sensitivity to Outsiders: Exploring the Dynamic Relationship between Mission and Ethics in the New Testament and Early Christianity, WUNT 2.364 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014). Mark Grundeken (Ph.D. 2013, University of Leuven) is Akademischer Rat of Professor Prostmeier at the University of Freiburg. Recent publications include ‘Resurrection of the Dead in the Shepherd of Hermas: A Matter of Dispute’, in G. Van Oyen and T. Shepherd (eds.), Resurrection of the Dead: Biblical Traditions in Dialogue, BETL 249 (Leuven: Peeters, 2012), 403–16; ‘The Spirit Before the Letter: Dreams and Visions as the Legitimation of the Shepherd of Hermas. A Study of Vision 5’, in B. Koet (ed.), Dreams as Divine Communication in Christianity: From Hermas to Aquinas, Studies in the History and Anthropology of Religion 3 (Leuven: Peeters, 2012), 23–56 (with J. Verheyden); and Community Building in the Shepherd of Hermas: A Critical Study of Some Key Aspects, SVigChr (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). Clayton N. Jefford (Ph.D. 1988, The Claremont Graduate School) is Professor of Scripture at Saint Meinrad Seminary & School of Theology. Recent publications include ‘The Wilderness Narrative in the Apostolic Fathers’, in K. E. Pomykala (ed.), Israel in the Wilderness: Interpretations of the Biblical Narratives in Jewish and Christian Traditions, Themes in Biblical Narrative 10 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 157–72; ‘Ignatius and the Apostolic Fathers’, in D. J. Bingham (ed.), The Routledge Companion to Early Christian Thought (London: Routledge, 2010), 108–20; and ‘Prophecy and Prophetism in the Apostolic Fathers’, in J. Verheyden, K. Zamfir and T. Nicklas (eds.), Prophets and Prophecy in Jewish and Early Christian Literature, WUNT 2.286 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 295–316.

220

List of Contributors

James A. Kelhoffer (Ph.D. 1999, University of Chicago) is Professor of New Testament Exegesis at Uppsala University. Recent publications include Persecution, Persuasion and Power: Readiness to Withstand Hardship as a Corroboration of Legitimacy in the New Testament, WUNT 1.270 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010); ‘The Maccabees at Prayer: Pro- and Anti-Hasmonean Tendencies in the Prayers of First and Second Maccabees’, in Early Christianity 2 (2011), 198–218; and Conceptions of “Gospel” and Legitimacy in Early Christianity, WUNT 1.324 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014). Taras Khomych (Ph.D. 2007, University of Leuven) is Lecturer in Patrology at the Ukrainian Catholic University in Lviv and Free Research Assistant at the University of Leuven. Recent publications include Studia Patristica LI: Including Papers Presented at the Conference ‘The Image of the Perfect Christian in Patristic Thought’ at the Ukrainian Catholic University in Lviv, Ukraine, under Taras Khomych, Oleksandra Vakula and Oleh Kindiy in 2009 (Leuven: Peeters, 2011) (ed. with A. Brent, O. ­Vakula and M. Vinzent); ‘The Construction of 2 Corinthians 1,20 Revisited’, in ZNW 103 (2012), 283–90; and ‘The Martyrdom of Polycarp in Church Slavonic: An Evidence of the Academic Menologion’, in VigChr 67 (2013), 393–406. John S. Kloppenborg (Ph.D. 1984, University of St. Michael’s College) is Professor of Religion and Chair in the Department for the Study of Religion, University of Toronto. Recent publications include ‘James 1:2–15 and Hellenistic Psychagogy’, in NT 52 (2010), 37–71; Attica, Central Greece, Macedonia, Thrace. Vol. 1 of Greco-Roman Associations: Texts, Translations, and Commentary, BZNW 181 (Berlin / New York: de Gruyter, 2011) (with R. S. Ascough); ‘Synopses and the Synoptic Problem’, in ­P. ­Foster, A. Gregory, J. S. Kloppenborg and J. Verheyden (eds.), New Studies in the Synoptic Problem. Oxford Conference, April 2008. Essays in Honour of Christopher M. Tuckett, BETL 239 (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 51–85. Judith M. Lieu (Ph.D. 1980, University of Birmingham) is Lady Margaret’s Professor of Divinity at the University of Cambridge. Recent publications include I, II, & III John: A Commentary, NTLi (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008); ‘Jews, Christians and “Pagans” in Conflict’, in A.-C. Jacobsen, J. Ulrich and D. Brakke (eds.), Critique and Apologetics: Jews, Christians and Pagans in Antiquity, Early Christianity in the Context of Antiquity 4 (Frankfurt am Main: P. Lang, 2009), 43–58; and ‘Marcion and the Synoptic Problem’, in P. Foster, A. Gregory, J. S. Kloppenborg and J. Verheyden (eds.), New Studies in the Synoptic Problem. Oxford Conference, April 2008. Essays in Honour of Christopher M. Tuckett, BETL 239 (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 731–51. Andreas Lindemann (Ph.D. 1975, University of Göttingen) is emeritus Professor of New Testament at the KH Wuppertal/Bielefeld. Recent publications include Die Evangelien und die Apostelgeschichte. Studien zu ihrer Theologie und zu ihrer Geschichte, WUNT 1.241 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009); ‘Zur frühchristlichen Taufpraxis. Die Taufe in der Didache, bei Justin und in der Didaskalia’, in D. Hellholm, T. Vegge, Ø. ­Norderval and C. Hellholm (eds.), Ablution, Inititation, and Baptism. Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity / Waschungen, Initiation und Taufe. Spätantike, Frühes Judentum und Frühes Christentum, BZNW 176/2 (Berlin:



List of Contributors

221

de Gruyter, 2011), 767–815; and Glauben, Handeln, Verstehen. Studien zur Auslegung des Neuen Testaments, II, WUNT 1.282 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). Harry O. Maier (Ph.D. 1987, University of Oxford) is Professor of New Testament and Early Christian Studies at Vancouver School of Theology, Vancouver, and Senior Fellow at the Max Weber College for Advanced Cultural and Social Studies at the University of Erfurt. Recent publications include The Calling of the Nations: Exegesis, Ethnography, and Empire in a Biblical-Historic Present (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011) (ed. with M. Vessey, S. V. Betcher and R. Daum); ‘The Shepherd of Hermas’, in M. D. Coogan (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Books of the Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 317–22; and Picturing Paul in Empire: Imperial Image, Text and Persuasion in Colossians, Ephesians and the Pastoral Epistles (London / New York: T&T Clark / Bloomsbury, 2013). Tobias Nicklas (Ph.D. 2000, University of Regensburg) is Professor of Exegesis and Hermeneutics of the New Testament at the University of Regensburg. Recent publications include Other Worlds and Their Relation to This World: Early Jewish and Christian Traditions, JSJ.S 143 (Leiden: Brill, 2010) (ed. with J. Verheyden, E. E ­ ynikel and F. García Martínez); Ancient Christian Interpretations of “Violent Texts” in the Apocalypse, NTOA / StUNT 92 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011) (ed. with J. Verheyden and A. Merkt, in cooperation with M. Grundeken); and Ancient Perspectives on Paul, NTOA / StUNT 102 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013) (ed. with A. Merkt and J. Verheyden). Joseph Verheyden (Ph.D. 1987, University of Leuven) is Professor of New Testament at the University of Leuven. Recent publications include The Figure of Solomon in Jewish, Christian and Islamic Tradition: King, Sage and Architect, Themes in Biblical Narrative 16 (Leiden: Brill, 2013); Early Christian Ethics in Interaction with Jewish and Greco-Roman Contexts, STAR 17 (Leiden: Brill, 2013) (ed. with J. W. van ­Henten); and The Elijah-Elisha Narrative in the Composition of Luke, LNTS (New York: Bloomsbury, 2014) (ed. with J. S. Kloppenborg).

Index of Ancient Sources I.  Old Testament Ezra 166

Genesis 2:15–16 104 25 195 48 195

Nehemiah 166

Leviticus 16:29 185n38 23:26–32 185n38

Psalms 13, 184n29 1:3–6 22 197n92 115:1 104n95

Numbers 17:1–8 58

Proverbs 12:28 30n4

Deuteronomy 4:16–20 209 104, 105n101 28:58 104n96 28:61 104n96 29:19 29:26 104n96 104n96 30:10 30:15 30n4 31:9 104n96

Isaiah 1:11–13 14 1:16–20 21 3:5 78 16:1–2 13 186, 186n40–41, 187 49:17 54–66 96 54 96 54:1 96 58 185n38

Joshua 1:8 104n96 8:34 104n96 22:6 104n96 1 Kings 2:3 104n96 14:29 104n96 15:7 104n96 15:23 104n96 15:31 104n96

104 Jeremiah 21:8 30n4 Ezekiel 14:13–20 19 13 47 14 47:1–12 Malachi 1:11 12, 24 1:14 12

II.  Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha 2 Enoch 30.15 30n4

Jubilees 166

224

Index of Ancient Sources

Testament of Abraham 206n12

2 Maccabees 2:21 174n34 8:11 174n34 14:38 174n34

Testament of Asher 1.5–9 30n4 Testament of Levi 19.1 30n4

4 Maccabees 4:26 174n34 5:7 205n8 5:13 205n8

Wisdom 14:17 205n8 14:27 205n8

Sirach 15:17 30n4

III.  Other Jewish Literature 1QSa 3.13–4.1 30n4

1.10 162n2 1.12 162n2

Aristeas 185n36

Mishnah Parah 3 185n35

Berakhot Rabbah 64.10 187n43–44

Mishnah Yoma 6 185n35

Book of Biblical Antiquities 21.10 183n26

Philo

On the Migration of Abraham 89–93 201n101

Josephus Against Apion 2.137 212 Jewish War 2.8.2

210

Targum Pseudo-Jonathan Deut 30:15 30n4

162n2

Tosefta Tannaim 1.8 185n38

Life 1.2 162n2

IV.  New Testament Matthew

3, 8n21, 12n40, 17n57, 32, 36, 45, 129n10 3:11 2 3:16 9n28 6 10 6:1–18 31n6 6:9–13 10n34 7:6 11 7:13–14 30n4 7:15 173 10:16 173

11:12 2 24:2–25:46 30n5 26:30 36 28:16–20 2 28:19 7 Mark 36 1:8 2 1:10 9n28 4:3–9 20 4:13–20 20



IV.  New Testament

4:18 20 8:27 38n24 10:52 38n24 12:14 38n24 13:1–36 30n5 14:22–25 3 14:26 36 16:8 105n99 101, 105n99 16:9–20 Luke 36, 42 3:16 2 3:17 2 21:5–38 30n5 22 3 22:15–20 3 22:19 2–3 John 42–44 3:3 21 3:23 9n28 4:10 8 5:24 15 4, 37n22, 41, 169–170 6 6:37 170 6:44 170 6:51–58 4, 16 6:53–57 36 6:60 169n24 6:65 170 6:66 169 7:43 170 9:16 170 9:34 170 10:19 170 17 37n22 17:18 57n33 19:24 170 21 170 21:11 170 2–4, 11n36, 25, 42, 100, 165 2 44 2, 13n42 2:38 2:41–47 29n1 2:41 2 2:44–45 44n45 4:32–35 29n1 4:32 44n45 5:17 162n2 8:36–39 9 8:36 3 Acts

225

10:47 9 11:16 9 14:23 72n53 15:5 162n2 20:17 57n34 20:28 57n34 28:22 162n2 Romans 192 1:3–4 117 1:13 89n23 1:24–25 209 4 195n83 4:12 195n83 6:1–4 2–3 6:3–4 2n3 15:25–31 44n45 16 70, 148, 153 16:1–2 54n24 16:1 70–71 16:2 154 1 Corinthians

3–4, 36, 41–42, 47, 59n39, 68, 75, 78 1:10 89n23 1:11–12 49 1:13–17 2 1:17 7 3:5 42n35 3:16 122 83, 86 5:3 8–10 6n18 10–11 39 10:1–4 1 10:14–22 3 10:17 17n56 11 12 11:17ff. 5 XI, 167 11:17–19 11:20–22 41 2–3, 6, 12 11:23–25 11:33–34 41 12:12–26 167 12:13 2 12:28 70 14 91–92 14:26 91 14:29–32 69 14:29 91 14:30 91n32 14:31 91n32 14:37–40 69 15:29 2

226

Index of Ancient Sources

16:1–4 68n40 44n45, 68n40 16:3 16:5–12 86 69, 71 16:15 2 Corinthians 1:8 89n23 3:6–7 194n80 4:13 104n95 8:18–19 72n53 13:11 89n23 Galatians 1:7 168 1:8–10 168 1:13–14 174n34 2:4 168 2:5 169 2:7–9 168n21 2:11–14 41 2:12 168n21 2:14 169 3:15 89n23 3:27–28 2 3:27 2n3 4:8–10 168 4:27 96 5:7 168 5:10 168 5:12 168 5:17–18 30n4 XI, 167 5:19–21 6:12–13 168 Ephesians 3:20–22 122 4:4 132n26 3, 132n26 4:5 5:26 9n29 6:11–17 18 Philippians 70 70–71, 73, 73n57 1:1 1:12 89n23 Colossians 2:12 3 3:1 123 1 Thessalonians 2:1 89n23 4:13–5:11 30n5 5:8 18

5:12 5:27

68, 71–72 85, 97

2 Thessalonians 2 212n24 2:1–11 30n5 2:1 89n23 1 Timothy 2:10 205n9 4:1 164 4:7 164 66, 161 6:20 Titus 2:13 117 3:5 13n42 3:10–11 164–166 Philemon 86 7 89n23 87, 92, 108, 194n80 Hebrews 3:1 89n24 6:4–6 135n33 10:22 9n29 10:26 135n33 12:17 135n33 13:10 4 James 1:16 89n23 1 Peter 3:20–21 9n29 2 Peter 1:10 89n23 1:19 105n100 2:1 167n18 2:8 136n40 1 John 87, 108, 169–171 2 170 XI, 169–170 2:18–19 2:18 169 2:19 49, 169–170 2:20 170 2:22 170 3:8 170 3:10 170 3:13 89n24 4 170



V.  Other Early Christian Literature

227

11 171

4:1 169 4:2–3 170 4:15 170 5:6 9n29

3 John 86n13–14, 87n16 9–10 49

86n13–14, 87n16 2 John 10–11 166

Revelation 105, 158 3:20 4

V.  Other Early Christian Literature Apocalypse of Peter 2.8–13 199n100 Apostolic Constitutions 7 31n9 7.28.4–6 35n17

Aristides

197n89

Apology 213

Athanasius of Alexandria Festal Letters 39 7n20 Barnabas

XI–XII, 5, 42, 177–202, 213 177n4, 181 1 1.5 180n15, 181, 192 1.6 181 181n20–21, 189n56, 1.7 190n66, 192 1.8 192 2–16 181 2–3 182n23 2 182 2.1 189 2.3 181n21 2.4 181n20 VII, 14 2.5 14, 186n39, 187n45, 2.6 193n75, 194 2.7 181n20, 183n26 181n20, 183, 183n26, 189, 2.9 196, 197n94 2.10 89n23, 181n20, 196 182, 185, 185n38, 197 3 3.1 181n20 3.3 181n20 3.6 89n23, 180n13, 181n20,

182–183, 183n26, 195n82, 197n94, 198 4 182, 184, 189, 194n79, 196 4.1ff. 196 4.1 189 4.2 186n40 4.3–5 187n43 4.3 186n40 180n13, 182, 183n26, 189, 4.6 195n85, 196, 199, 199n99 4.7 181n20, 183n26 4.8ff. 191 4.8 181n20 4.9 193 4.10 186n40 183n26, 191 4.11ff. 4.11 183n26 4.12 186n40 4.14 181n20–21, 183n26, 189n61 181n20, 189n61, 190n61 5.2 5.3 181n21 5.6 186n40 5.7 195n82 189n61, 190n61 5.8 181n20, 183n26, 184, 5.11 194n79 5.12 181n20 5.13 197n92 13, 182 6 6.5 186n40 6.6 197n92 181n20, 189n61, 190n61 6.7 VII, 13 6.8–18 13, 181n20 6.8 6.9 181n21, 196n86 13, 181n21, 193 6.10 13, 193n76 6.11 6.12–13 181n20

228

Index of Ancient Sources

6.14 13 6.19 191n70 7 185, 185n35.37 7.1 181n20–21 7.2 181n20 7.3 193n76 181n20, 186n40, 195n82 7.5 7.6 186n40 7.7 193n76 7.10 193n76 7.11 193n76 8 185, 185n35.37 183n26, 184, 189n61, 8.1 190n61, 193n76, 194n79 181n21, 186n40 8.2 8.3 189n61 181, 181n20, 184, 196, 8.7 197n94 182n23, 191 9–10 182, 195n84 9 9.1–3 187n45, 195n84, 196 9.2 189n61 181n20, 184, 187n45, 9.4 190n67, 196, 197n94 9.5 186n40 182, 184, 196n85 9.6 9.8 181n21 186n40, 193, 196n86 9.9 9.10 196n86 182, 185n36, 193n77 10 181n20, 184, 196, 197n94 10.9 10.10 181n21 10.11 185n36, 189 181, 181n20–21, 191, 10.12 196n86, 197n94 11 VII 11.1 13, 181n20, 184, 186n39 13, 184 11.2 11.3–7 13 11.6–7 13 11.6 13 11.7 184 11.8 13 11.10 14 13–14, 181n20 11.11 12 190, 193n77, 198 189n61, 193, 193n76 12.2 184, 197, 197n87 12.3 189n61, 193, 193n76 12.5 12.6 193n76 12.7 196 12.10–11 199n100 186n40, 193n76, 196n85 12.10

12.11 186n40 182, 185, 196 13 13.1ff. 180n13 181n20, 183n26, 195 13.1 13.3 185n33 193n76, 195n82 13.5 185n33, 195 13.6 182, 195n83 13.7 14 182, 184, 191, 194n79 181n20, 193 14.4 181n20, 183n26, 194n79 14.5 15–16 182n23 15 182, 195n84 15.4 186n40 15.6 191n70 181n20, 184, 197n94 15.8 182, 184, 186, 189 16 16.1ff. 197n94 16.1 180n13 184, 187, 187n45 16.2 186, 187n45, 189n56, 199 16.3–4 16.3 186n40 16.4–5 189n56 16.4 186n42 16.5ff. 200 16.5 186n40, 188, 189n61, 190n61.66, 193n76 16.9 181n21 18–20 30n4 21 192 21.1 189 21.4 189 181n21, 189, 192 21.5 21.6 189 21.8 189 1 Clement

IX, 5, 42, 51–81, 84, 86n12, 88–89, 94, 97, 101n83, 105, 172, 178, 194n80, 200–201 Inscription 52n4 1–42 76 1–39 54 1–3 52 1 58 1.1 76, 89n23 VIII, 54, 56 1.2–2.8 54n21, 59 1.2 1.3–2.8 55 55n26, 58, 65–66 1.3 2.8 56n28 3 56 3.1–4 78



V.  Other Early Christian Literature

3.1 VIII, 56n29, 104n95 VIII, 56 3.2–4 3.3 78 VIII, 56 4–39 9.4 77n71 11.2 77n72 13.1 104n95 14.1 89n23 17.1 178n7 20.3 77 20.10–11 77 21.1 77 55, 58 21.6–8 49, 65–66 21.6 22.1–8 178n7 23.2 105n100 26 58 29.1–30.1 178n7 30.3 77 31.2 178n7 33.1 89n23 34.7 77 VIII, 54, 57 40–65 40–44 52 40 57 41 57 58, 113 42 58n36 42.4­–5 42.4 66n27 43–44 VIII 43 58 57n34, 58 44 44.1 79 59n37, 65n20, 75 44.3 44.5 49 46.5–7 59n38 47.1 59n39 47.5–6 59 47.5 65 49.5 77 50.5 77 51.1–4 77n73 54 81 49, 65n20 54.2 54.3 78 57.1–58.2 53n11 57.1 49 60.4 77 61.1 77 63.2 53n12, 83, 97, 103, 105n101, 106 2 Clement

IX, 5, 83–108, 178n7, 200

1–20 1–18

229

100, 103 88, 95n52, 96–97, 101–107 1 99n69 1.1–8 98 1.1–2 83 89, 99 1.1 2–18 99 2 99n69 2.1 96 2.2–3 96 2.4 102 4.3 89 89, 99 5.1 89, 99 5.5 VII, 19, 102 6.8 6.9 19 7 99n69 7.1 89 8–18 92 8.4 89 102, 103n91, 105n100 8.5 9–10 99n69 9 92 9.11 89 10.1 89 11.2 105n100 11.5 89 12.5 89 13.1 89 14 92 89, 102, 105n100 14.1 14.2 102 14.3 89 15.1 94 16.1 89 16.4 186n38 17.3 89, 94, 100 83, 99n69 18 18.2 83 83, 84n7, 96n58, 97, 19–20 100–103, 105 19.1 IX, 83, 88–89, 94, 96–97, 100–107 88n21, 89, 101 20.2 20.5 83

Clement of Alexandria  42, 210 Pedagogue 3.90.1 186n38 Stromateis 2.6.31 181

230

Index of Ancient Sources

2.7.35 181 2.15.67 181 2.18.84 181 2.20.116 181 5.8.51–52 181 5.10.63 181 Didache

5, 8–12, 14–15, 25–27, 29–49, 60, 64, 178 6n16, 7n20, 43n39 1–6 1.1–6.2 6 1.1–6.1 47 30, 34 1–5 1 31 1.3 41n33 1.5 41n33 3.4 47 4.14 41n33 6–10 31, 34 6 34 6.1–2 7 6.1 46 6, 45–46 6.2 6.3 6–7 7–15 6n16 7–10 10n32 VII, 7, 9–10, 11n36 7 7.1–3 9 6–7, 9 7.1 8, 10n32 7.2–3 7.2 8–10 7.3 9, 9n26, 10 9–10, 21 7.4 8 31 8.1–3 6 8.1–2 46 8.1 10 8, 10, 39, 41n33, 47 8.2 8.4–5 11 9–10 VII–VIII, 11–12, 30, 33–34, 37, 39, 47–48 9.1–10.7 12n37 9 40n32 9.1 6 9.2–3 41n33 11, 42 9.2 11, 34n15, 41n33 9.4 8n21, 9n27, 10n35, 11, 46 9.5 10.1 11 10.2 41n33 11, 12n37 10.3 10.5–6 11 10.5 11, 41n33 11, 41n33, 42 10.6

10.7 6, 45 10.8 6 11–15 31 11–12 34 11.2 46 41n33, 47, 64 11.3 11.5–12 46 11.11 41n33 12.1 46 12.5 46 13.1 40n31 14 VII, 12 14.1–3 47 12, 41n33 14.1 12n38, 41n33, 47 14.3 15.1–4 47 41n33, 72n53 15.1 15.3–4 47 15.3 72–73 16 6n16, 30, 35, 43 16.1–8 46–47

Didymus of Alexandria  5n14 ad Diognetum 5, 178, 198n97, 203–217 1–2 205 205, 211 1 204–205, 205n8–9, 206 1.1 2 XII, 205–207, 209, 211 205, 209 2.1 2.2 206 2.3 206 2.5 206 206, 208 2.7 2.8–9 206 206–207, 209 2.10 3–4 XII, 211, 213–214, 216 3 211 205, 205n8, 211 3.2 3.3 211 3.5 211 4 212–213 205, 214 4.1 5 212n25 6.1–9 210 7 209 8 209 8.1–4 209–210 8.2 210–211 8.4 210 10.3–6 210 10.7–8 211 12.3 104



V.  Other Early Christian Literature

Doctrina apostolorum  34n16 Didascalia

193n75, 195n81

Epiphanius On Weights and Measures 14.2 187n46

Eusebius of Caesarea  105, 189n55 Ecclesiastical History 3.36.1–11 110n2 3.38.4 105n102 4.6.4 187n45 4.7.1–4 161 4.14.1–8 166 4.18 164 4.28.1 161 5.7.1 161 Gospel of Judas 203 Gospel of Thomas 43

Hermas

XI, 5, 65, 90, 127–160, 194n80

Visions 1.1 130n14 148, 152 1.1.1–9 1.1.2 140 1.1.3 156 1.1.9 128n4 1.3 156 2.1.1 156 2.2.2 140n55 2.2.3 140 2.2.7–8 140n55–56 140, 140n56 2.3.4 2.4.1 89n24, 102n89, 128n5 128n7, 153 2.4.3 VII, 134, 142, 148 3 89n24, 128n5 3.1.1 3.1.2–4 156 3.1.2 148 3.1.3 156 89n24, 128n5 3.1.4 3.1.9 140n56 3.2.1 140n56 130, 148 3.2.4 3.2.5–6 148 3.2.8–9 20 3.2.9 129–130, 142

231

3.3.5 130 3.5.4 130n18 3.6.5–6 139n50 3.6.5 140n56 3.6.7 139 20, 130 3.7.3 3.9.1–2 140 3.9.1 128n5 3.9.4–5 140 3.9.7 66 3.10.3 89n24, 128n5 3.10.6 136 3.13.3 138 89n24, 128n5 4.1.1 4.1.5 89n24, 128n5 89n24, 128n5 4.1.8 148, 151 4.2 Mandates 1.2 131n20 2.2.4 137 4 137n41, 140 4.1 140 135, 136n38, 137–138 4.2.2 4.2.3–4 136 4.3 X, 127 127, 129–130, 133, 142 4.3.1 4.3.2 127 127, 130 4.3.3 4.3.4 130 4.3.6 127 4.3.7 127 4.4 140 5.1.7 128n4, 137 6.1.1–6.2.10 30n4 10.2.3–4 137 10.2.3 138 11.1 140n54 11.2 140n54 11.4 140 12.6.1 128n5 Similitudes 157, 159 1 1.1–2 143 1.1 128n5 1.3–6 143 1.8–9 140 1.8 143 1.9 137n42, 139n50 1.11 137n42 2 139 149, 156 2.1–10 2.7 139n50

232 3.1–4.8 156 4.5–7 149 5.1 156 5.3.1–6 103n94 103n94, 185n38 5.3.7 5.3.9 128n4 6.1.5–6 156 6.2.4 138 6.5.5 141 6.5.7 141 135, 136n38 7.4 7.7 128n4 8 131n21 8.1 156 8.2.2–3 131n22 8.2.7–8 131n21 8.3.2 132n25 8.3.7 140n56 8.3.8 131n21 131, 131n22 8.6.3 8.6.6 138, 139n48 8.7.5 131n21 8.10.1 141 8.10.2 141 8.10.3 141 8.11.1 138 8.11.3 138 134, 142, 148 9 9.1.4–10 156 9.1.4 156 9.1.8 131n21 9.1.9 131n21 9.3.3 148 9.4.5–7 148 9.6.4 148 9.7.2 148 9.7.6 148 9.8.2–3 148 9.8.5 148 9.9.1 148n14 9.10.6–9.11.8 140 9.10.3 131n21 9.12 133 9.12.1 133 9.12.4–5 133 9.12.4 133 9.12.6 133 9.13 133 9.13.1 133 9.13.2–5 133 9.13.2 133 9.13.3–6 133 9.13.3 133

Index of Ancient Sources

9.13.5 131n21, 132n26, 133 9.13.7 133 128n4, 133 9.13.9 9.14–15 141 9.14.1–2 138 9.14.1 128n4 9.14.3 138 9.15 133 9.15.1–2 138, 141 9.15.2–3 141 138, 141 9.15.3 9.16 131 9.16.1–2 131 129, 131, 142 9.16.2 9.16.3 131–132 129, 131–132, 142 9.16.4 9.16.5 131 9.16.6–7 131 129, 142 9.16.6 9.16.7 131 9.17 131 9.17.1–4 134 9.17.1 131–132 9.17.2 131 132, 132n26 9.17.3 9.17.4 132 132, 141 9.17.5 9.18.2 128n4 9.20.4 138 9.21.1 140 140, 140n56 9.21.3 9.25.1–2 131n21 9.26 131n21 9.27.2 153 9.28.4–8 140 9.28.4 140 9.30.5 139n50 9.31.1 132 132, 139n50 9.31.2 132, 138 9.31.3 9.32.1 138 9.33.1 128n5 10.4.2 137n42 134, 137n42 10.4.4

Hippolytus

93

Antichrist

212n24

Ignatius

VII, X–XI, 5, 14–19, 26–27, 31, 60, 72n54, 89, 109–126, 171–175, 178, 194n80



V.  Other Early Christian Literature

Ephesians 117–118, 120 Inscription 1.1 117 2.3 172 124–125, 172 3.2 4.2 124 5.1 172 5.2 VII, 14–15, 172 6.2 172 7 173 7.1 119 7.2 119–120 9 171 9.1 123–124 89n23, 173 10.3 11.2 110, 116 IX, 111, 116, 125 12.2 VII, 14, 172 13.1 14.1 172 15.3 172n27 18.2 VII, 15, 117 15, 172 20.2 21 172n30 Magnesians 123, 172 1.2 4 172n28 4.1 174 5 174 111, 113, 116, 172n29 6.1 7.1 111–112, 116 VII, 15, 172 7.2 8 203 8.1 173n32 9.1 123 10 203 10.1 174 10.3 174 11.1 171 13.1 112 112, 116 13.2 14–15 172n30 Philadelphians 2 173 2.1 172 171, 173 3 3.1 172 17, 172n31, 173n32 3.3 4 VII, 17, 122, 172 114, 116 5.1 6.1 174 6.2 172 7.2 172 8.1 172

233

9.1 115 9.2 115 10.1 72n54 10.2 172 110 Polycarp 2.1 173 6 VII 6.1 18n59 6.2 18 7.2 72n54 118, 120 8.3 113 Romans 114, 118, 173n32 Inscription 2 172 3.3 118, 174 4–5 173 4 171 4.1 16 4.3 IX, 114, 116, 126 5.3 173 6.2 89n23 6.3 117 VII, 16 7.3 9 172n30 119 Smyrnaeans 1–4 173 15n50, 17 1.1–2 122, 124 1.2 2 172, 174 122, 174 2.1 4 173 4.1 173 16n55, 17 4.2 5.1 17 5.2 120 5.3 174 6 121n25 6.1 120n22, 121n24 17, 120n22, 121, 173n32 6.2 7–8 172 7.1–7 VII 7.1 17 17, 172n31, 173 7.2 8.1–2 VII 17, 18n58, 115, 121, 126 8.1 8.2 18–19, 121 9.1 116 11.2 72n54 Trallians 123 112 Inscription 1.1 172n29 2.1–2 VII, 15

234

Index of Ancient Sources

2.1 120n22 113, 116 2.2 2.3 15 111–113, 116, 174 3.1 112, 114, 116 3.3 6 173 6.1 172–173 6.2 119 VII, 16, 172 7.2 120, 171 8.1 9 173 9.1 120 114, 173–174 10 120, 174 10.1 11 173 11.2 124 12.2 113 12.3 113

Irenaeus

XI, 194n80, 195n81

Against Heresies 161–167 Title 161 1 163 1, Preface 163–164 1.16.3 164–166 1.21–28 163 2, Preface 161 2.14.7 161 3.3.1–4 163 166, 171n25 3.3.4 3.11.9 164 163 4, Preface 4.6.2 164 4.15.1 193n75 4.27.2 163 5.25.1–4 212n24 5.28.3 171 5.30.4 212n24 John Chrysostom 214

Justin Martyr

9, 25–26, 42, 179n8, 184n31, 194n80, 195n81, 197, 197n89, 201

1 Apology 16n52, 20n68 26.6–7 165 164, 165n11 26.8 31.6 199n100 61–67 VII 61–66 21 61.1 21 10n31, 21 61.2

61.3 22 61.4 21 61.5–8 21 61.9–10 25 61.9 21 61.10 21 61.11 21n71 61.12 22 61.13 22 62.1 22 62.2–64.6 22 24, 24n79 65–66 65 22 65.1–2 22 65.3–5 22 65.4 22n75 66.1–4 22 66.1 22 66.2 22 66.3 23 66.4 23 67 21, 23–24, 88–92, 96 67.1–2 23 67.3ff. 23 67.3 91 67.4 23, 91 67.5 23 67.6 23 67.7 23 67.8 25n84 Dialogue with Trypho  197, 203 1.7 91 104, 105n101, 192 8.4 9.2 24n81 9.3 188n54 10.3 192 12 182n22 14 182n22 14.1 25 15 182n22, 186n38 16 182n22 16.2 188n54 17.1 165n11 19 182n22 21 182n22 22 182n22 23 182n22 25 182n22 35.1–6 165 35.3 165n11 48 165n12 49.2ff. 25n83 50.2–3 25n83



51.2 165n11 62.3 165n11 80.4 165n11 88.3ff. 25n83 88.7–8 25 92.2 188n54 108.2 165n11 114 104 114.5 188n54 116.3 24 117.1 24 117.2 24 117.3 24 133 188n54 Martyrdom of Polycarp  5, 90, 178, 197 1.1 89n24 4.1 89n24 22.1 89n24

Melito of Sardis 93, 214 Paschal Homily

235

VI.  Greek and Roman Literature

92, 194n80

8.17 38n25

Papias

5

Paschal Chronicle 188n46

Polycarp

5, 31

Philippians 3.1 89n23 7.1 171n25 11.1 49 Pseudo-Clementine Writings 203 Homilies 8.5–7 183n27

Tertullian Against Marcion 4.34.5 1 Against Praxeas 26 9n26 On the Flesh of Christ 14 162

Origen Against Celsus 3.23 38n25

Theophilos

205n9

VI.  Greek and Roman Literature Apion of Oasis

212

Aristotle

53

Chrysippus 210 Celsus

207, 213, 216

Nicomachean Ethics 47n54

Cicero

Rhetoric 1 53n10 1.3.4 53n15 1.8.7 53n18

Pro Milone 93 81

Augustan History

On Style

Hadrian 14.2 187n45

Dio Chrysostom

Cassius Dio

76, 189n55

Roman History 69.12 187n45

Demetrius 86

Orations 39.2 76 49.6 76

Diodorus Siculus 20.53.3 136n40

236

Index of Ancient Sources

20.77.3 136n40

Plato

86

Diogenes Laertius 47n54

Plutarch

47n54, 76

Einsiedeln Eclogues 2.15–38 158n34

Porphyry

Empedocles

On the Cult of Idols 207

210

Quintilian

Hecataeus of Abdera  212 Heraclitus

208n15, 210

Institutes of Oratory 3 53n10 3.8.6 53n19

Iamblichus

47n54

Tacitus

76

Histories 5 213

Lucian of Samosata XII, 76 Passing of Peregrinus 11 38n25

Theagenes

True Story 2.11–13 158n36

Virgil

210

Zeus Rants 7 208

Eclogues 4 158n34

Maximus of Tyre

Xenophon

93n42

Dissertations 7 210

Zeno

210

VII.  Inscriptions and Papyri Agora 16:161.9–10, 16–17  70n48 AM 66 228 no. 4.18–20  80n87 CIG II 2007f

74n61

IG II2 1343 IG II2 1368

79n85 73, 73n56, 74n60.63, 79, 79n85 IG II2 2347 71n49 IG II2 2361.10, 68 73n56

CPJ 451–490 215n33

IG X/2.1 192

I.Delos 1522

48n55 IG XII/1 789 IG XII/3 329/1295 74n64

74n64

70n48, 80n87 IG II2 1263 IG II2 1273AB.22–23  80n87 IG II2 1275 70 IG II2 1277.16–17 70n48 IG II2 1284.26–27 70n48 IG II2 1292 70n48, 80n87 IG II2 1297.17–18 80n87 IG II2 1323 72 IG II2 1326.36 73n56 IG II2 1328 72, 73n56, 79

79n85

IPerinthos 49.A8–9  74n59 IRhamnous II 59 70n48, 72n54 P.Lond VII 2193.13–14  80n86 SEG 2:9.5–6, 11 70n48 SEG 21:122.9 79n85 SEG 31:122.30, 40 70n48

Index of Modern Authors Abramowski, L.  23n77 Ådna, J.  119n21 Adnès, P.  135n36 Aland, B.  206n10 Alikin, V. A.  12n37, 15n49, 22n73 Allison, D. A.  10n34 Aragione, G.  204n7, 215n32 Arnaoutoglou, I.  74n62 Ascough, R. S.  41n33, 48n55, 68n39, 71n51, 72n55, 74n58, 147n10, 220 Audet, J.-P.  7n20 Aune, D.  158n37 Auwers, J.-M.  23n77 Bakke, O. M.  53n14.16–17, 54n20, 56n30, 76n67, 78n81–82, 80 Balabanski, V.  30n5, 43n39 Balch, D. L.  145, 146n5.8, 147n9, 150n16, 151n17, 154n25 Barnard, L. W.  129n9 Bauckham, R.  199n100 Bauer, W.  16n52–54, 17n56–57, 18n60 Beatrice, P. F.  191n70 Becker, A.  185n32 Becker, J.  23n78 Bendlin, A.  71n50 Benko, S.  145n5 Benoît, A.  21n69, 165n13 Bernabé Ubieta, C.  144n1 Berquist, J.  144n1 Betcher, S. V.  221 Betz, J.  30n3, 37n20 Beyschlag, K.  77n74 Bienert, D. C.  211n21 Bihlmeyer, K.  5n13 Billings, B. S.  146n8 Bingham, D. J.  219 Blomkvist, V.  129n9.13, 130n15.17, 131n22, 132n27, 135n33 Bobichon, P.  197n91 Boer, M. C. de  168n22–23 Bornkamm, G.  30n3 Boulluec, A. le  162n1, 164n8 Bowe, B. E.  53n14, 76n67, 78n79

Boyarin, D.  203n1 Brakke, D.  220 Brändle, R.  208n15, 210n20, 214n29, 217n37 Brent, A.  220 Breytenbach, C.  52n8, 65n20, 76n66 Broude, N.  154n24 Brown, R. E.  57n34 Brox, N.  127n3, 128n8–9, 131n22, 135n35, 136n38, 137n41–42, 138n47, 139n51, 140n52, 148n13 Bryennios, P.  64n16, 84n7, 105n103 Buitenwerf, R.  39n26 Bultmann, R.  4n11, 94n46 Burkitt, F. C.  29n2 Burtchaell, J. T.  38n25 Butler, H. E.  53n19 Camp, C. V.  144n1 Campenhausen, H. von  IX, 61, 65n23–24, 66n25–26.28, 68, 70n44–46, 71n52, 73, 77n74 Carleton Paget, J.  XI–XII, 177n5, 179n9.11, 185n35.37, 187n43–45, 188n51, 191n72, 193n75, 194n80–81, 195n83, 196n85, 198n96, 219 Carlini, A.  138n48 Casey, E. S.  144n2 Certeau, M. de  144n2 Christophersen, A.  41n34 Clabeaux, J. J.  30n3 Clark, E. A.  63n10 Clarke, J. R.  154n25 Claussen, C.  34n14, 37n22, 41n34 Coleborne, W.  129n9 Comblin, J.  158n37 Connolly, R. H.  29n2 Conzelmann, H.  40n29, 212n25 Coogan, M. D.  221 Cosgrove, D. E.  144n2 Countryman, L. W.  67n34, 77, 78n76 Cox Miller, P.  137n43 Danker, F. W.  97n63 Dassmann, E.  145, 146n5

238

Index of Modern Authors

Daum, R.  221 Davies, W. D.  10n34 Deissmann, A.  86n14 DeLaine, J.  150n16 DeMaris, R. E.  144n1 Dibelius, M.  5n13, 30n3, 128n8–9, 131n22, 136n38, 137n42, 148n13 Doeker, A.  34n14 Dölger, F. J.  131n22 Donfried, K. P.  83n4, 87n17, 88, 90n30, 93n39–44, 94n45–51, 95n52–53, 96n59–60, 97n62, 98n65, 99n69, 104n98,105n100, 107n107, 140n52 Douglas, M.  45n48–49, 46n50–52, 49n57 Draper, J. A.  6n16, 30n3, 31n8, 33n14, 35n17, 39n27, 40n28 Dunn, J. D. G.  67n32, 69n41, 123n30 Dunning, B. H.  157n33 Ebenbauer, P.  34n14 Ebner, M.  158n34 Ehrman, B. D.  104, 128n7, 143 Emmenegger, G.  60n40 Epp, E. J.  215n33 Erlemann, K.  51n1 Eynikel, E.  221 Felmy, K. C.  37n20 Ferguson, E.  57n35 Filson, F.  146n7 Finkelstein, L.  33n13 Flanagan, J. W.  144n1 Flusser, D.  30n4, 31n8, 34n14, 35n17 Förster, H.  163n6 Foster, P.  IX–X, 83n3, 101n81, 111n5, 117n15, 128n8, 204n4, 219, 220 Foucault, M.  155, 156n30–31, 157, 162 Frei, H. A.  136n39, 138n45 Frey, J.  42n34 Freyne, S.  144n1 Friesen, S.  152n21, 153 Fuellenbach, J.  65n22 Funk, F. X.  5n13 Fürst, A.  215n32–33, 217n36 Gager, J. G.  216n34 García Martínez, F.  221 Garrard, M. D.  154n24 Garrow, A. J. P.  30n2 Geer, R. M.  136n40 Geerlings, W.  37n20 Geffcken, J.  206n12, 209 Gehring, R. W.  146n8, 147n9

Georgi, D.  158n37 Gerhards, A.  34n14 Gibbins, H. J.  33n13 Giddens, A.  144n2 Giet, S. 128n9, 130n14 Glucker, J.  162n3 Goldhahn-Müller, I.  133n30, 135n33 Goodman, M.  187n43 Goodspeed, E.  104 Graham, H. H.  88, 92n34–36, 93, 98n67, 104n97 Grant, R. M.  92n34, 93n37–38 Grässer, E.  4n9 Gregory, A. F.  34n14, 45n46, 51n1, 57n33, 111n5, 128n7, 195n83, 220 Greyvenstein, J. H. J.  32n12 Grotz, J.  136n37 Grundeken, M.  X, 219, 221 Grünstäudl, W.  83n3, 101n83 Gunn, D. M.  144n1 Gutsfeld, A.  74n58 Hägglund, B.  134n31 Hahn, F. 3n8 Hainthaler, T.  60n40 Hall, S. G.  35n17, 42n37 Harakas, S. S.  178n6 Harland, P. A.  38n25, 68n39, 147n10 Harlow, D.  166n16 Harnack, A. von  IX, 7n19, 54n22, 61, 63n11, 64n15.17–19, 65n20–21, 66, 68, 79n84, 84n5, 90, 92n35, 146n6, 179n9 Hartman, L.  8n22 Harvey, D.  144n2 Hatch, E.  63n11–14, 64, 67, 146n6 Hays, C. M.  217n38, 219 Heemstra, M.  187n43 Heid, S.  20n68 Hellholm, C.  5n15, 13n42, 19n65, 20n67, 24n79, 129n9, 131n22, 220 Hellholm, D.  5n15, 13n42, 19n65, 20n66– 67, 24n79, 128n9, 129n9, 131n22, 220 Hendrik, C.  144n1 Henne, P.  127n2, 128n9 Henten, J. W. van  221 Hettema, T. L.  203n3 Hilhorst, A.  193n75 Hill, C. E.  215n32 Hollander, H. W.  39n26 Holmberg, B.  62n9, 69n42–43 Holmes, M. W.  52n4, 57n34, 97n64, 104, 110n3, 204n4, 215n32 Holtzmann, H.-J.  105n103



Index of Modern Authors

Horbury, W.  179n9, 184n30–31, 185n38, 186n41, 187n43–44, 188n53, 192n73, 193n75, 198n95, 201n101, 213n27 Horsley, R. A.  167n19 Hubbard, P.  144n2 Hume, D. A.  29n1, 47n54 Hurd, J. C.  73n57 Hurtado, L. W.  118n19, 125n34 Hvalvik, R.  177n1–2, 181n20–21, 182n24, 188n48–49.51.53, 192n73–74, 194n80, 198n98, 199n100 Jaccottet, A.-F.  73n56, 74n63 Jacobsen, A.-C.  204n4, 220 Jaeger, W.  52n7 Jakab, A.  215n32 Janeras, S.  138n48 Jaubert, A.  51n1, 57n33 Jeffers, J. S.  140n52 Jefford, C. N.  VIII, 11n36, 30n3, 31n7, 37n20–21, 45n46–47, 125n33, 204n4–5, 215n32, 219 Jensen, W.  159n38 Jeska, J.  211n21 Jewett, R.  146n8, 147n9 Johnson, M. D.  146n8 Johnson, R. J.  145n2 Joly, R.  128n9, 135n32, 136n38, 137n42, 148n13 Jonge, H. J. de  23n77, 39n26 Judge, E.  145n5 Juster, J.  179n9 Kahlos, M.  204n4 Kampen, N. B.  154n24 Käsemann, E.  66n29–31, 67n32, 68 Kelhoffer, J. A.  IX, 98n69, 101n82, 103n91, 105n99, 220 Khomych, T.  VIII, 60n40, 220 Kitchen, O.  144n2 Klahr, D.  129n11 Klauck, H.-J.  145, 146n5.8 Kleiner, D. E. E.  159n38 Klinghardt, M.  33n14, 36n19, 40n30 Kloppenborg, J. S.  VIII–IX, 41n33, 48n55, 68n39, 71n50–51, 72n55, 147n10, 220, 221 Knoch, O.  43n39 Knopf, R.  7n20, 9n26, 10n30, 96n57 Koch, D.-A.  5n13, 12n37, 13n42–46, 14n47, 15n50–51, 16n55, 17n57, 18n61–62, 26n85–87, 39n26, 40n28, 43, 74n58 Koester, H.  8n21

239

Koet, B.  219 Kok, J.  217n38, 219 Kok, M.  179n8, 185n34, 191n71, 202n102 Kooij, A. van der  203n3 Kooten, G. van  167n19, 193n75 Köpf, U.  1n1 Körtner, U. H. J.  127n1 Kraft, H.  30n3 Kraft, R. A.  180n15.17, 181n18 Kraus, T. J.  215n33 Krautheimer, R.  151n19 Kretschmar, G.  8n25 Kuhn, H.-W.  41n34 Kunst, C.  146n8 Labahn, M.  146n8 Lake, K.  104 Lambers-Petry, D.  35n17 Lampe, P.  57n34, 114n9, 137n41, 146n8, 147n9.11, 149, 151n18 Lang, M.  163n7, 215n32 LaVerdiere, E.  37n21 Lefebvre, H.  144n2, 155n26–27, 156 Leutzsch, M.  127n1, 128n6.8, 131n22, 147n11 Lietzmann, H.  40n30, 77n75 Lieu, J. M.  XI, 86n12–14, 145n3–4, 163n7, 166n16, 178n6.8, 179n10, 180n12, 184n32, 188n54, 197n91, 203n1, 212n25, 214n31, 216n35, 220 Lightfoot, J. B.  IX, 84n5.7–8, 88n18–21, 89n22.26, 90n27–30, 92n33, 96n56, 99n74, 104, 107n108, 109n1, 113n8, 116n13, 118n18, 120n23, 123n27 Lindemann, A.  VII, 3n5.7, 5n12–13.15, 19n64, 21n69, 83n3, 84n9, 88, 96n60–61, 98n65–68, 99, 100n80, 102n85, 103n92, 105–106, 107n109, 206n11, 211n21 Löhr, H.  14n48, 124n32, 126n35, 135n33 Loman, J.  193n75 Lona, H. E.  51n2, 52n5, 53n13, 54n23, 55n25, 56n31, 75n65, 204n5–6, 207n13, 208n15–16, 210n18–20, 211n22, 212n25, 213n26, 214n30, 215n32 Longenecker, B.  42n34 Lowy, S.  185n38, 188n53 Lührmann, D.  5n14 Lund, G. J.  134n31 Luttikhuizen, G. P.  193n75 Lyman, R.  165n9 Maier, H. O.  X–XI, 55n27, 79n83, 111n6, 128n7, 147n11, 221

240

Index of Modern Authors

Malbon, E. S.  144n1 Malherbe, A.  145, 146n5 Mali, F.  60n40 Malina, B. J.  144n1 Marcovich, M.  20n68 Marrou, H.-I.  204n5, 206n12, 208n15 Mazza, E.  30n3, 33n13, 37n20 McGowan, A.  36n19, 38n23 McKenna, M. M.  56n32 McLean, B.  73n57 McNutt, P. M.  144n1 Meeks, W.  145, 146n5 Meggitt, J.  152n21–22, 153 Meier, J. P.  57n34 Meinhold, P.  77n74 Mélèze Modrzejewski, J.  215n33 Merkt, A.  203n3, 221 Merton, R. K.  46n50 Middleton, R. D.  33n13 Mikat, P.  76n66, 77n73 Milavec, A.  29n2, 30n4, 34n14, 35n17, 38n25, 39, 43 Mitchell, N.  11n36 Moll, S.  183n26, 194n80 Montague, G. T.  40n29 Montague, W.  66n30 Moriarty, W.  51n3 Moxness, H.  144n1 Muddiman, J.  128n7 Muilenburg, J.  29n2 Mullen, R. L.  129n12 Müller, U. B.  4n10 Munier, C.  21n69–70 Murphy O’Connor, J.  147n9 Myllykowski, M.  119n21 Nasrallah, L. S.  209n17 Neufeld, D.  144n1 Neymeyr, U.  20n68 Neyrey, J.  144n1 Nicholson-Smith, D.  155n26 Nicklas, T.  XII, 45n47, 198n97, 203n3, 215n33, 217n38, 219, 221 Niederwimmer, K.  5n14, 6n16–18, 7n21, 10n32, 12n38–39, 31n7, 37n20 Noormann, R.  206n10 Norderval, Ø.  5n15, 13n42, 19n65, 20n67, 24n79, 129n9, 131n22, 220 Norelli, E.  204n6–7, 206n10.12, 208n15, 215n32 North, J. A.  212n25 Nuvolone, F.  204n7, 215n32

O’Loughlin, T.  30n2, 35n17 O’Rourke, J. J.  146n5 Oakes, P.  51n1, 152n21, 153n23 Öhler, M.  215n32 Økland, J.  144n1 Osborn, E. F.  22n72 Osiek, C.  127n1.3, 128n7–9, 130n16.19, 131n20–23, 132n26–27, 136n38, 137n42, 139n49, 145, 146n5, 147n11, 149n15, 151n17 Paramelle, J.  135n36 Parvis, P.  83n3, 88, 100n77–80, 101n81, 102n84–86, 103n92, 105n102, 106 Parvis, S.  219 Paulsen, H.  5n13, 14, 16n52–54, 17n56–57, 18n60, 206n11 Pedersen, S.  63n9 Pernveden, L.  129n13 Pesch, W.  43n39 Peterson, E.  37n20, 128n8 Petsas, P.  74n61 Pilch, J. J.  144n1 Pillinger, R.  8n23 Pogson, F.  64n15 Pomykala, K. E.  219 Poschmann, B.  135n34–35, 136n37 Pratscher, W.  5n12, 6n16, 13n41, 14n48, 19n63, 20n66, 83n3–4, 88, 90n30, 96n59, 99n70–73.75–76, 100n79, 124n32, 128n9, 210n20, 215n32 Price, S. R. F.  212n25 Prigent, P.  180n15.17 Prostmeier, F. R.  13n41, 177n1–3, 180n13– 14, 181n19, 182n25–26, 184n31, 186n40, 189n55, 193n77, 194n78, 196n86, 199n99, 205n9 Rahner, K.  136n37 Reed, A. Y.  185n32 Renan, E.  146n6 Rendall, S.  144n2 Reumann, J.  73n57 Rhodes, J. N.  XII, 181n18, 182n26, 184n31, 188n48–53, 189n56–57.59–60, 190n62– 68, 191n69, 194n79, 195n83, 197n90 Richardson, P.  140n52, 187n43, 188n51 Rishell, C. W.  61n2, 62n5.7 Rizzi, M.  204n7, 207n14, 210n20 Robinson, D. C.  137n44 Robinson, J. A.  29n2 Rordorf, W.  9n27 Roth, D. T.  217n38, 219



Index of Modern Authors

Rouwhorst, G.  34n14 Royalty, R.  166n15 Ruether, R.  179n9 Rüpke, J.  147n11, 148n13–14 Sack, R. D.  144n2, 145n2 Saebø, M.  178n7 Sanders, J. T.  167n17 Sandnes, K. O.  19n65, 20n67, 131n22 Sandt, H. van de  30n4–5, 34n14, 35n17, 45n46 Schäfer, P.  212n25 Schaper, J.  219 Schäublin, C.  206n10 Scheidel, W.  152n21 Schenke, L.  43n39 Schneider, A.  135n32, 136n38 Schneider, K.  211n22, 212n23, 213n28 Schnelle, U.  86n15 Schoedel, W. R.  109n1, 110n4, 112n7, 114, 115n11–12, 116n13, 117n16, 118n17, 120n22, 121n24, 122n26, 123n28–29, 124n31 Schöllgen, G.  6n16, 37n20 Scholten, C.  164n9 Schreckenberg, H.  178n7 Schüssler Fiorenza, E.  67n33.35, 68n36–38, 69, 73, 78n77, 81 Schüssler, W.  104n98, 105n99 Schütz, J. H.  78n80, 146n5 Schwartz, D. R.  187n45, 190n67 Schwartz, J.  157n32 Schwiebert, J.  33n13, 35n17, 42n36–38, 43n40–42 Senior, D.  129n10 Sevrin, J. M.  191n70 Shepherd, T.  219 Shukster, M. B.  187n43, 188n51 Simon, M.  179n9 Sinclair, M.  61n2 Skarsaune, O.  20n68, 178n7 Slee, M.  33n13 Sleeman, M.  144n1 Smith, D. E.  36n18, 40n31, 41n33–34, 43 Smith, J. Z.  145n2 Snoek, J. A. M.  203n3 Snyder, G. F.  145, 146n5, 148n13, 151n19 Sohm, R.  IX, 61n1–2, 62n3–7.9, 63–64, 65n22, 67–68 Soja, E.  XI, 143, 144n2, 155, 156n28–29 Sommer, W.  129n11 Spoerri, A.  21n69 Stanton, G. N.  23n77, 199n100

241

Steimer, B.  5n14, 6n16, 10n32 Stein, H. J.  12n40, 22n74, 23n79 Stewart, E.  144n1 Strecker, G.  87n16–17 Stroumsa, G.  199n100 Stuhlmacher, P.  23n77 Sullivan, F. A.  121n25 Talbert, C. H.  40n29 Taussig, H. E.  34n15, 36n18–19, 40n31–32, 41n33–34, 43n43, 44n44, 146n8, 147n9 Taylor, M.  46n51.53, 47, 48n56, 179n9 Tcherikover, V.  215n33 Theissen, G.  78n80, 145, 146n5 Theobald, M.  4n11 Thraede, K.  146n5 Thyen, H.  93n44, 94n46 Tomson, P. J.  35n17 Trebilco, P.  167n19 Tromp, J.  39n26 Tuckett, C. M.  IX, 34n14, 45n46, 57n33, 83n4, 88, 89n25, 90n30, 96n59, 99n75, 106n104–106, 111n5, 128n7, 129n10, 178n7, 195n83, 220 Tuilier, A.  9n27 Turner, C.  72n54 Ulrich, J.  5n12, 204n4, 220 Unnik, W. C. van  52n8–9, 53n10, 76n66.68, 136n39 Vakula, O.  220 Van Oyen, G.  219 Varner, W.  30n2, 32n10 Vegge, T.  5n15, 13n42, 19n65, 20n67, 24n79, 129n9, 131n22, 220 Verheyden, J.  30n5, 45n47, 128n8, 203n3, 219–221 Vessey, M.  221 Vinzent, M.  220 Vokes, F. E.  33n14 Völter, D.  83n3, 96n59, 105n99 Vööbus, A.  6n17, 8n21, 9n27, 10n31, 33n14 Wallace-Hadrill, A.  150, 151n17.20, 152, 158–159 Wehnert, J.  203n3 Weidemann, H.-U.  24n79 Weissenrieder, A.  150n16, 154n25 Welborn, L. L.  51n1, 52n8, 65n20, 76n66 Welch, J. W.  32n10 Wengst, K.  88, 95n53–55, 96n57–58, 180n15, 195n85, 204n6, 206n10, 215n32

242

Index of Modern Authors

White, L. M.  145, 146n5, 151n20 Whitehead, D.  80n88 Whittaker, M.  5n13 Wickert, U.  206n10 Wilkin, R. L.  145n5 Wilson, S. G.  147n10, 179n9, 188n51 Windisch, H.  177n5, 180n14–16 Witulski, T.  211n21 Wolter, M.  3n6

Wrede, W.  52n6, 75n65, 77n74 Wyrwa, D.  206n10 Zahn, T.  84n5, 100n79 Zamfir, K.  45n47, 219 Zangenberg, J.  146n8 Zanker, P.  158n35 Zapata, B.  62n8

Thematic Index Agape  16, 19, 37, 39 Anti-Judaism  177–202, 211–216 Apostles 110–116 Associations 68–81 Baptism  1–27, 127–134 Bishops (episkopoi)  18–19, 26, 61–81 Blessing (Prayer)  36–37 Canon 103–106 Charismata 69–70 Christ / Christology  116–126 Church / Community  61–81, 143–160 Cult 47–48 Deacons 70–72 Docetic Christology  17 Eucharist  1–27, 29–49, 121–122 Fasting 10 Forgiveness of Sins  13, 127 Genre  51–53, 83–108 Heresy / Heretics  161–175 Homily / Sermon  83–108 Household Church  143–160 Identity 203–217 Idolatry  6, 47, 205–211

Jesus 118–120 Jews / Judaism  177–202 Last Supper  2–3 Leadership (Church)  18–19, 26, 55–59, 61–81, 109–126 Letters 85–87 Meals  1–27, 29–49 Metanoia 134–142 Outsiders  161–175, 177–217 Pagans 205–211 Passover  36, 44 Penitence 134–142 Prayer  33–34, 36–37, 42–43, 48 Repentance  9–10, 134–142 Rhetoric 52–54 Sacrifice  14, 24 Salvation 122–123 Schism 161–175 Scripture  102–106, 196–197 Space 143–160 Spirit 61–81 Sunday (Lord’s Day)  12, 123 Symposium 40–42 Typology 193–194